The first light of dawn crept through the leaded glass windows of Seraphina's chambers, painting stripes of pale gold across the mahogany dressing table where she sat stiffly before the gilded mirror. Her maids moved with practised efficiency, transforming her into the perfect Valemont princess for the Autumn Hunt.
The emerald silk laces of her hunting gown bit into her ribs as Greta pulled them tighter, the velvet bodice embroidered with silver-threaded vines that seemed to slither against her skin with every breath. Young Lissa's trembling fingers fastened ruby-studded cuffs around her wrists, the cold metal a stark contrast to the warmth of the girl's nervous touch.
"Your Highness will scarcely be able to breathe," Lissa murmured, her round cheeks flushed with apprehension as she adjusted the intricate braids woven through Seraphina's raven-black hair.
Seraphina caught the maid's reflection in the mirror, her own silver eyes glinting like frozen metal. "Do I look like I care about breathing?" she asked, her voice low and dangerous. The words hung in the air between them, heavy with unspoken threat.
The door burst open before Lissa could respond, revealing Prince Corvin in a whirlwind of youthful energy. His riding boots left muddy prints on the Persian rug as he bounded into the room, his russet hair sticking up in sleep-mussed tufts. At sixteen, he still hadn't grown into his limbs, his leather hunting jerkin hanging slightly askew on his lanky frame. "Sister! You're not even dressed yet?" His voice cracked mid-sentence, sending a flush creeping up his freckled neck. "The hounds have been fed, the horses saddled—"
His cheerful chatter died abruptly when he noticed Seraphina's grip on Lissa's wrist, her black-lacquered nails leaving crescent marks in the maid's pale skin. The air in the chamber grew thick with tension, the silence broken only by the faint crackling of the hearth and the distant sound of hunting horns from the bailey below.
In the novel she remembered, this was when the villainess would have sneered something cruel about weakling brothers and useless maids. Instead, Seraphina released Lissa with a flick of her wrist, her expression unreadable as she met Corvin's wide-eyed gaze. "Give me five minutes," she said, her voice softer than she intended.
Corvin's answering grin lit up his entire face, transforming his boyish features with genuine delight. "You're actually coming?" Behind him, Greta mouthed silent prayers to whatever gods still listened in Valemont Keep, her gnarled fingers clutching at the silver pendant around her neck.
The royal hunting party assembled in the bailey as morning mist curled around the castle's spires, the pale tendrils clinging to the stone like ghostly fingers. Seraphina's mare, a nervous chestnut named Ember, sidestepped uneasily as she mounted, sensing the tension thrumming through her rider's body. King Aldric sat astride his monstrous black destrier at the head of the column, his hunting leathers gleaming with oil and malice. The silver-furred pelt of his last kill draped across his broad shoulders, its empty eye sockets seeming to watch them all with silent judgment.
"Little sister." Lysandra's honeyed voice made Seraphina's spine stiffen as the crown princess guided her dappled mare alongside. Dressed in an ice-blue riding habit that made her look like a winter morning personified, her golden hair braided with sapphires that matched the calculating glint in her eyes, Lysandra adjusted her doeskin gloves with deliberate precision. "Try not to embarrass yourself today," she murmured, her lips curving in a smile that never reached her eyes. "Father's in a mood."
A hunting horn's blast cut through the crisp morning air, its mournful cry echoing off the castle walls as the party set out. The forest swallowed them whole, ancient oaks with gnarled limbs stretching like skeletal fingers overhead, their remaining leaves burning crimson in the dawn light. Frost crackled under hoof as they spread out through the woods, their breath steaming in the chill air as they followed the baying of hounds in the distance.
Seraphina's mare stumbled over a half-buried root, nearly sending her flying from the saddle. A scarred hand shot out to steady her bridle, the touch firm and sure. "You shouldn't be here," Kaelan Duskbane growled, his voice rougher than she remembered from the novel, worn down by years of whispered treason. Up close, she could see the silver threads in his dark hair, the way his hunting leathers stretched tight across shoulders that had carried too many burdens.
"Neither should you, traitor," she shot back, though the insult lacked its usual venom as she took in the network of fine lines around his eyes, the way his sword callouses caught on the reins.
His lips quirked beneath the scar that twisted from brow to mouth, a faint gleam of amusement in his dark eyes. "Yet here we are," he murmured, just as another horn blast shattered the moment. The stag had been sighted.
They cornered the magnificent beast in a sun-dappled clearing where the forest seemed to hold its breath. The twelve-point monarch stood trembling, its silver-streaked coat matted with sweat, the king's spear protruding from its heaving flank. Blood foamed at its nostrils as it turned its great head, dark eyes rolling in terror and defiance.
"Finish it." The king's hunting knife gleamed as he offered it hilt-first to Seraphina, the ruby in its pommel winking like a malevolent eye in the morning light. In the novel, this was the moment that cemented Lady Seraphina's descent into villainy—when she slit the beast's throat with relish, earning her father's rare approval. The same hands that would later mix poison into her brother's wine.
