Seraphina was given new clothes.
The fabric was too soft. Too fine against her skin after weeks of filth and iron. Deep crimson silk, embroidered with gold along the sleeves and neckline. The colors of conquest. His colors.
It clung to her form like ownership. The fit was perfect—too perfect. A gown tailored for her before she had ever spoken her answer. Before she had ever bent.
Not kindness. Not respect. A message.
A queen-to-be, draped in her enemy's reign.
The mirror before her reflected someone she did not recognize. The same dark eyes, the same sharp features—but something had hollowed out the girl inside them. She watched as a servant brushed out the knots in her hair, working in precise, efficient strokes.
Seraphina did not move. Did not flinch. She refused to be fragile beneath their hands.
A whisper, hesitant: "His Majesty requests your presence in the Great Hall."
Requests. A lie.
She studied her reflection for a moment longer. The woman staring back was a fabrication—wrapped in silk, painted in expectation. But beneath it, something dark coiled, waiting for its moment to strike.
She stood. Graceful. Unbowed.
"Then I will not keep him waiting."
The Great Hall had not changed.
But it no longer belonged to her.
Light streamed in through high windows, gilding the marble columns, catching on the gold filigree curling across the arched ceiling—a map of an empire stolen. Chandeliers flickered overhead, casting warm light on cold stone.
Nobles lined either side of the chamber, their silks whispering as they turned to watch her entrance.
She felt them. Their eyes, their calculations. Some had sworn loyalty to her father. Some had sung his praises at feasts, bent their knees in sworn allegiance. But Seraphina knew better. These people did not serve kings. They served power.
And power now stood at the head of the chamber.
Caius.
Draped in black and gold. The colors of victory. A circlet of obsidian rested against his dark hair, a mockery of the crown he had stolen.
He looked the part of the emperor he had made himself into—shoulders squared, presence unwavering.
But when his eyes locked onto hers—they darkened.
Seraphina did not slow.
She walked the long stretch of the hall with the same impossible grace she had been taught since childhood, as if the chains that had bound her wrists only yesterday had never existed.
She would not bow.
Not to him.
Not to anyone.
She stopped three paces from the dais, close enough that she could see the tension in his jaw.
"You look well," Caius said, voice smooth. Emotionless.
Seraphina tilted her chin, her smile sharp as glass. "That must be disappointing for you."
A murmur rippled through the court. The tension thickened, winding tight like a coiled serpent.
Caius's lips curved. Not a smile. Something colder.
"On the contrary," he murmured, stepping down from the dais. "A queen should look her part."
He stopped before her. Too close.
"I am no queen," she said.
"Not yet."
The words ghosted over her skin like a threat, soft but suffocating.
Her pulse thrummed—not in fear. In fury.
She hated him for this. For his certainty. For the way he could steal a kingdom and still look at her like this—like she belonged here. Like he had the right to stand at her side.
A steward stepped forward, clearing his throat.
"His Majesty, Emperor Caius Draven, formally announces his intent to wed Lady Seraphina Vale."
A hush fell.
Not a request. A declaration.
Seraphina's fingers curled into the silk of her gown, nails pressing against flesh. She could feel their eyes, waiting—hungry for her reaction. Would she submit to her new emperor? Would she lash out like the defiant traitor they expected her to be?
She smiled.
"Then I must thank His Majesty for such a gracious offer," she said, voice smooth as velvet.
A ripple of murmurs. Confusion. Interest.
She had given them nothing. No confirmation. No denial. Only the illusion of compliance.
Caius's gaze was unreadable. He turned back to the court.
"Our union will bring stability to the empire."
Stability. A word dressed in silk, hiding the steel beneath it.
"A bridge between old and new."
Seraphina kept her expression serene, though her mind hissed at the hypocrisy.
There was no bridge. He had burned it the night he took everything from her.
Caius turned back to her.
"Come, Seraphina. Walk with me."
A command, wrapped in the guise of an invitation.
Seraphina did not hesitate.
With practiced ease, she placed her hand on his offered arm. A gesture of unity, one the court would see as confirmation of her submission.
But as her fingers settled against the silk of his sleeve, she let her nails drag—slow, deliberate—against his skin.
A whisper of defiance. A silent promise.
Caius's fingers twitched beneath hers.
The only sign that he had felt it.
Good.
The performance had begun.
And the game was far from over.