Chapter 7:The Echoes of the Frontline
The Imperial Palace was a labyrinth of gold and obsidian. Killian hung in the rafters, a shadow among the beams. Below, the Emperor's public warmth had vanished, replaced by a sharp, regal chill.
The High Priest stood before the throne, his robes shimmering like a shroud. "Your Majesty," he rasped. "The girl, Seraphine... she is different. A coldness that does not belong to a daughter. The entire Astra house is a rot at the foundation of your throne. If you do not strike—"
"Enough."
The word struck the room like a blade. The Emperor slammed his wine glass onto the marble. He stepped into the Priest's shadow, his eyes flashing with ancient fire.
"You speak of the Duke as if he were a common lordling. Do you forget who held the line at Oakhaven? Who pulled me from the mud when the world thought I was a corpse? We were knights. His loyalty was forged in iron."
The Emperor gripped the Priest's golden collar, his voice a lethal vibration. "I will not stand for accusations against the Astra family. Not from the Council. Not from the Temple. If I hear you speak of the Duke as a traitor again, I will remind you that while the Gods forgive, I do not. Am I clear?"
The High Priest bowed, trembling. "Crystal clear."
"Now," the Emperor smoothed his robes, his voice returning to a terrifying silkiness. "The 'surprise' for the banquet. Is it ready?"
The High Priest looked up, a cruel, thin smile playing on his lips. "It is, Your Majesty. A masterpiece of the Temple's craft."
He paused, eyes gleaming. "I am sure it would look lovely on Seraphina's neck."
High above, Killian's heart stopped.
To a soldier, those words meant only one thing: a noose or the block. Killian didn't wait for the rest. He slipped into the dark, his mind a whirlwind of panic. He had watched her die once. He would not watch her head roll across a ballroom floor.
A charred parchment reached Seraphina's chamber, hidden in a tray of fruit. Her hands shook as she read Killian's frantic script:
"The Emperor defends the Duke only to sharpen the blade for you. The 'surprise' is an execution. The Priest spoke of a 'gift' for your neck. He plans to kill you at the toast. We must strike first. Tonight."
Seraphine dropped the note, her hand going to her throat. She didn't think of magic or trials. She thought of the cold iron of the previous life.
"A gift for my neck?" she whispered.
The conviction was absolute. To the four of them, the Emperor's love for the Duke was merely the justification for "cleaning" the family tree by pruning the daughter.
"If he wants my neck," Seraphine said, her eyes turning to ice, "he will find it guarded by a ghost. We strike before the toast."