The night swallowed Selene whole, drawing her into its cold embrace like a mother comforting a wounded child.
She staggered away from the ruins of her life until her trembling legs finally betrayed her, buckling beneath the weight of grief and exhaustion. She collapsed in a field of tall, dry grass that stretched endlessly toward the dark horizon. The stems were brittle with autumn's approach, crackling beneath her as she fell, their seed heads catching in her torn gown and tangled hair.
Above her, the stars wheeled in their ancient patterns, cold and distant as the eyes of uncaring gods. They blurred through her tears, becoming streaks of silver light across the velvet darkness. The earth pressed against her palms, still warm from the day's sun but cooling rapidly in the night air. Somewhere in the distance, an owl called—a lonely sound that seemed to echo the emptiness in her chest.
For what felt like hours, she lay there among the whispering grass, every breath a struggle against the crushing weight of loss. Her ribs ached where she had been thrown against stone walls, her throat burned from breathing smoke, but none of those pains compared to the vast hollow that had opened where her heart used to be.
Her family was gone—not just dead, but slaughtered like animals at their own table. Her home, the ancient seat of House Valen that had stood for five centuries, was now nothing more than blackened stones and ash-choked memories. The great hall where generations of her bloodline had celebrated victories and mourned defeats was a tomb filled with the bones of everyone she had ever loved.
But worst of all was Isolde's scream, that final cry of terror and betrayal that had torn through the castle corridors as the raiders dragged her away. It echoed endlessly in the silence now, a sound that would haunt her until her dying day. Her sweet sister, who had never harmed a soul, who had spent her afternoons weaving flower crowns and dreaming of the handsome knights in her favorite ballads—taken by monsters in human shape and left broken in the ruins.
She might have wished for death herself, might have let the cold seep into her bones until she joined her family in whatever realm awaited beyond the veil. But Alaric's voice rang inside her skull like the tolling of a funeral bell: *Survive, and one day… avenge them.*
Selene curled on her side, wrapping her arms around her ribs as if she could physically hold the shattered pieces of herself together. The grass whispered secrets to the night wind, their voices joined by the distant sound of water running over stones and the rustle of some small creature moving through the undergrowth. The acrid scent of smoke still hung in the air, carried from the ruins by the vagrant breeze—a constant reminder of what had been lost.
Hours crawled by with agonizing slowness. The moon, fat and yellow when she had first collapsed, slid steadily toward the western horizon like a great eye closing on the day's horrors. She did not sleep—could not, dare not. Every time her eyelids grew heavy, the same visions assaulted her: Isolde's pale face frozen in death, the great hall wreathed in flames, soldiers in crimson cloaks raising their blades above cowering servants.
She saw her father's face as the steel doors burst open, watched again as his expression shifted from confusion to horror to grim determination. She remembered her mother's gentle hands, always so careful and graceful, clutching desperately at the table as chaos erupted around them. The images played behind her closed eyes like scenes from some hellish passion play, each one etched into her memory with perfect, terrible clarity.
By the time the first pale fingers of dawn began to creep across the eastern sky, painting the grass tips silver with dew, her tears had finally dried. The well of grief that had seemed bottomless hours before had run dry, leaving her hollow as a broken gourd. But hollow did not mean empty—she was beginning to understand that now.
Into the cracks that sorrow had carved in her soul, something else began to seep. It started as barely a spark, no more substantial than the ember that survives when a fire has burned to ash. But even the mightiest blaze begins with a single spark, and this one found ample fuel in the devastation of her life.
Rage.
It came slowly at first, building like storm clouds on a summer horizon. The spark became a flame, the flame became a fire, and the fire settled deep in her chest where it could burn without consuming her entirely. Grief had broken her, shattered her into a thousand scattered pieces like a crystal goblet dropped on stone. But rage—rage would make her whole again, forge those pieces back together into something harder and sharper than what had come before.
Selene pushed herself up on arms that trembled with more than cold or exhaustion. Her gown, once the beautiful twilight velvet that had made her feel like a princess from the old songs, hung in tatters around her. The fabric was torn and stained with things she tried not to identify, the pearl combs that had held her hair now lost somewhere in the ruins. Her skin was streaked with ash and soot, her face gaunt with shock and sleeplessness.
But her spine straightened as she turned to look back toward the column of smoke that still rose in the distance, marking the grave of everything she had once been. The sight should have broken her anew, should have sent her back to her knees in helpless despair. Instead, it fed the flame that burned in her chest, gave it substance and purpose.
