"I —" she turned her face away. "You stare too much."
"I've warned you before," he said, his voice now a murmur. "I stare at things I find beautiful."
A silence settled. Comfortable, almost. And yet Neriah's heart was thundering against her ribs.
When she dared to glance back, Damon hadn't moved. Still watching. Still wrapped in quiet affection.
"How do you see me?" she asked, before she could stop herself.
He tilted his head slightly. "You want the honest answer?"
"Yes."
He let the moment stretch before answering — just long enough to steal her breath.
"I see a woman braver than she believes. One who speaks when others might cower. Who laughs even when afraid. I see red hair like blood and fire, and eyes like the sea before a storm. You walk like you're uncertain — and yet you don't stop walking."
She blinked. Her throat tightened.
"I see a queen," he said simply. "Whether you're crowned yet or not."
The silence this time was different.
Not nervous. Not tense.
Just full.
She smiled at him — soft and slow — and Damon, in return, smiled back.
And for once, she didn't look away.
Not yet.
A knock at the door fractured the golden silence between them.
Damon didn't even glance toward it — his eyes stayed fastened to Neriah's face. "Come in," he said, voice calm and low.
The door opened with a creak, and a guard stepped inside, armor polished and stance rigid as he bowed low.
"Your Majesty," he said, "Lady Vax of Edravon requests your presence."
Damon raised an eyebrow, his tone dry. "Interesting. Let her in."
"Yes, Your Majesty." The guard bowed again and backed out quickly.
Neriah tensed beside him — visibly so. Damon felt it in the way her fingers curled slightly, her shoulders rising in alarm.
"Let me hold your hand," he said softly.
She looked at him, uncertain.
"Please."
So she extended her hand — small, delicate, trembling only slightly. Damon took it gently, lacing their fingers together and brushing his thumb along her knuckles.
"Gods, your hands are tiny," he murmured with mock solemnity. "You hold a dagger with these or do you just point men to death?"
Neriah huffed a small laugh. "I've never held a dagger in my life."
"Tragic," he said. "We must change that."
Then, the door opened again.
Lady Vax entered like a winter storm wrapped in velvet. Her gown was a deep indigo trimmed in silver, sleek and precise — not a thread out of place. Her posture was impeccable, her gaze cold and assessing. A steel circlet sat atop her silver-streaked raven hair, and her sharp cheekbones and angular jaw gave her the appearance of a sculpted hawk mid-hunt. She bowed — not low, but proper — before Damon.
"My king," she said coolly.
Neriah rose to her feet in deference, eyes wide.
Lady Vax's sharp gaze turned toward her. "Oh. Lady Neriah," she said with a faint note of surprise. "I did not expect to find you here."
Damon's mouth curved into a smirk. "She is my wife," he said smoothly. "We sometimes spend time in the same room. Scandalous, I know."
Lady Vax smiled — thinly, tightly. The kind of smile used when one did not actually wish to smile. "Of course."
She moved across the room and took the seat across from them, perfectly poised. Neriah hesitated, then sat as well. She felt Damon's fingers tighten briefly around hers before he laced them again — still holding her hand in his lap, in full view.
Lady Vax's eyes flicked to their joined hands.
She said nothing.
Damon offered her a nod. "To what do I owe the honor of this visit, my lady?"
Vax folded her hands. "Matters regarding the council's vote on trade passage with Stonecrest. There's dissent among the eastern legates. Lord Branic intends to delay ratification unless the Queen's court pledges support."
"The Queen's court," Damon echoed, voice lilting with mild amusement. "Which presently consists of my wife, her handmaid, and a cat, if Kaelith hasn't fed it to the hawks."
Neriah bit back a smile. Lady Vax did not.
"They will expect a structure soon," Vax said. "Nobility and precedent demand it."
"They demand a great many things," Damon replied. "I find it best to give them none."
Vax's brow arched faintly. "And the Queen's test?"
"I trust my wife," Damon said evenly. "She will be more than they deserve."
Lady Vax regarded Neriah then — not cruelly, but like one inspects the edge of a new blade.
"She must be prepared," she said. "Court will not spare her."
"She has me," Damon said.
"I pray that will be enough."
"It will," Damon replied, firm. "And should it not be… I'll make it enough."
Vax gave a short nod, rising with a rustle of fabric. "I shall continue preparations for the testing. But rest assured — I will not go easy on her."
"Nor would I want you to," he said, voice cool.
Lady Vax gave a final bow and swept from the room like a storm cloud, leaving the air cold in her wake.
Neriah let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
"She's…" she trailed off.
"Unnerving?" Damon offered.
"Terrifying."
Damon grinned. "Welcome to court."
****************
The great hall beneath the tower was not as ornate as the throne room, but it was no less commanding. Tapestries bearing the sigils of the great houses of the BannerLands lined the walls, their woven threads flickering softly in the low torchlight. A map of the realm spanned the long oak table at the center, with carved stone markers placed upon various strongholds and routes.
Damon sat at the head of the table, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His crown was absent, but his presence alone made up for it. Beside him sat Lord Gareth, his ever-steadfast Hand. At the opposite end, composed and steely-eyed, was Lady Marissa of Varketh Hold — the High Justicar. Her robe of muted violet bore the seal of the Triad Court, her black hair tied up in coils as strict as her expression.
"Stonecrest," Damon said at last, the word like a blade dragged slowly across stone. "You're certain?"
Gareth gave a small nod. "One of our riders intercepted a Braemorin scout just west of Blackhollow. He was carrying ledgers—names, numbers, prices." He dropped a scroll onto the table. "All connected to Lord Tavris from Stonecrest."
