The great hall still reeked of spilled wine and the acrid tang of fear when the guards seized her arms.
Selene didn't resist—couldn't afford to. Resistance would mark her as surely as a brand burned into flesh, transforming her from victim to suspect in an instant. Instead, she let her body go limp with practiced terror, becoming the frightened serving girl that everyone expected to see. Her eyes dropped to the rush-covered floor as her pulse thundered so loudly in her throat she was certain the guards must hear it.
"By order of His Majesty," one barked, his voice cutting through the lingering chaos like a blade through silk. His gauntleted hand closed around her upper arm with bruising force. "Come. Now."
The silver tray she had carried fell from nerveless fingers, clattering against the stone floor with a sound that seemed to echo through the suddenly quiet hall. Platters scattered, their contents forgotten, as dozens of eyes turned to watch her being dragged away. Some faces showed curiosity, others relief that they themselves had been passed over. None showed sympathy.
The guards hauled her from the great hall like a sack of grain, their steel-shod boots ringing against the flagstones in a rhythm that matched her racing heartbeat. They moved through corridors she had learned to navigate as a servant, but now they seemed alien and threatening. Torches mounted in iron brackets flickered along the walls, casting dancing shadows that seemed to reach for her with grasping fingers.
The deeper they went into the castle's heart, the quieter it became. The sounds of the feast—the muffled conversations, the nervous laughter, the clatter of dishes being cleared—faded to whispers, then to nothing at all. They passed through regions of the castle where only the most trusted servants were allowed, spaces that spoke of serious business rather than courtly entertainment.
Selene's mind raced despite her outward calm. Why her? Dozens of servants had been present in that hall, any one of whom could have been responsible for Lord Gaveth's death. Yet somehow, impossibly, she had been singled out from the crowd. She knew the answer, had felt it like a physical weight when it happened—Damian had looked at her, truly seen her, in those moments after the poison took effect.
The guards finally stopped before a door that was clearly different from the others they had passed. This one was made of oak so dark it appeared almost black, banded with iron that had been worked into intricate patterns of roses and thorns. The wood itself was scarred and weathered, speaking of age and importance, while the metal gleamed with the kind of care that suggested frequent polishing.
One of the guards raised his mailed fist and pounded against the wood three times, the sound echoing through the stone corridor like thunder. A voice from within responded immediately, pitched low but carrying absolute authority.
"Enter."
The door swung open on hinges that had been kept well-oiled despite their obvious age. Without ceremony, the guards thrust Selene forward into the chamber beyond, the stone threshold catching at her soft-soled shoes and nearly sending her sprawling.
King Damian's private chambers were nothing like what she had expected.
In her imagination, she had pictured the den of a monster—walls hung with the weapons of conquered enemies, surfaces stained with the blood of those who had opposed him, shadows thick with the ghosts of his victims. She had envisioned luxury corrupted by cruelty, beauty twisted into something obscene by the evil that dwelt within these walls.
Instead, the chamber was austere to the point of being almost monastic. The massive stone hearth that dominated one wall crackled with a fire that provided more warmth than light, its flames casting shifting patterns across furnishings that spoke of function rather than ostentation. A long table of plain oak dominated the center of the room, its surface covered with scrolls and parchments weighted down by pieces of polished stone. Maps covered the walls—not decorative tapestries, but working documents marked with colored pins that tracked troop movements, trade routes, and territorial boundaries.
There were no jeweled goblets, no silk cushions, no golden ornaments to speak of wealth and power. Only steel and strategy, the tools of a man who saw ruling as work rather than privilege.
And at the center of it all, him.
Damian stood with his back to the fire, the flames creating a nimbus of light around his silhouette that made him seem almost otherworldly. He had discarded the formal robes of kingship, leaving only a dark tunic of fine wool that clung to the lean lines of his frame. Without the crown, without the ceremonial trappings of royal authority, he looked less like a king and more like what he truly was—a predator at rest, dangerous not because of what he displayed but because of what he held in reserve.
The guards forced Selene to her knees with rough efficiency, their hands heavy on her shoulders until she sank onto the cold stone floor. The position was deliberately humiliating, designed to emphasize the vast gulf in status between sovereign and subject.
"My king," one of the guards reported, his voice crisp with military precision. "We brought the servant girl as ordered. She was found standing idle near the high table when Lord Gaveth collapsed."
Damian's gaze settled on her like a physical weight, and Selene felt her breath catch despite all her preparation. Those dark green eyes seemed to see everything—every micro-expression, every involuntary twitch of muscle, every telltale sign that might betray guilt or knowledge or fear.
"Leave us," he said, the command delivered in a tone that brooked no argument.
The guards hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of leaving their king alone with a potential assassin. "But sire, if she was involved in Lord Gaveth's death—"
"Leave." The single word carried such absolute authority that both men stepped back as if physically struck. "I will call if I have need of you."
They obeyed with the instant compliance of soldiers long accustomed to following orders without question, their footsteps echoing down the corridor until they faded to silence. The heavy door closed behind them with a sound like a tomb being sealed, leaving Selene alone with the man she had sworn to kill.
The silence that followed was oppressive, broken only by the snap and crackle of logs burning in the hearth. Selene kept her head bowed in the posture of appropriate submission, but inside her mind sharpened to a razor's edge. This was the closest she had ever been to her target, the moment she had been preparing for during all those long months of servitude and careful observation.
