The corridors of the ruthless King's palace were velvet-laced shadows and gilded lies. Lanterns flickered with weak, uncertain flames. The silence of the hallways was not peace — it was submission. It was a silence beaten into the walls, soaked in generations of fear.
Seraine walked barefoot.
The slippers they gave her had rubbed too tight and she'd left them.
Two veiled maids led her forward in silence, but behind their covered faces, she could feel the discomfort. The way one stiffened when their hands accidentally brushed. The way the other kept stealing glances at her through her veil.
She didn't know exactly where she was going.
Only that the veil they had tied across her face was soaked with rosewater and wine. Only that the whispers from earlier — brides, offerings, rituals — were all leading her here.
She wasn't Elira Valein.
But everyone believed she was.
She clutched the cold silver chain around her wrist. Her mother's final gift. And possibly the reason she was breathing now.
You're not supposed to be alive.
Her hand ached. She'd dug her nails into her palm again.
Ahead, the hallway widened into a chamber of obsidian stone and incense. Red silk carpet spread across the floor like a river of blood. In the center of the room, a pedestal stood — narrow, tall, and bound with ritual cloth. A flame flickered at its center, coiled around what looked like a crown of thorns.
The King was not there.
But five elders were.
And one man in dark robes, scribbling notes into a book so ancient the pages bled ink.
The air thickened.
Seraine tried to breathe through it. Her fingers trembled at her sides, hidden beneath the long bridal sleeves.
She stood where the maids placed her, silent, regal, still pretending.
The eldest priest began to chant. Words in a language she didn't know. The kind that was spoken in bloodlines, not tongues.
Suddenly, a cold vial was pressed into her hand.
She looked up.
"Drink," said the dark-robed man.
She didn't move.
He stepped closer. "It is the elixir of truth. To see clearly."
Was this part of the ritual?
Seraine smiled faintly. So you want me to see? She was already seeing too much. Her hands, her hair, her voice — nothing was hers anymore. But her soul burned like it had never left.
She lifted the vial to her lips.
The taste was bitter. Like ash and fire.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the room blurred — and sharpened again. Every face glowed. Every breath she took vibrated through her bones. She could see their fear. Their expectations. Their weakness.
She saw herself.
She wasn't Elira.
They were summoning her spirit?
When the chanting stopped, a second figure entered.
Tall. Dressed in black. The kind of presence that sucked light out of a room.
The maids dropped to their knees. The elders bowed.
Seraine didn't move.
She watched him. And in that moment, though she didn't know his name — she knew what he was.
The King.
He looked at her like she was a dream that had overstayed its welcome.
Like she was nothing.
Then he said one word.
"Strip."