(Sebastian's POV)
The throne room reeked of incense and quiet desperation.
Sebastian stood beside the king's chair—not the actual throne, but the simpler one used on "less formal" days. His father slumped in it now, looking more like a fading soldier than the man who'd conquered four neighboring territories with steel and fire. His skin had lost its color, and his voice was now a rasp of pride coated in pain.
"Seal the northern borders," the king croaked. "The Alvaren scum are testing our patience."
"They're testing yours, Father," Sebastian replied coolly, arms crossed over his chest. "But I'll handle it."
The old man gave a half-smile, half-grimace. "That's my boy."
Sebastian didn't smile back.
He turned away, walking toward the stained-glass window at the far end of the hall. His reflection stared back—tall, sharp-jawed, dark hair slightly tousled, and cold gray eyes that held no warmth. People often said he looked like his mother—strong-featured, beautiful, distant.
She'd died when he was just a boy. Murdered by her own kind, they'd told him.
Witches.
His fingers twitched, and he curled them into a fist. He had made sure of the law himself: Any witch found within the borders would be executed without trial. No exceptions.
"You've got that storm look again," said a soft voice behind him.
He turned to see Princess Elara, standing with arms folded, the hem of her gold gown brushing the floor. Younger than him, but not by much. Brighter. Smarter. Too curious for her own good.
"You should be with your fiancé," Sebastian said. "Pretending you don't hate him."
"I don't hate him," Elara said. "I'm just… not obsessed with him. He's obsessed with himself. That's enough for both of us."
He allowed the tiniest smirk to touch his lips.
Elara stepped closer, lowering her voice. "The elders are whispering again. They say Father won't last the year."
"Let them whisper," Sebastian said. "I'll be ready."
A pause.
Then, softly, she asked, "Do you ever think about her? About… Mother?"
He didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
They both knew what he remembered: the sound of fire. The look on their mother's face when the council came for her. The screams. The way their father stood back, silent, proud, while the witches took her away—because even a half-witch queen was too much of a threat to his throne.
Elara didn't press. She knew where his silence ended and fury began.
He changed the subject. "The villages near the forest sent a request."
"For what?"
"A girl."
Elara frowned. "What kind of request?"
"They want her executed."
Her lips parted. "Why?"
"They say she's cursed. Raised by a witch. Lives alone. Beautiful. Dangerous. A threat."
Elara blinked. "And you believe them?"
Sebastian shrugged. "I believe the world loves to fear what it doesn't understand. But when that fear turns into fire, someone needs to hold the sword."
"And will you?" she asked. "Will you hold it this time?"
He turned his gaze out the window again, toward the stretch of green hills leading to the village lands. Beyond that—the forest. Beyond that, her.
He didn't know who she was yet. But soon, he would.
And when he did… things would change.