The Tower's halls are quieter than usual as I return, guards pretending not to watch me, servants darting out of sight. The air smells of smoke and oiled steel, though it may just be in my head—the fight still alive in my muscles. Every step stings: shoulder sliced, thigh bruised, lip split raw. The pain is grounding. Proof that my victory wasn't dreamwork.
My chamber greets me with silence. Shadows lap at the edges of the room, restless, their shapes deeper than any torchlight could cast. I wash the blood from my skin, the water tinting crimson. As I bind my arm, I hear it again: that low, echoing voice, velvet and fire.
You are mine, the Goddess whispers. They test you, yet every chain they forge only crowns you further. Burn them slow. Make them beg.
The shadows writhe at her words, as though eager to obey. I close my eyes, steadying my breath. "Not yet," I murmur. "I'll choose when."
A soft knock. The door creaks before I can answer. Cas leans against the frame, arms folded, lips curled in that sly half-smile. His dark eyes flick to the bandage at my shoulder, then back to mine.
"You made quite the spectacle," he drawls. "The whole city's buzzing about the Empress who bleeds and doesn't kill. Fear and fascination in one neat package. I'd say you're starting to like the stage."
I arch a brow. "And you're here to congratulate me?"
He pushes off the frame, stepping inside with lazy grace. "To remind you that Bastion is a nest of knives. The more eyes on you, the sharper they'll get. You've got admirers now. But also men sharpening steel in dark corners." His gaze lingers on me, softer for a heartbeat. "Not all of them will strike from the shadows."
The air hums between us, my shadows curling at his boots. He doesn't flinch. He never does.
Before I can answer, he tips his head toward the window. "Council's already locked themselves in chamber. I'd wager half of them want to leash you. The other half want to crown you. Maybe both at once." He smirks. "Thought you'd like to know."
When he slips out, silence returns, though the shadows cling tighter to me, whispering of betrayal, of blood.
Far above, the Council's chamber is a furnace of voices.
"She humiliated them!" the onyx-eyed councilor spits, rings clattering against the arm of her throne. "Every soldier that walked back into the streets today will tell the tale. Control? No. She flaunted her power."
"She spared them," the eldest counters, voice calm as still water. "That is more dangerous than killing them outright. The people will not fear a monster—they will revere a sovereign who chooses when not to strike."
The winter-haired Arcanist's lips curl faintly, pale fingers turning the rings on his staff. "You saw it, didn't you? How her shadows shifted. Not wild. Not hunger-driven. They obey her will. She's not a vessel. She's becoming something… more." His eyes gleam. "If I had time to study her—"
"You'll study ashes if you're wrong," snaps a councilor in crimson robes. "Restraint today means slaughter tomorrow. What if her goddess whispers one command too loud?"
Murmurs rise, the chamber splitting into factions. Some see her as a weapon to be pointed. Others as a storm to be shackled. A few—very few—begin to wonder if she might be a queen worth kneeling to.
And in the shadows of the chamber, unseen by most, Darius listens. His golden eyes burn as he leans against a pillar, silent, smirk faint. His thoughts are his own, but his gaze is sharp, weighing every word, every hesitation.
Back in my chamber, the shadows settle as I lower myself onto the bed. My body aches. My mind burns. I hear them still—whispers of fear, desire, reverence—spreading through Bastion like cracks through glass.
I close my eyes. Not to sleep. To plan.
The Tower thinks today was a trial.
It was only the opening move.