The seventh bellstroke still trembled in the air when Seraphina realised she had stopped breathing.
She stood frozen in the centre of her chambers, the early morning light filtering through stained-glass windows in fractured hues of crimson and gold. The guard at her door—a mountain of a man clad in the black-and-silver livery of the royal house—watched her with impassive eyes as dark as the obsidian buttons lining his doublet. His polished breastplate gleamed dully in the dim light, the Valemont crest—a serpent coiled around a sword—etched into its surface.
Seraphina looked down at herself. The bloodstained nightgown she wore was made of the finest ivory silk, its delicate lace trim now crusted with rust-colored stains. The fabric clung to her slender frame, the plunging neckline revealing the sharp lines of her collarbones. She touched her throat, her fingers—long and pale, the nails perfectly manicured and painted a deep, ominous black—brushing against the silver pendant resting there: a tiny, intricate bird with its wings spread as if in flight.
Play the role. Survive.
She lifted her chin, the motion sending her raven-black hair cascading over her shoulders in a silken wave. The guard's eyes flickered to the dark strands, his expression unreadable.
"His Majesty does not tolerate tardiness," the guard said, his voice a deep, gravelly rumble that seemed to vibrate through the stone floor.
Seraphina flexed her fingers, still tacky with dried blood. She could feel the weight of the castle pressing down on her, the ancient stones humming with secrets.
"Then we shouldn't keep him waiting," she replied, her voice cool and measured, the words dripping with a regal poise she didn't feel.
The corridors of Valemont Keep unfolded before her like the veins of some great, slumbering beast.
Walls of polished black marble stretched endlessly, their surfaces so smooth they reflected the flickering torchlight like dark mirrors. The air was thick with the scent of beeswax candles and something heavier—myrrh, perhaps, or the faint metallic tang of old blood.
Portraits of her ancestors lined the walls, their gilded frames gleaming in the dim light. The faces stared down at her with eyes that seemed to follow her every step:
Queen Isolde the Veiled, her likeness captured in a flowing gown of silver gossamer, her face obscured by a diaphanous veil that did nothing to hide the madness in her piercing blue eyes.
Prince Darien the Broken, his portrait rendered in shades of gray, his slender fingers clutching a dagger to his own throat, his lips parted in a silent scream.
King Edric the Stern, his massive form draped in furs, his beard braided with golden threads, his cold, dead eyes staring out from beneath a crown of jagged iron.
Their painted gazes bore into her, a silent jury of the damned.
The guard halted before a set of towering obsidian doors, their surfaces carved with scenes of war and sacrifice. Serpentine figures twisted around the frames, their gemstone eyes glinting in the torchlight.
"You will speak," the guard intoned, his voice echoing in the cavernous hall, "only when spoken to."
The doors groaned open, the sound like the slow, labored breath of some great beast.
Cold washed over her as she stepped into the throne room.
The chamber was vast, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow high above. Ribbons of pale morning light streamed through narrow, arched windows, cutting through the gloom like blades. The floor was a mosaic of black onyx and white marble, the pattern forming the twisting body of a great serpent consuming its own tail.
At the far end of the room, upon a dais of bone-white marble, sat the throne—a monstrous thing of black iron and twisted bone, its high back formed from the interlocked skeletons of long-dead kings. The armrests were carved into the shapes of snarling wolves, their jaws frozen in silent howls.
And upon that throne lounged King Aldric Valemont.
He was a man carved from nightmares.
Tall and broad-shouldered, the king was draped in robes of deepest crimson, the fabric so dark it seemed to drink the light. The sleeves were slashed to reveal panels of black silk beneath, and the high collar was embroidered with threads of gold, forming the twisting bodies of serpents. His belt was a length of braided leather, from which hung a dagger with a hilt of yellowed bone.
His face was all sharp angles and cruel beauty—high cheekbones, a blade-straight nose, lips that curled naturally into a smirk. His hair, the color of aged whiskey, fell in loose waves to his shoulders, threaded with silver at the temples. But it was his eyes that held her frozen—golden, like liquid metal, the pupils slitted like a cat's.
"Ah." The king's voice was a velvet purr, smooth and rich, but with an edge like a honed knife. "My wayward daughter finally graces us."
At his right hand stood Crown Princess Lysandra.
Dressed in a gown of palest blue, the fabric shimmering like moonlit water, Lysandra was the picture of regal grace. Her golden hair was arranged in an intricate coronet of braids, threaded with pearls and tiny sapphires that caught the light with every movement. Her face was a perfect oval, her skin like porcelain, her lips a soft, innocent pink. But her eyes—a blue so pale it was almost colorless—were as cold as the depths of a frozen lake.