The irony was not lost on her—she knelt here not as an assassin finally within striking distance of her prey, but as a suspect in a poisoning she had indeed committed, though not against the intended victim.
"Look at me."
The command slid over her like oil on steel, quiet but utterly irresistible. Slowly, fighting every instinct that screamed at her to keep her eyes down and her identity hidden, she lifted her gaze to meet his.
Damian studied her with the focused intensity of a scholar examining a particularly interesting specimen. His face revealed nothing of whatever thoughts might be racing through his mind, maintaining the same perfect political neutrality she had observed during his public appearances. But there was something different about his attention now—more personal, more immediate than the distant regard of a king observing his subjects.
He began to circle her with measured steps, each footfall deliberate and controlled. The movement reminded her uncomfortably of a wolf studying potential prey, testing for weaknesses before deciding whether to attack or simply observe.
"What is your name?"
Her response came immediately, the lie she had lived with for months falling from her lips as naturally as truth. "Mira, Your Majesty."
"Mira." He repeated the name slowly, as though tasting each syllable for hidden meanings. "And where do you come from, Mira?"
This answer required more care, threading the needle between believability and misdirection. "The western hills, sire. A small village near Kareth. Bandits burned it to the ground three winters past. I came to the capital seeking honest work when there was nothing left at home."
It was a lie wrapped in just enough truth to pass casual scrutiny. Her homeland had indeed burned, though the destroyers had worn royal colors rather than bandit rags. And she had come to the capital seeking something—just not the kind of work any honest person would recognize.
Damian's circling brought him to a stop directly in front of her, close enough that she could see details invisible from a distance. There was a thin scar cutting across his jaw, pale against the darker skin around it—the mark of some long-ago blade that had come closer to its target than whoever wielded it might have hoped. His hands, she noticed, bore the calluses of someone who practiced regularly with sword and bow rather than relying entirely on others for protection.
"You serve in my kitchens?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. Under Cook's direction, mostly carrying and cleaning."
"Mmm." His gaze never wavered from her face, and she had the unsettling feeling that he was cataloging every detail for future reference. "You stood very still when Lord Gaveth died. Most of the other servants ran or screamed. Why did you remain calm?"
The question she had been dreading, wrapped in deceptively casual tone. Selene forced her breathing to remain steady as she crafted her response. "I was afraid, sire. I thought that if I moved suddenly or drew attention to myself, the guards might see guilt where there was none. Sometimes it's safer to be still than to run."
It was exactly the kind of pragmatic reasoning a lowborn girl might develop after years of navigating a world where the powerful could destroy the weak on a whim. The truth of it—that she had learned such lessons through bitter experience—lent authenticity to her words.
"And is there guilt?" His voice dropped to barely above a whisper, intimate and dangerous in equal measure.
The moment balanced on a knife's edge. This was the test, the question that would determine whether she walked away from this encounter or died here in his private chambers with no one to witness her end.
Selene met his gaze directly, allowing just the right amount of confusion and fear to show in her expression. "No, sire. I've done nothing wrong."
For a long moment that felt like an eternity, the chamber was silent except for the fire's gentle crackling. Those dark green eyes bored into hers with uncomfortable intensity, and she felt as though he could see through skin and bone to read the thoughts written on her very soul. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced her face to remain composed, projecting nothing more threatening than nervous innocence.
Then, to her complete shock, something shifted in his expression. The corners of his mouth curved upward in what might have been amusement, though it held none of the warmth she associated with genuine humor.
"You're clever," he said, the observation delivered with something that sounded almost like approval. "Too clever for scrubbing pots and hauling water."
Panic flared in Selene's chest, though she fought to keep it from showing on her face. Where was this leading? Had he seen through her disguise after all?
Damian turned away from her, moving toward the fire with fluid grace. The flames painted his profile in shades of gold and shadow, highlighting the strong lines of his face while leaving his eyes mysterious in their depths.
"The court is full of liars and flatterers," he said, apparently addressing the flames rather than her. "Men who would smile prettily while sharpening knives to slide between my ribs. Women who speak honeyed words while carrying poison in their sleeves. I have little use for fools who can do nothing but bow and scrape and tell me what they think I want to hear."
He turned back to face her, and now there was something predatory in his smile that made her blood run cold.
"But those who can keep their heads when chaos erupts around them... those who can think clearly under pressure... those I find very useful indeed."
Selene's mouth went dry. "Sire?"
Damian's smile deepened by a fraction, revealing teeth that were white and sharp in the firelight. When he spoke again, his voice carried the weight of royal command, absolute and irrevocable.
"You'll serve me now. Directly. As my personal attendant."
The words struck her like a physical blow, stealing the breath from her lungs and leaving her reeling. Not punishment. Not execution. Not even suspicion, really—but something infinitely more dangerous to her carefully laid plans.
He was pulling her closer to him, drawing her into the very heart of the royal household where her every move would be watched and scrutinized. Closer to the man she had sworn to kill, yes—but also closer to discovery, closer to the moment when her mask might finally slip and reveal the truth beneath.
As she knelt there on the cold stone floor, staring up at the king who had just changed the entire trajectory of her mission, Selene realized with crystalline clarity that her war of vengeance had taken a turn she had never anticipated.
And she had no idea whether that would prove to be her salvation or her doom.