King Damian.
The name hissed through her mind like poison poured into a wound, each syllable carrying the weight of absolute hatred. She could see his face in her memory—not clearly, for she had never been presented at court, but she had heard enough descriptions to paint a picture. Tall and commanding, they said, with the kind of presence that filled a room. Golden-haired and green-eyed, blessed with the sort of looks that made serving girls sigh and noble ladies blush behind their fans.
But those golden locks were stained with the blood of innocents. Those green eyes had looked upon her family and found them wanting. Those hands, praised by poets for their grace and strength, had signed the death warrant of everyone she loved.
He had ordered this slaughter. His soldiers had borne his banners, worn his colors, shouted his name as they put torch to tapestry and blade to flesh. His voice—though he had not been present in the flesh—had condemned her family to death as surely as if he had wielded the sword himself. Every drop of Valen blood that had soaked into the ancient stones traced back to him, every scream that had echoed through those halls had been his to command.
The rage built steadily, burning away the last of her tears and replacing them with something far more durable. Her hands clenched into fists, nails biting crescents into her palms, but she welcomed the pain. It was clean and sharp and real, an anchor to keep her grounded when everything else threatened to float away into madness.
"You took everything," she whispered to the morning wind, her voice hoarse from smoke and weeping but growing stronger with each word. "My family. My home. My future. My very name."
The wind carried her words away toward the rising sun, but she could feel their weight settling into her bones like an oath carved in stone. This was not mere grief speaking, not the wild promises of a girl mad with loss. This was something deeper, more fundamental—a vow that would reshape the very architecture of her soul.
Memories of Alaric's fierce promise echoed in her mind: *Remember this night. Don't let the fire die in you.* His blue eyes had burned with the same flame that now consumed her, the same cold fury that transformed sorrow into something useful. He understood, perhaps better than anyone else could, what it meant to lose everything and find in that loss the seeds of something terrible and necessary.
She thought of her father, so proud and loyal, raising his silver goblet in toast to a king who had already marked him for death. She remembered her mother's gentle hands, always busy with some small kindness, lying still and cold beneath fallen stones. Most of all, she saw Isolde's face as the raiders dragged her away—not just terrified, but bewildered, unable to understand why such cruelty existed in a world that had always treated her with love and protection.
She could not bring them back. No amount of wishing or praying or raging against the heavens would restore breath to their lungs or warmth to their skin. Death was the one door that opened only one way, the one boundary that even the most desperate love could not cross.
But she could make the one who had stolen them pay for what he had taken. She could ensure that their deaths were not forgotten, that their blood did not cry out from the ground in vain. Justice might be beyond her reach, but vengeance—vengeance was something she could grasp with both hands and hold tight until it became part of her.
The grief that had broken her began to transform, hardening like steel in a forge fire. The soft, sheltered girl who had attended feasts and worn silk gowns was burning away, consumed by flames that would leave something entirely different in her place. What emerged would be shaped by loss and tempered by hatred, forged into a weapon with a single purpose.
She rose to her feet with deliberate care, testing her balance on legs that still shook with exhaustion and emotion. The world swayed around her for a moment, but she steadied herself with effort born of pure will. Her eyes fixed on the smoke-stained horizon where her home had stood, and she felt something click into place in her chest—not healing, but a different kind of wholeness.
"I will not rest," she said aloud, her voice growing steadier with each word. The sound seemed to give weight to the promise, making it real in a way that thoughts alone could not. "I will not falter. I will not forget."
The grass whispered around her feet as the wind picked up, carrying her vow toward the brightening sky. Somewhere in the distance, a lark began to sing—a sound so achingly beautiful that it seemed obscene after the night's horrors. But even that small cruelty fed the fire in her chest, another reminder that the world would go on spinning regardless of her pain, that life would continue its eternal dance while her family lay cold in their graves.
She lifted her chin, feeling the weight of ash and tears on her cheeks like war paint, and spoke the words that would carve the path of her life from this moment forward. They rose from someplace deeper than thought, pulled from the very marrow of her bones by forces she did not fully understand.
"I will not rest until you are dead, my king."
The vow hung in the morning air like incense, heavy with promise and dark intent. She felt it settle into her soul, becoming part of her as surely as her own heartbeat. From this moment forward, she would have only one purpose, one driving need that would sustain her through whatever trials lay ahead.
Damian had taken everything from her. Now she would spend the rest of her life taking everything from him—starting with his breath.