The first light of dawn filtered through the heavy curtains of the imperial bedchamber, casting a pale, reluctant glow across the room. Elara stirred slowly, her body heavy with the remnants of uneasy sleep. The events of the night replayed in fragments: the awkward conversation, the shared bed, the assassin's shadow. She reached out instinctively to the other side of the mattress—empty, the sheets cool. Cassian had left without a word.
She sat up, rubbing her eyes, a flush creeping up her neck at the memory of their stilted exchange. The gulf between them had felt both vast and intimate, charged with unspoken questions. She had stayed, and he had thanked her. But now, in the morning light, the room felt colder, the silence more profound and wondered Had it meant anything to him? Or was it just another calculated move in his endless game?
Down the corridor, Cassian strode toward the emperor's private audience chamber, his boots echoing sharply on the black marble floors. The palace was stirring—servants scurrying like mice, guards snapping to attention—but he paid them no mind. His thoughts churned around the night's intrusion. Kael's trembling hand, the dagger's gleam, his father's unmistakable handiwork. Theron had always tested him this way: probes in the dark, reminders that no one was untouchable, not even his heir.
The doors to the chamber swung open at his approach, two silent eunuchs bowing low. Inside, Emperor Theron sat on a raised dais, frail body swathed in crimson robes that hung loose on his wasting frame. His eyes, sharp as ever, fixed on Cassian the moment he entered. Morgana stood beside him, a silent sentinel, her face impassive.
"Father," Cassian said, stopping at the foot of the dais. There was no bow and no formalities. This was not a court audience.
Theron's lips thinned. "You're early or perhaps sleepless. Marriage suits you poorly?"
Cassian ignored the jab. "Why send an assassin to my bedchamber last night? Kael was one of your own guards. A boy, barely trained for such work."
Theron leaned back, fingers drumming on the arm of his throne. "Assassin? Dramatic, as always it was a test. You've grown soft since the border wedding. I needed to see if the Valmont girl had dulled your edges."
Cassian's jaw tightened. "A test that could have ended with my blood on the sheets or hers."
"And if it had?" Theron's voice was silk over steel. "Empires are not built on sentiment. You of all people should know that. You cleared your own path to the throne without hesitation."
Cassian felt a familiar powerlessness coil in his chest—the same sensation that had haunted him since childhood, standing before this man who wielded fear like a crown. He wanted to argue, to demand an end to the games, but the words tangled. "This isn't about the throne. It's about control. You named yourself emperor, merged the kingdoms, and now you undermine your own heir"
Theron laughed—a dry, rattling sound that echoed off the walls. "Undermine? I forged you, boy. Every purge, every lesson and now you question me because of a pretty face from the south? The girl is a tool, nothing more. If she dies, we blame Valmont radicals and war resumes, and we conquer outright."
Cassian's hands clenched at his sides. He opened his mouth to retort—to say that Elara was more than a pawn, that last night's shared vulnerability had cracked something in him—but the reason wouldn't form clearly. Was it affection? Curiosity? The strange aliveness he had felt at the festival, amplified in her presence? He couldn't articulate it without sounding weak, without giving Theron more ammunition.
"I won't allow it," he said instead, voice low and edged. "Another attempt on her life—or mine—and I'll respond in kind."
Theron's eyes narrowed. "Threats? From my own blood? You forget your place."
"I forget nothing," Cassian shot back. "You taught me to eliminate threats, even my own family , remember."
Morgana shifted slightly, her gaze flicking between them, but she said nothing.
Theron waved a dismissive hand. "Empty words now you're dismissed. Go play husband if it amuses you. But remember: the empire is mine. Cross me, and I'll find a new heir. Draven waits in the shadows, timid as he is."
Cassian stood there for a moment longer, frustration boiling under his skin. He had come for answers, for confrontation, but left with the same unsatisfied ache. Powerless in front of the king, as always—talking back but unable to voice the deeper shift inside him. He turned on his heel and left, the doors closing behind him with a finality that echoed his discontent.
Back in the bedchamber, Elara had risen and dressed in a simple gown of Valmont blue, a small defiance against the crimson that dominated the palace. She stepped into the adjoining solar, intending to break her fast alone, when voices drifted from the half-open door to the corridor. Two figures stood just outside—guards, or perhaps courtiers—speaking in hushed tones that carried on the still morning air.
"…the assassination failed spectacularly," one said, voice laced with frustration. It was a man, older, with the clipped accent of Arcturus nobility. "Kael botched it. The crown prince disarmed him like a child and sent him packing."
The other—a woman, perhaps Morgana's attendant—replied sharply. "The emperor is furious. He expected results. Now we need to find someone new. Someone less… obvious."
Elara froze, pressing herself against the wall, heart pounding. Assassination, which happened last night. It hadn't been random; it was orchestrated.
The man grunted. "And the prince? He grows unpredictable. Word is he's starting to fall under the influence of that princess. The Valmont witch. Sharing a bed already? It's softening him."
"Exactly," the woman hissed. "We can't let it continue. Make sure they don't meet often. Assign her separate duties—charity in the outer districts, audiences with minor lords. Keep them apart until the emperor decides her fate. If she sways him further, the merger crumbles. Valmont sentiments in his ear? Dangerous."
Their footsteps faded as they moved down the hall, leaving Elara reeling. The emperor—Theron—had ordered the hit. On Cassian? On her? And now plans to isolate them, to prevent whatever fragile connection had formed last night from deepening.
She sank into a chair, hands trembling. The awkward morning had shattered into something far darker. Cassian had protected her without hesitation, but how long could he stand against his own father? And influence? Was that what they feared? That she was changing him?
Elara stared at the empty bed through the doorway, the rumpled sheets a reminder of the night's uneasy intimacy. She had blushed and stumbled over words, but he had let her stay. Thanked her. Now, in the light of this revelation, it felt like a spark in a powder keg.
The palace bells tolled the hour, summoning the court to morning duties. Elara rose, smoothing her gown. She would play along—for now. But the whispers confirmed what she had suspected: this empire was a nest of vipers, and survival meant learning to strike first.
As she stepped into the corridor, a servant approached with a sealed missive. "From the emperor's chamber, Your Highness. Your schedule for the day."
She broke the seal, scanning the parchment. Charity visits to the border orphanages. Separate from Cassian's military reviews. Isolation it was, as they had planned.
Elara crumpled the note in her fist. The game had deepened, and she was no longer just a pawn—she was a threat. And threats, as Cassian had taught her by example, could become weapons.