Selene had expected to be dismissed from the king's chambers with harsh words and a warning never to attract royal attention again. Perhaps thrown back to the kitchens with orders to scrub pots until her hands cracked and bled. Instead, she found herself following the king's chief steward through corridors she had only glimpsed from a distance, each step carrying her deeper into the heart of royal power.
The steward was a thin, precise man named Master Aldric whose graying hair was pulled back in a severe knot that emphasized the sharp angles of his face. His dark robes rustled with each step, and the keys hanging from his belt chimed softly—symbols of the authority he wielded over the castle's daily operations.
"From this day forward," he said briskly, his tone carrying the weight of royal decree, "you are assigned to His Majesty's personal service. You will attend him in his private chambers, serve at his meals, and stand ready during council sessions. Your former duties are forfeit. You answer to no one save the king himself."
Selene kept her eyes fixed on the polished stone floor, watching the play of torchlight across marble that had been worn smooth by centuries of footsteps. Her voice remained steady despite the chaos in her chest. "Yes, Master Aldric."
Inside, her mind screamed warnings like church bells ringing fire. This was too close, far too dangerous for someone with murder in her heart. She had dreamed of slipping a blade between Damian's ribs from the shadows, not standing at his side in the full glare of court attention where every gesture would be scrutinized and remembered.
Yet beneath the terror, a darker part of her recognized the opportunity. Proximity was power. The closer she drew to her target, the better her chances of finding the perfect moment to strike. Servants who worked in the kitchens might poison a king's wine by chance, but personal attendants had access to private moments when guards were dismissed and witnesses were absent.
Master Aldric led her through a section of the castle she had never seen before—corridors lined with tapestries depicting the great deeds of kings long dead, chambers where the business of governance was conducted away from prying eyes. The very air seemed different here, heavy with the weight of decisions that shaped the fate of kingdoms.
He stopped before a door of polished oak set with brass fittings that gleamed like gold in the torchlight. "Your quarters," he announced, producing an iron key from the ring at his belt. "You are no longer housed with the general servants. Proximity to the crown requires... discretion."
The chamber beyond was sparse but clean—a narrow bed with woolen blankets, a washstand with a ceramic basin, a wooden chest for her few possessions. Compared to the crowded servants' quarters where she had slept on straw pallets surrounded by snoring kitchen maids, it felt palatial.
"The king rises before dawn," Master Aldric continued, his tone suggesting these instructions were vital to her continued survival. "You will present yourself in his chambers at the fifth bell to prepare his morning ablutions. See that you are properly attired and groomed. His Majesty values precision above all things."
When he left, sealing the door behind him with a soft click, Selene sank onto the narrow bed and pressed her hands to her temples. The silence felt oppressive after months of communal living, but it also offered something precious—privacy to think, to plan, to remember why she was here.
She could still hear Damian's voice echoing in her memory: You'll serve me now. The words had carried the weight of royal command, absolute and unquestionable. But beneath that authority, she had detected something else—a note of satisfaction, as if he had found exactly what he had been searching for.
Selene whispered into the gathering darkness, her voice barely audible even to herself. "Then I'll serve you straight to your grave, my king."
Serving King Damian proved to be nothing like what she had imagined during her years of planning.
She rose each morning while the castle still slumbered, dressing by candlelight in the plain gray gown that marked her new station. The corridors were eerily quiet at this hour, populated only by guards making their rounds and the occasional servant hurrying to complete some early task. Her soft-soled shoes made no sound on the stone floors as she made her way to the royal chambers.
The king's private rooms were a study in controlled luxury—rich but not ostentatious, comfortable but never soft. She prepared warm water in a silver basin, arranged his garments with military precision, and laid out the scrolls and correspondence that would occupy his morning hours. Maps covered every available surface, marked with colored pins that tracked troop movements, trade routes, and territorial disputes across the realm.
Damian himself was a creature of rigid routine. He spoke little during these morning preparations, though Selene quickly learned to read the subtle signs of his moods—the slight tightening around his eyes when reports from the border provinces arrived, the almost imperceptible relaxation of his shoulders when reading letters from trusted allies. His attention was always focused outward, on the kingdom that depended on his decisions, rather than inward on personal comfort or pleasure.
At first, Selene avoided his gaze whenever possible, terrified that he might somehow read the hatred burning in her chest. But as days passed, she realized he rarely looked directly at her anyway. To him, she was simply another tool to be utilized in the complex machinery of governance—useful, perhaps even valued, but ultimately replaceable.
This realization should have stung, but instead it provided the perfect cover for her true purpose. She studied his habits with the intensity of a hunter learning her prey's patterns. When did he drink wine? When were his chambers unguarded? How did he handle the practice sword during his morning training sessions with the master-at-arms?
Each observation was filed away for future use, another piece in the puzzle of how to kill a king and escape alive. She imagined slipping poison into his morning cup of watered wine, pressing a dagger beneath his ribs as he bent over maps that showed the kingdom's weaknesses. Her hatred provided fuel for these dark fantasies, keeping her focused on her ultimate goal.
But proximity to her enemy also unsettled her in ways she hadn't anticipated. Damian was not the roaring tyrant of her imagination, the monster who would order massacre for sport or execute servants for minor infractions. Instead, he was calm and deliberate, carrying himself with the weary dignity of a man who understood the weight of the crown he wore.