Marissa's eyes narrowed as she reached for the scroll. "A lord trafficking in slaves after the Crown's Edict of Abolition… That's not defiance. That's treason."
"And cowardice," Damon murmured.
Marissa nodded. "Using Braemorin as a passageway was clever. The tunnels are old, and half-collapsed in places. Most would not think to look there."
"He's been clever before," Gareth said, "but never bold enough to try this. My guess? He's not alone."
"Who else?" Damon asked, his voice low.
Gareth gave a long sigh. "There are whispers. Highborn ladies from Varketh Hold. Even a minor lord from the Caldrith Vale. All claiming innocence, of course. But enough coin's been changing hands that even the rats are getting fat."
Damon leaned back in his seat, one hand curling into a fist. The candlelight danced across his features, sharpening the planes of his face, casting shadows beneath his eyes. He looked tired, yes—but beneath it all, he looked dangerous.
"I made it clear," he said slowly. "The days of shackles and chains in these lands are done. I will not let those who dine on gold and blood drag us backwards."
Marissa inclined her head. "Then we must act quickly. Quietly."
Gareth added, "Tavris has kin in the Eighth Court. If word spreads before we act, they'll shield him behind old laws and noble bloodlines."
Damon stood. "Then we cut the tongue before it speaks."
He walked to the window, gazing out at the grey horizon. The Afternoon sun still clung to the stone towers of Arkenfall, but his mind was already storming far beyond them.
"I want eyes on every shipment coming through Braemorin," he ordered. "And a discreet inquiry sent to Stonecrest. I want every servant, stablehand, and steward questioned — gently, if they cooperate. If they don't…"
Marissa finished for him, "Then we remind them whose banner they live under."
Damon gave a curt nod. "Exactly."
Gareth rose as well, "Do you ever have a day that doesn't end with treason, dead men, or smuggled bodies?"
Damon gave a dry look. "No."
Marissa smirked faintly, her first display of amusement all morning. "That is the cost of peace, my king. It must be bought with vigilance."
Damon said. "If need be."
He looked back toward the door. He was thinking of Neriah, of her voice and the way she filled a room with life. It was strange, how her presence stayed with him even when she wasn't there — like a thread of warmth trailing behind his cold duties.
"Dismissed," he said, softer this time.
Gareth clapped his hand and bowed. "Your Majesty."
Marissa followed suit, gathering her scrolls before retreating from the war table. As the doors closed behind them, Damon remained still.
His kingdom was full of rot — old bloodlines, older crimes.
But he would cleanse it, root and stem.
And this time… he would not be merciful.
****************
CALDRITH VALE - DUSKWOOD
Duskwood was nothing like Kara had imagined.
They called it a foresthold, famed for its haunting beauty — tall, bone-white trees veined with dusk-colored bark, the sky forever painted in muted violet. When the wind rustled through the woods, it carried with it the scent of pine, ash, and something older — something that whispered warnings no one listened to.
The manor itself was carved into the hill like a crown of onyx, walls veiled in thorned ivy and ancient carvings of forgotten gods. It looked regal. Timeless. Like the kind of place where legends were born.
But no story ever warned her what it meant to live with a man like Lord Cederic.
She had been his wife for five days.
And already, Kara knew.
The tales were lies.
He was not the golden lord from Caldrith Vale, nor the quiet, generous patron of the Triad Court. He was cruel. And worse — charming.
A mask of gallant civility for the court, and behind it, a brute with a taste for dominance.
Kara sat in the window alcove of the eastern hall, hands clasped tightly in her lap. Her fingers trembled, but she kept them still. Always still. Cederic had told her once, on the second night, that fidgeting irritated him. "Like a twitching rabbit," he had said. "Do I look like the sort of man who tolerates rodents?"
That night, he hadn't let her sleep.
And the nights that followed were worse.
She learned quickly that her husband had no boundaries, no patience, and no interest in kindness. His pleasure came first — always — and if she dared to flinch or speak out, he punished her for it. Not always with his fists. Cederic was more deliberate than that.
He left bruises where cloth could hide them. Pain where no one could see.
Sometimes, he didn't even need to touch her to make her feel small.
He'd bring women — laughing, scantily dressed women — into their shared chambers as if she weren't there at all. Once, he beckoned her closer, smirked when she hesitated, and told her to "watch and learn." Kara had fled the room. That earned her another punishment — this time, a locked door and a cold floor to sleep on.
And every morning, he would greet her with a kiss on the cheek, as if nothing had happened. As if she were just another servant in his house, a decoration he occasionally used.
The worst part?
No one in Duskwood dared to speak against him.
He ruled here like a dark prince of ash and rot. The guards bowed. The maids smiled too tightly. And Kara was alone. Isolated. Not a letter had reached her from Halemond since her wedding.
She didn't know if it was Lord Velmorn's silence… or Cederic's intervention.
But it didn't matter. She couldn't leave. She was bound to this place now — by law, by vows, by name.
Lady Kara of Duskwood.
A title wrapped in thorns.
She rose from the alcove, forcing her shoulders straight. She had learned how to mask the ache in her spine, the sting in her hips. She'd learned how to walk like a noblewoman even when she felt like shattered glass.
From down the corridor, she heard laughter. A woman's laugh. It echoed against the stone — high, flirtatious.
Then his voice followed. Deep. Silken. "Careful, darling. My wife may still be in the house."
Kara turned her face away and closed her eyes.