Corvin nudged her shoulder, his breath fogging in the cold air. "Don't faint on us now," he teased, though his hazel eyes held genuine concern as they flicked between her and their father.
The knife's ivory handle felt alive in her grip, warm as flesh as she approached the dying stag. Kneeling beside the magnificent creature, she found herself staring into an eye that held more understanding than any human gaze she'd met in this world. Its breath came in wet, rattling gasps, each exhale steaming in the frost-laden air as its flanks heaved. Up close, she could see the old scars crisscrossing its hide, the notches in its antlers from battles fought and won, the white hairs around its muzzle that spoke of seasons survived.
The blade flashed downward and embedded itself in the earth beside the stag's head.
Silence thicker than castle walls fell over the clearing. Even the hounds stilled, their panting breaths suspended in the sudden quiet as all eyes turned to the king's second daughter.
"It's too old," Seraphina heard herself say as she rose, wiping her hands on her ruined skirts. "The meat will be tough."
Corvin's shocked laughter shattered the stillness, bright and genuine. "Gods, Sera, since when do you care about—"
The king's backhand caught her across the face with enough force to send her sprawling across the frost-hardened ground. Pain exploded through her cheekbone, metallic blood flooding her mouth as she struggled to push herself up on trembling arms. The world tilted dangerously, the faces of the assembled courtiers swimming in her blurred vision—some shocked, some amused, most carefully blank.
"Disappointing," King Aldric murmured, almost gently, as he loomed over her, his golden eyes dark with fury. Then louder, for the court's benefit: "My daughter's soft heart ruins good sport!"
Laughter rippled through the nobles, though it sounded forced to Seraphina's ringing ears. All except Kaelan, who stood rigid at the tree line, his hand clenched around his sword hilt until his knuckles whitened, and Corvin, whose freckled face had gone deathly pale.
Her brother helped her up, his fingers icy around hers as he pulled her to her feet. "What were you thinking?" he hissed, his breath warm against her ear as he steadied her.
That I'm tired of playing the villain, she almost said, tasting copper on her tongue. Instead, she reached instinctively for the hidden pocket in her skirts—only to find it empty. The vial was gone.
Dusk found her in the abandoned north tower, pressing a snow-chilled cloth to her split lip as she watched the feast unfold in the torchlit courtyard below. The metallic tang of blood mixed with the musty scent of old tomes and damp stone, the cracked windowpane distorting the revelry into a grotesque parody of merriment.
The door groaned open on rusted hinges, revealing Kaelan with a bottle of wine and two mismatched goblets balanced precariously in his large hands. Moonlight caught the silver threads in his dark hair as he kicked the door shut behind him, his boots kicking up centuries of dust as he crossed to the warped table between them.
"Stole this from under the king's nose," he said, working the cork free with his teeth. The pop echoed like a gunshot in the quiet tower, the rich scent of dark fruit and oak filling the stale air.
Seraphina eyed the bottle suspiciously, her fingers tracing the swollen curve of her lip. "Poisoned?"
"Only if you count my terrible taste in vintage." His scar twisted as he smirked, pouring the wine with exaggerated ceremony into the chipped goblets.
Against her will, a laugh escaped her battered lips—a rough, unfamiliar sound that seemed to startle them both.
Kaelan pushed a goblet toward her, the pewter scratched and dented, its once-proud crest nearly worn away by time and careless hands. The novel never mentioned how he took his wine—half water, as it turned out, the mark of a man who needed to keep his wits about him in a court of vipers.
"Why spare the stag?" he asked suddenly, his calloused fingers tracing the rim of his cup in absent circles.
"Why do you care?"
The wine was bitter on her tongue, or maybe that was just the blood still coating her mouth. Outside, an owl cried a warning to the gathering dark, its mournful call echoing through the empty tower. Somewhere in the castle's bones, stone groaned against stone like a beast stirring from long slumber.
Seraphina turned the goblet in her hands, watching moonlight dance across the dregs at the bottom. "The vial you stole from me today," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.
Kaelan went preternaturally still, his dark eyes fixed on her face with unsettling intensity.
"Was it meant for Corvin?" she pressed, her thumb rubbing at a particularly deep scratch in the pewter.
A muscle jumped in his jaw as he considered her, the firelight catching the gold flecks in his brown eyes. "You tell me," he said at last, his voice rough as unpolished stone.
The truth hovered between them, fragile as the dust motes dancing in their shared breath, as tangible as the warmth radiating from their goblets.
She leaned forward, the tower's chill seeping through the thin fabric of her gown as her fingers brushed against his. "What if I said I don't want to play the king's game anymore?"
Kaelan's hand turned beneath hers, his calloused palm pressing against her own in a gesture that felt more intimate than any kiss. His touch was warm. Alive.
"Then we'd both be traitors," he murmured, just as a scream shattered the night below them. Somewhere in the castle, glass shattered against stone, followed by the panicked wail of a servant.
And in that moment, the game changed forever.