Selene had thought she was ready. She had spent years preparing for this moment, steeling herself to face the man who had taken everything from her. She had imagined his face a thousand times in her dreams—sometimes cruel and twisted, sometimes coldly handsome, but always monstrous in the ways that mattered most.
Nothing could have prepared her for the reality of King Damian moving through his court like he belonged there.
From her carefully chosen position near the servants' alcove, half-hidden behind a marble pillar carved with twining roses, she studied him with the intensity of a hawk watching prey. The great hall buzzed with the constant hum of courtly life—nobles in silk and velvet clustering around tables laden with silver platters, their voices a musical backdrop of laughter and calculated conversation. Tapestries depicting the glorious history of the realm hung from the walls, their threads catching the light of a hundred candles mounted in crystal sconces.
The court fawned around Damian like moths drawn to flame, nobles practically stumbling over each other in their eagerness to catch his attention, to earn even a moment's favor from their king. Lords bowed so low their doublets strained at the seams, while ladies curtsied with practiced grace, their jeweled headdresses glittering as they dipped their heads in submission.
Damian accepted their homage with a faint smile that seemed to hover perpetually at the corners of his mouth—neither warm nor cold, but something carefully calculated to reveal nothing of what lay beneath. His responses to their flattery were brief, courteous, utterly impersonal. He moved through the crowd like a man walking through a garden, acknowledging the flowers but never allowing himself to be truly touched by their beauty.
Selene's hands curled into fists where they rested against the pewter tray she carried, her nails biting crescents into her palms. To the simpering nobles, that enigmatic smile was charm personified—the mark of a king who held himself above the petty concerns of ordinary mortals. To her, it was nothing but a mask designed to hide the cruelty that surely lurked beneath.
She whispered to herself, the words barely moving her lips: "Monster."
The familiar litany helped center her, reminding her why she was here. She could see Isolde's face in her memory, pale and still among the ruins. She could hear her father's proud voice as he raised his goblet in toast to the very man who would destroy them all before the night was done. Most of all, she could feel her mother's hand going limp in hers as life fled from fingers that had always been so gentle, so warm.
All of it was because of him. It had to be. His soldiers had worn his colors, carried his banners, shouted his name as they put torch to tapestry and blade to flesh. Every drop of Valen blood that had soaked into those ancient stones was his responsibility, his choice, his sin to answer for.
Selene forced her breathing to steady, adjusting her posture to match the other serving girls who moved like shadows through the crowd. She let her shoulders slump slightly, kept her eyes downcast, made herself invisible in the way that only servants knew how to do. But beneath that carefully constructed facade, her attention remained fixed on Damian with laser intensity.
She watched every subtle shift of expression that crossed his face, every gesture of his long-fingered hands, every tilt of his dark-gold head as he acknowledged one courtier or another. She dissected each movement like a physician studying poison, searching for weaknesses she could exploit when the time came to strike.
The feast meandered through its familiar rhythms—course after course of elaborate dishes, entertainment from musicians and acrobats, the endless dance of power and influence that drove court life. Selene moved silently between the tables, refilling wine cups and collecting empty platters, invisible to the lords and ladies who barely registered her existence. But her eyes never strayed far from the high table where Damian sat, observing his realm with those unsettling green eyes.
When the evening finally wound toward its close, the king rose from his chair with fluid grace. The hall fell silent instantly, hundreds of conversations dying mid-sentence as every eye turned toward the dais.
"Tomorrow, we convene the royal council at the seventh bell," his voice carried effortlessly through the vast space, pitched low but commanding absolute attention. "The realm's business waits for no man's pleasure, however noble his birth or deep his wine cup. I expect prompt attendance from all who hold positions of responsibility."
The assembled nobles bowed as one, a wave of silk and satin rippling through the hall. Damian acknowledged their deference with a slight inclination of his head, then turned and strode from the chamber, his midnight cloak sweeping behind him like liquid shadow.
Selene remained frozen in place until the great doors closed behind him, her chest tight with emotions she couldn't quite name. She had survived her first extended observation of her target without betraying herself, but the experience left her feeling strangely hollow. Part of her had expected some dramatic revelation, some moment of perfect clarity that would crystallize her purpose and make the path forward obvious.