She told herself it was all performance, another mask worn for political advantage. Every king needed to project strength and wisdom, regardless of what darkness lurked beneath the surface. But the contradiction gnawed at her resolve like a persistent ache, making her question things she had believed with absolute certainty.
The throne room sessions were the most challenging test of her composure.
Selene stood in her assigned position at the edge of the great chamber, just behind the carved stone dais where the throne of kings had sat for three centuries. A crystal pitcher of wine rested in her hands, its surface cool against her palms despite the nervous sweat that beaded her brow. She kept her head properly bowed, projecting the image of an obedient servant while her eyes remained alert for any opportunity that might present itself.
The daily business of the realm unfolded before her like a complex theatrical performance. Nobles in their finest silks and velvets clustered on carved benches, their conversations a constant hum of ambition and calculation. Petitioners approached the throne with carefully rehearsed speeches, each one hoping to win royal favor for their particular cause. Foreign ambassadors in exotic robes delivered messages from distant kingdoms, their words weighted with diplomatic significance.
Through it all, Damian presided with the same unreadable expression she had come to know so well. His responses were measured, his judgments fair but firm, his attention wholly focused on the needs of his kingdom rather than personal preference. Watching him work, Selene found herself grudgingly impressed by his competence, even as she reminded herself that competent tyrants were often the most dangerous kind.
She studied every gesture, every expression, searching for cracks in the facade that might reveal the true monster beneath. Each smile he offered, she told herself, concealed cruelty. Each word of mercy was calculated for political effect rather than genuine compassion. The mental exercises helped feed her anger, but they also felt increasingly hollow as days passed without evidence to support them.
On this particular morning, the court buzzed with unusual energy. A delegation from the eastern provinces had arrived with great ceremony, their leaders resplendent in cloth-of-gold and jewels that caught the light streaming through stained glass windows. Lord Commander Harwick led the group, a weathered veteran whose scarred hands spoke of decades spent defending the realm's borders.
Damian listened to their reports with the focused attention he brought to all matters of state, his fingers resting lightly on the carved arms of his throne. The eastern lords spoke of increased raids from across the mountains, of trade routes threatened by bandit activity, of the need for additional troops and supplies to maintain the peace.
Selene moved through her assigned duties with practiced efficiency, refilling wine cups and arranging documents as needed. But part of her attention remained fixed on the king, watching for any sign of weakness or opportunity. She imagined what would happen if she simply stepped forward and drove a concealed blade into his heart before the assembled court. The chaos would be immediate and absolute, but her own death would follow within moments.
Better to wait for a more private moment, when success would not require suicide.
As she turned to step back from the dais after refilling several goblets, she felt it again—that familiar weight of royal attention settling on her like a heavy cloak.
Damian's gaze found her across the crowded chamber, pinning her in place with its intensity. This time, however, instead of simply observing, he acted.
His hand lifted from the throne's armrest in a gesture that seemed casual but carried absolute authority. The movement drew every eye in the chamber, nobles craning their necks to see what had captured their king's attention.
Before Selene could react, his fingers closed gently around her wrist. The touch was firm but not harsh, warm against her skin, utterly shocking in its intimacy. The throne room seemed to hold its breath, hundreds of conversations dying mid-sentence as the assembled court witnessed something unprecedented.
Selene's heart slammed against her ribs with such force she was certain everyone must be able to hear it. She forced her face to remain blank, bowing her head as if the gesture meant nothing more than royal acknowledgment of good service. But inside, her mind raced with implications and possibilities.
When Damian spoke, his voice carried clearly through the vast chamber, pitched to ensure that even those in the farthest corners could hear every word.
"This one belongs to me."
The declaration hit the assembled nobles like a physical blow. Gasps rippled outward in waves, followed immediately by a buzz of whispered speculation that threatened to drown out the day's remaining business. Ladies pressed jeweled hands to their mouths in shock, while lords leaned close to their neighbors to share hurried observations about this unprecedented development.
A king publicly claiming a servant girl? It was scandal and curiosity and potential danger all wrapped into one explosive moment. Some would see it as evidence of royal favor, others as proof of moral weakness. All would remember it, dissect it, and use it for their own political purposes.
Selene felt her pulse roaring in her ears as Damian's hand lingered on her wrist for several heartbeats longer than necessary. When he finally released her, the absence of his touch felt almost as shocking as its presence had been.
She stepped back to her assigned position with carefully measured movements, fighting to keep her expression neutral despite the turmoil raging beneath her skin. Around the chamber, nobles continued their whispered conversations behind fans and gloved hands, their attention now divided between the king's official business and this new development that would fuel gossip for weeks to come.
As the morning's session continued, Selene remained frozen in place, her mind struggling to process what had just occurred. Damian had marked her publicly, claimed her before the eyes of the entire court in a way that would fundamentally change how others saw her.
The noose around her neck had tightened considerably—every move she made would now be scrutinized for signs of impropriety or ambition. But paradoxically, his declaration had also drawn her closer to the throne than she had ever dared hope.
She was no longer just another servant who might poison a king's wine by chance. She was now the woman who belonged to King Damian, with all the access and opportunity such a position implied.
The irony was not lost on her. In trying to protect her from suspicion, he might have given her exactly what she needed to destroy him.