The throne room stank of smoke and spilled wine.
Seraphina Valtaris knelt on shattered marble, her knees grinding into the fractured crest of her house—a winged lion now split in two. Three days ago, these halls had echoed with music. Now, the only sounds were the whimpers of wounded soldiers and the steady drip of blood from the gallery above.
And his voice.
"Look at me."
She lifted her chin.
Varian Dainthar, the so-called Tyrant Emperor, lounged in her father's throne as if born to it. No armor—just a black silk tunic clinging to the hard planes of his chest, the sleeves rolled to expose scars that mapped a history of violence. A wine goblet dangled from his fingers, the ruby liquid inside matching the stains on the floor.
"Princess Seraphina," he mused. "I expected tears. Begging."
Her throat burned, but not with fear. "You'll rot in hell before I give you either."
A flicker of amusement in those glacial eyes. He set the goblet aside and leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. "Your father said the same thing. Right before I cut off his head."
The words punched through her ribs. Liar. She'd seen the pyre from her cell window—the flames devouring the king's body whole. No chance to retrieve the crown now melted into slag.
Yet there it was.
Varian lifted a hand, and a soldier stepped forward, bearing her father's crown on a velvet pillow. Not melted. Not even scratched.
Impossible.
"Surprised?" He traced the gold points. "I have uses for dead kings. Just as I have uses for you."
A soldier shoved a parchment into her hands. The wax seal had already been broken.
By decree of His Imperial Majesty, Princess Seraphina Valtaris shall wed the Emperor, binding her bloodline to his. All resistance shall be met with annihilation.
At the bottom, a list of names—every noble house in Valtaris. A death warrant, if she refused.
Her voice cracked. "Why?"
Varian rose, his shadow swallowing her whole. "Because fire like yours shouldn't be wasted on a corpse kingdom." His boot hooked under her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze. "Sign, and your people keep their lives. Refuse..." He nodded to the windows, where screams rose from the city below. "Well."
The dagger he offered was cold. Her blood, hot.
When she pressed the blade to the parchment, the scratch of steel echoed like a death knell.