Lysandra sighed, the sound delicate and practiced. "Father, must we indulge her theatrics? The physician confirmed the blood wasn't hers."
Blood. Again.
A memory tore through Seraphina's mind—not hers, but theirs. The original Seraphina's hand, clad in a lace glove now stained crimson, clutching a dagger. A servant girl's whimper. The king's slow, approving nod as scarlet pooled across the marble floor.
Not a crime. A test.
The king steepled his fingers, the rings on his hands—a massive ruby set in black iron, a serpent coiled around an onyx stone—glinting in the light. "Well, Seraphina?" His voice was a lazy drawl, but his golden eyes burned. "Will you continue your... performance?"
Torchlight caught the gold in his gaze, turning them molten. Seraphina knew this scene—had read it a dozen times. In the novel, the villainess had simpered and lied.
She met his gaze, her own silver eyes flashing. "What performance would you like, Father?"
Silence.
Then—laughter. Rich and rolling, the sound of a wolf finding its teeth in a lamb's throat. The king threw his head back, his crown—a circlet of black iron set with a single, massive diamond—glinting like a star fallen to earth. "Oh," he gasped between chuckles, "you've grown fangs at last."
Something small and glassy arced through the air. Seraphina caught it by reflex—a vial of amber liquid that smelled faintly of honey and something darker, something bitter.
Prince Corvin's favorite tea.
"The Autumn Hunt begins tomorrow," the king murmured, suddenly sober. He leaned forward, the shadows carving his face into something skeletal. "Do try not to miss your cue."
Lysandra's smile didn't waver, but her pale eyes flickered to the vial in Seraphina's hand, something hungry lurking in their depths.
Seraphina's fingers closed around the glass. It was warm, as if alive. The edges bit into her palm, but she didn't flinch. Somewhere in the castle, a real wolf howled.
She didn't remember leaving the throne room.
One moment she stood before the dais, the next she was pressed against a corridor wall, her breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The vial burned against her breast, a tiny sun of poison.
Poison your brother or defy the king.
Poison your brother or die.
A hand closed around her wrist, the grip firm but not painful.
Seraphina whirled, her back hitting the cold stone wall as she found herself face-to-chest with a man who smelled of steel and storm winds.
Kaelan Duskbane glared down at her, his scarred lip curled in a snarl. He was taller than she remembered from the novel, his shoulders broad beneath the dark leather of his coat. His hair—a deep, rich brown—was tied back in a loose knot, a few rebellious strands falling over his forehead. A jagged scar ran from his left eyebrow to the corner of his mouth, pulling his expression into a permanent grimace.
But it was his eyes that caught her—deep brown, like dark honey, flecked with gold. Eyes that had seen too much.
"What did you take from him?" The words were ground between his teeth, his voice a low, dangerous rumble.
She blinked. "What?"
"The king." Kaelan's grip tightened slightly, his fingers—calloused and warm—brushing against the delicate bones of her wrist. "He only smiles like that when he's won something. What did you promise him?"
For the first time, Seraphina noticed what the novel had omitted—the way his pulse jumped at the base of his throat, the faint scar that curved along his jawline, the way his breath hitched slightly when she didn't immediately pull away.
She wrenched her arm free, the motion sending her hair cascading over her shoulders like a waterfall of ink. "Nothing he didn't already steal."
Kaelan went very still. His gaze traced her face—the too-wide silver eyes, the trembling lips, the way her fingers clutched at the fabric of her stained nightgown—and something in his expression shifted. "You're..." He hesitated, as if searching for the right word. "Different."
Midnight bells rang, their deep, sonorous tones vibrating through the stone.
Somewhere deep in the castle, a servant screamed.
THAT NIGHT, Seraphina dreamed of wolves.
They circled her bed, their massive forms silhouetted against the moonlight streaming through her windows. Their eyes glowed like shards of broken glass, their breath hot against her skin.
The largest—a beast with golden eyes and a crown of shadows—pressed its muzzle to her throat.
"Run," it whispered in the ghost-woman's voice, the words slithering through her mind like poison. "Run, little bird, before the cage closes."
When she woke, the vial of poison was warm against her skin, its heat seeping into her bones.
Outside her window, the horns of the Autumn Hunt began to blow, their mournful cries echoing through the dawn.