Instead, she felt more confused than ever. The man she had watched tonight was nothing like the monster she had built in her imagination, and that realization sat in her stomach like swallowed ice.
The next morning dawned gray and overcast, autumn mist clinging to the castle's towers like guilty secrets. Selene had spent the night lying awake on her narrow cot in the servants' quarters, staring at the ceiling and trying to reconcile what she had seen with what she knew to be true. By the time the bells rang for morning prayers, she had reached a decision—she needed to see more of Damian, to study him in different circumstances until she found the crack in his facade.
She maneuvered herself into the throne room under the pretext of service, carrying a crystal pitcher filled with water and accompanied by several other serving girls whose presence would help her blend into the background. The royal steward barely glanced at her as she took up position near the side wall, just another piece of human furniture required to keep the wheels of power properly lubricated.
The throne room was a masterpiece of architectural intimidation, its soaring ceiling supported by columns of white marble veined with gold. Light streamed through tall windows of stained glass that depicted scenes of royal triumph—kings on horseback, banners flying, enemies kneeling in defeat. The colored light painted the polished floor in shifting patterns of crimson and gold, azure and emerald, creating an almost celestial atmosphere that seemed to lift the everyday business of governance into the realm of the divine.
Nobles filled the carved benches that lined the walls, their whispered conversations creating a background hum like distant surf. They wore their finest court dress—doublets of rich velvet, gowns heavy with embroidery, jewelry that caught and reflected light in calculated displays of wealth and status. But despite all their finery, they watched the great doors with the nervous anticipation of supplicants awaiting judgment.
When Damian finally entered, the effect was immediate and absolute. Silence fell like a blade across the assembled court, cutting through conversation and reducing the most powerful lords in the kingdom to the status of children awaiting their father's attention.
He moved up the aisle with measured steps, his black cloak now trimmed with silver thread that caught the light from the stained glass windows. The crown on his brow was a work of art in its own right—white gold set with sapphires the color of deep ocean, simple in design but unmistakably royal in its authority. The throne he approached was carved from a single block of midnight-dark stone, its surface decorated with the intertwining roses and thorns that served as his personal sigil.
Selene found herself thinking, almost against her will, that it was fitting symbolism—beauty and pain inextricably linked, protection and threat existing in the same space. She pushed the thought away, annoyed by her own tendency toward metaphor when she should be focusing on practical matters.
The morning's business began with the usual parade of petitioners and problems. A farmer from the western provinces begged for relief from the crushing tax burden that threatened to destroy his family's livelihood. A minor lord complained bitterly about bandits who had been raiding his lands with increasing boldness, demanding royal intervention to restore order. A merchant guild sought exclusive trading rights in the lucrative southern markets, offering a substantial sum to the royal treasury in exchange for the privilege.
Through it all, Damian listened with the same unreadable expression Selene had observed the night before. His face revealed nothing of his thoughts or feelings, maintaining the kind of perfect political neutrality that gave nothing away to potential enemies. She studied him intently, searching for some crack in his composure, some moment when the mask would slip and reveal the cruelty she was certain lurked beneath.
It came when a man was dragged before the throne in heavy iron shackles.
The prisoner was clearly a commoner—his clothes were the rough wool and leather of the working class, now torn and stained from his time in the castle's dungeons. His face bore the marks of interrogation, bruises blooming purple across his cheeks and jaw. He stumbled as the guards forced him to his knees, his chains clanking against the marble floor with a sound that echoed through the suddenly tense chamber.
"This man was caught stealing grain from the royal storehouses," one of the guards announced, his voice carrying clearly in the silence. "The amount taken was sufficient to feed a family for several weeks."
The prisoner raised his head with visible effort, his eyes bright with desperation and fear. "Mercy, Your Majesty," he pleaded, his voice hoarse from whatever had been done to extract his confession. "My children were starving. The harvest failed, and the taxes... we had nothing left. I only took what we needed to survive."
Damian raised one hand in a gesture that somehow managed to be both casual and absolute, silencing the man's pleas as effectively as a physical blow. When he spoke, his voice was perfectly calm, utterly without emotion—and somehow that made it more chilling than if he had raged.
"The law is clear on the matter of theft from royal property."
