The torches along the corridor burned low, their flames shivering against the stone walls as Serenya walked back to her chambers. The feast had ended, but the echoes of laughter and clinking goblets still haunted her ears. Behind those hollow sounds, she could still sense the venom hidden in every glance cast her way.
The nobles smiled at her, but she knew—oh, she knew—that their whispers carried sharper blades than any sword.
She paused at a window slit, gazing into the night. The moon was a pale silver coin, draped in clouds. Her reflection shimmered faintly on the glass, fragile, almost ghostly. For a moment, she didn't see a queen. She saw the girl she once was—Serenya of no crown, no chains, no enemies plotting her ruin.
Her hand curled into a fist. That girl was gone.
When she finally reached her chambers, she dismissed the attendants with a curt wave. The heavy oak door closed behind her, shutting out the murmurs of the castle. She leaned back against it, drawing a long breath as though she had been holding it all through the feast.
She turned, expecting silence.
But the fire in her hearth was already lit.
And seated in the chair nearest to it was a man cloaked in shadow.
Serenya's heart jolted. Her first thought was Kael—but no. This man's frame was broader, his posture confident, as though he owned whatever space he occupied. His hood was pulled low, concealing his face, though the faint glimmer of steel at his side betrayed the sword he carried.
"Who are you?" Serenya demanded, her voice sharp. "And why do you dare sit in my chambers uninvited?"
The man chuckled softly, the sound dry and deliberate. "A bold tone, Your Majesty. Though boldness can be dangerous when spoken to the wrong ears."
Serenya's eyes narrowed. She moved closer to her bed, where a dagger was hidden beneath the velvet pillows. "You've yet to answer me."
The intruder rose from the chair, moving with calm precision. He lowered his hood. The firelight spilled across his face, revealing features she recognized instantly—Duke Haland.
Her breath caught.
"My lord duke," she said, masking her surprise with icy composure. "Most would knock before entering a queen's chamber."
"And most queens," he countered smoothly, "do not pretend loyalty while conspiring behind gilded smiles."
The words struck her like a blade. For a heartbeat, she wondered how much he knew—how close he was to unraveling her secret meetings, her whispered alliances, her dangerous path toward vengeance.
"I don't know what you mean," she said carefully.
"Oh, but you do." His eyes gleamed, sharp as a predator's. "I watched you tonight at the feast. You endured the king's absence, endured the nobles' venom… but your silence speaks more than words. You are plotting something, Serenya. And I… I wish to know what it is."
The air between them thickened.
Serenya's pulse thundered in her ears, but she tilted her head, forcing a calm smile. "And if I am?"
Duke Haland leaned closer, his voice low, his breath hot with the scent of wine. "Then perhaps I am the ally you desperately need."
Her hand brushed subtly against the dagger hidden beneath her sleeve. Trust was a luxury she could no longer afford.
"Or," she whispered, her voice as smooth as silk, "you are the threat I should end right here."
The flicker of shock in his eyes was fleeting, replaced quickly by a sly grin.
"Bold, indeed," he murmured. "But boldness is wasted without patience, my queen. Remember this night—for soon, your enemies will bare their teeth. And you will find out which among us truly stands at your side."
Before she could respond, he stepped back, his cloak swirling like a shadow. He moved to the window, climbing with an ease that spoke of years in secret dealings. Within seconds, he vanished into the night, leaving Serenya staring at the empty space where he had stood.
Her hand finally closed tight around her dagger.
Her enemies were drawing closer.
And now, she had one more question burning in her heart—was Duke Haland a friend cloaked in suspicion, or an enemy wrapped in the disguise of an ally?
The fire hissed in the hearth, the logs crackling as though mocking her silence.
Serenya sat on the edge of her bed, her mind a storm.
The feast had ended. The night was quiet.
But war… war was beginning to breathe.