The silence after the council was more dangerous than the chaos that preceded it.
Seraphina felt it the moment she stepped beyond the marble doors—the way the air tightened, the way magic settled uneasily against her skin, as if the night itself were holding its breath. The revelations she had orchestrated still echoed through the council halls behind her, whispered accusations ricocheting between stone pillars and fragile alliances.
She had exposed House Veyrath.
And now, the game has changed.
The corridors were dimmer here, illuminated only by faintly glowing sigils etched into the walls. Every step echoed too loudly, every shadow felt heavier. Seraphina kept her posture relaxed, her expression neutral, but her senses were fully extended. She counted heartbeats. Measured distances. Noted the absence of guards where there should have been several.
A trap, perhaps.
Or a warning.
She welcomed either.
Ten years of survival had taught her one truth above all else: power never forgave humiliation.
She had humiliated House Veyrath tonight.
Behind her, she felt it before she heard it—the steady, controlled presence she had been trying to ignore all evening.
Damien Valcourt.
"You should not be walking alone," he said quietly.
She didn't turn. "I am never alone."
"That is bravado," he replied, closing the distance between them. "And it will get you killed."
She stopped then, pivoting slowly to face him. The corridor light caught in his amber eyes, sharpening them into something dangerous and unreadable. He looked every inch the future king—controlled, powerful, and accustomed to command.
But beneath it, she saw something else.
Concern.
Unwanted. Unnecessary.
"House Veyrath will not strike openly," she said calmly. "Not after tonight. They will retreat, regroup, and attempt to erase their mistakes quietly."
"And you," Damien said, voice hardening, "are their mistake."
The bond stirred at his words, a sharp pulse that curled low in her chest. Seraphina crushed the sensation ruthlessly.
"I did not survive a massacre because of fear of wounded vipers," she said. "If they come, I will be ready."
Damien's jaw tightened. "You underestimate how far they are willing to go."
"And you underestimate me," she shot back.
For a heartbeat, neither moved. Power crackled subtly between them—not magic exactly, but something older, deeper. Fate, perhaps. Or wariness sharpened by shared history and unspoken truths.
Then Damien exhaled slowly.
"You have painted a target on your back," he said. "And as future king, I cannot allow the council to descend into open bloodshed because of a personal vendetta."
Her eyes flashed. "This is not personal. This is justice."
"Justice is a luxury," he replied. "Survival is not."
Before she could respond, a ripple of magic surged down the corridor—sharp, foreign, and unmistakably hostile.
Seraphina reacted instantly.
She spun, dagger already in hand, blood magic humming under her skin as shadows peeled away from the walls. Figures emerged—three, no four—masked, cloaked in sigils designed to distort recognition. Assassins.
House Veyrath had chosen speed over subtlety after all.
"So predictable," Seraphina murmured.
The first attacker lunged.
She moved like a liquid shadow, ducking under the blade and driving her dagger up beneath the assassin's ribs. Blood spilled hot and fast, responding eagerly to her call. She twisted, yanking it free as the body collapsed soundlessly.
The second attacker barely had time to register fear before Damien struck.
He moved with brutal efficiency, snapping a wrist, disarming the blade, and slamming the man into the stone wall with bone-crushing force. The crack echoed down the corridor.
The third assassin hesitated.
That was his mistake.
Seraphina's blood magic lashed out, invisible and precise, tightening around the man's throat. She stepped closer as he clawed uselessly at the air, eyes bulging.
"Tell House Veyrath," she whispered coldly, "that shadows bite back."
She released him.
He fled.
Silence fell once more.
Seraphina wiped her blade clean against her cloak, pulse steady, mind already cataloging what this meant. House Veyrath had broken protocol. Sent assassins within council grounds.
Desperation.
Damien stared at her—not with shock, but with something darker. Recognition.
"You executed that flawlessly," he said quietly.
"I have had ten years to practice," she replied.
He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his heat, his presence pressing against her senses. The bond flared sharply now, no longer ignorable, no longer subtle.
"You are no longer a rumor," he said. "You are a threat. To them—and to the balance of power."
"Good," she said. "Let them fear me."
"They will try to control you," he warned. "Or eliminate you."
She met his gaze unflinchingly. "Let them try."
For a moment, he looked as though he might say more—something personal, something dangerous. Instead, his expression hardened into resolve.
"Then you will stay under my protection," he said.
She laughed softly. "I do not accept cages disguised as crowns."
His eyes burned. "This is not a request, Seraphina."
"And I am not your subject."
The bond pulsed violently between them, sharp and undeniable. The corridor seemed to close in, magic vibrating against stone.
Before either could move, a voice echoed from the far end of the hall.
"Your Highness."
They turned.
A council guard stood rigid, eyes wide as they flicked briefly at the fallen bodies before snapping back to Damien.
"The council has reconvened," the guard said. "House Veyrath has lodged a formal accusation."
Seraphina's lips curved slowly.
"Against me?" she asked.
The guard hesitated. "They claim… treason. Manipulation of council proceedings. And unlawful use of blood magic within sacred grounds."
Damien swore under his breath.
Seraphina sheathed her dagger calmly.
"Perfect," she said. "They're desperate."
Damien looked at her, something fierce and unreadable crossing his face.
"This ends one of two ways," he said quietly. "You bend… or you burn."
She stepped past him, chin lifted, eyes blazing.
"I have already burned," she said. "Now it's their turn."
As she walked back toward the council chambers—toward accusation, exposure, and open war—the bond between them snapped taut like a drawn blade.
And neither of them knew who would bleed first.