Selene leaned forward unconsciously, her heart racing with a mixture of anticipation and dread. This was it—the moment when the mask would finally slip and reveal the monster beneath. She wanted him to show mercy only so she could watch it be denied, wanted to see proof of the casual cruelty that had signed her family's death warrant.
The king's gaze flicked to the captain of his guard, a grizzled veteran whose scarred face had seen too many such moments. The unspoken communication between them lasted only a heartbeat, but its meaning was crystal clear.
"Hang him at dawn," Damian said simply.
The chamber rippled with barely suppressed gasps and whispers, though none of the assembled nobles dared voice open protest. The prisoner cried out, a sound of pure anguish that seemed to come from the depths of his soul, and began struggling frantically against his chains. The guards seized him roughly, dragging him back toward the doors as his voice echoed down the stone corridors, calling for mercy that would never come.
Selene's nails dug so deeply into her palms that she felt blood well beneath her fingernails. There it was—the proof she had been seeking, the confirmation of everything she had believed about this man. This was the king who had condemned her family to death, who signed execution orders without a flicker of conscience or regret.
Her hatred crystallized around the moment like armor, protecting her from doubt and confusion. This was exactly why she had come here, why she had spent years planning and preparing. The man on that throne was a killer, and killers deserved to die.
But then, just as she was settling into the familiar comfort of her rage, Damian spoke again. His tone remained perfectly level, almost conversational, but somehow that made his next words even more surprising.
"Captain, see that the man's family is brought into the castle kitchens immediately. They will be given positions appropriate to their skills and lodging suitable to their station. His children will not go hungry again."
The court murmured in surprise, a sound like wind through autumn leaves. Selene felt the world tilt beneath her feet, her mind struggling to process the contradiction she had just witnessed. He had condemned a man to death for stealing bread to feed his starving children—then immediately ensured those same children would never face such desperation again.
It didn't make sense. It couldn't make sense. Kings didn't show that kind of nuanced mercy, that careful balance between justice and compassion. They were either cruel or kind, tyrants or saints. They didn't execute thieves while simultaneously caring for the families those thieves left behind.
Selene forced herself to push the confusion aside, clinging to Alaric's words like a lifeline. Damian did this. His men slaughtered them all. She would not be fooled by calculated gestures of false mercy, would not let herself be swayed by the kind of political theater that all skilled rulers used to maintain their popular support.
She shifted her crystal pitcher from one hand to the other, using the movement as an excuse to retreat deeper into the shadows near the wall. The morning's business was nearly concluded, and she needed to slip away before—
It happened without warning.
Damian's eyes lifted from the dais, sweeping across the assembled courtiers with the casual authority of a man surveying his own property. His gaze moved methodically through the crowd, acknowledging certain faces with subtle nods, dismissing others with equally subtle indifference.
And then, impossibly, his eyes found hers.
For a moment that seemed to stretch into eternity, the vast throne room faded away around them. The whispered conversations of nobles, the rustling of silk gowns, the distant sound of servants moving through the corridors—all of it vanished as if the world had been reduced to just the two of them, predator and prey staring at each other across an impossible distance.
Selene's breath caught in her throat like a trapped bird. Those green eyes were darker than she had expected, filled with intelligence that seemed to catalog and analyze everything they touched. They held her pinned in place as surely as if physical hands had grasped her shoulders, and she found herself unable to look away despite every instinct screaming at her to flee.
The silence stretched between them, heavy with unspoken questions. Had he noticed something unusual about her? Was there something in her face or bearing that marked her as different from the other servants? The possibility that she had been discovered sent ice water through her veins, but she couldn't seem to break the connection that held them locked together.
His gaze did not waver, did not shift to encompass the other serving girls who stood nearby. It remained fixed on her with the kind of focused attention that suggested she had somehow become worthy of royal notice—a development that could only spell disaster for carefully laid plans.
Panic finally broke through her paralysis. Selene turned quickly, perhaps too quickly, lowering her head in what she hoped looked like natural deference rather than guilty flight. She forced her steps to remain steady as she moved toward the side door, fighting the overwhelming urge to run that clawed at her chest like a living thing.
But even as she walked away, she could feel those dark eyes burning into her back like brands. Her heart hammered against her ribs with such violence that she was certain everyone in the chamber must be able to hear it. She had come here to observe her enemy, to study him from a position of safety and invisibility.
Instead, somehow, impossibly, he had seen her too.