The walls of her cell breathed.
They exhaled decay—thick, fungal rot that clung to Seraphina's tongue, settling deep in her throat with every shallow breath. Inhaled the faint sulfur stink of distant torches, the sweat of the dying.
Drip… drip… drip.
Water wept from cracks in the stone, a slow metronome counting down the seconds until dawn. Until her choice became final.
Marry him. Or die.
Her wrists burned where the shackles bit deep, iron teeth gnawing at flesh long since numb to anything but the steady, bone-deep throb of trapped blood. She welcomed the pain. It was an anchor. A reminder. A whispered truth wrapped in steel:
Caius thought he'd won.
Seraphina dug her nails into her palms. The words coiled tight in her ribs, a second heartbeat, a slow suffocation.
She had never feared death. But she feared dying like this.
Like a lamb. Like something that had already lost.
Shadows pooled thick around her, not the meek darkness of night, but something hungrier. Something watching. It twitched when the door groaned open.
Torchlight stabbed her eyes.
She didn't flinch. Didn't blink. Let him see the blood drying black beneath her nails, the dirt ground into her skin like armor. Let him see everything but the fear.
Caius.
He filled the doorway, his silhouette carved sharp by fire. No armor tonight—just a king's velvet doublet, the color of clotting blood. Power coiled around him like a second skin, heavier than steel. The air shifted as he stepped inside, colder, crisper. Pine and frost—his scent, his season, his storm. It made the dungeon's filth recoil.
"Little queen."
His voice was a whetstone drawn slow over steel.
"Have you come to kneel?"
Seraphina tilted her head. The chains at her wrists clinked, a discordant melody.
"Do you dream of that, Caius?" A lazy blink. A dagger's smile. "Me on my knees?"
A beat.
Then—the crunch of boots on straw.
He knelt before her. Close. Too close. Close enough that she could see the scar bisecting his left brow. Old, but poorly mended. A weakness.
"I dream," he murmured, "of efficiency."
His gaze flicked to her throat. A brief, clinical assessment. A calculation.
Her pulse leapt. She let it. Let him taste the lie of her fear.
"I'll marry you."
The words hung between them, swollen and dangerous.
Caius stilled.
For a breath, just one, she saw him hesitate—not the king, not the conqueror, but the boy he used to be. The one who flinched at his father's raised voice. The one who used to look at her differently.
Then, his hand shot out.
A vice on her jaw.
Cold leather. Hot rage.
"Say it again."
Seraphina smiled around the pressure. Slow. Deliberate.
"I. Will. Marry. You."
His thumb brushed the corner of her mouth—almost tender.
"Liar."
She leaned in, blood-warm and venomous. "You need me loyal, Caius. Not honest."
A chuckle. Low, real. Dangerous.
"Clever girl."
His grip didn't tighten. Didn't loosen. "What do you want?"
"The chains come off." A pause. "I walk the west wing freely." Another pause. Her gaze flicked pointedly to his fingers on her face. "And your hands stay where I can see them."
A muscle twitched in his jaw.
She'd struck true.
The court was fracturing. They needed her smile, her grace, the ghost of her father's crown.
Caius released her abruptly.
"And if I refuse?"
Seraphina lifted her shackled wrists. Let the iron sing against stone.
"Then kill me now."
She let the words settle. Heavy. Inevitable.
Then: "See how long your throne lasts when the people hear you murdered their last living saint."
The torch guttered. Shadows lunged, clawed, writhed.
Caius exhaled, long and slow. And then, without warning—
The back of his hand caught her cheek.
Pain exploded.
Bright, blinding stars. Her head cracked against the wall, copper flooding her mouth. Hot, thick. The taste of metal. Of war.
She laughed.
The sound was a raw, wet thing. Blood dripped between her teeth.
"Yes," she rasped. "That's the monster they'll remember."
For three breaths, he just stood there.
A storm given flesh. Undecided. Unrelenting.
Then—
"Keys."
The guard hesitated.
Caius didn't blink. "Now."
Metal screeched.
The shackles fell.
With them, the last pretense of mercy.
Seraphina rose.
Her legs screamed, her body a symphony of protest. She welcomed it. Welcomed every ache, every wound.
Caius gripped her elbow. Not to steady. To claim.
"Walk."
She shook him off.
"I know the way to my own slaughterhouse."
As she passed the threshold, the dungeon's shadows clung to her skirts, reluctant, mourning.
Behind her, Caius's footsteps echoed.
Perfectly measured. Always hunting.
Seraphina pressed a hand to the corridor wall.
Felt the castle's ancient heartbeat thrum beneath mildew and mortar.
Soon, she promised the stones.
Above them, thunder growled.
Or perhaps it was the ghost of her father, watching his daughter ascend toward a crown of knives.