POV: Seraphina
The knife came at my face without notice.
I jerked backward, my lute clattering to the floor of the crowded bar. The drunk man's blade missed me by inches, the metal zipping past so close I felt the wind from it. My heart burst in my chest.
"You!" the man yelled, his face purple with rage. "Your singing made my wife leave me! She said your voice made her dream of better things!"
I didn't have time to think. I ran.
My legs carried me through the bar crowd, scattering people like scared chickens. The man crashed after me, knocking over tables and chairs. His friends cheered him on, finding entertainment in my fear. Nobody helped. Nobody ever helped. That's what I'd learned traveling from village to village—people loved you when you entertained them, but they turned ugly when the entertainment stopped.
I burst through the tavern's back door into the cold night air. The alley behind the building was dark and twisted, but it was my only chance. I knew these country streets. I'd walked them all day, looking for work, looking for pay, looking for somewhere safe to sleep.
I ran faster, my breath coming in hard gasps. The man's footsteps thundered behind me. He was catching up. My legs burned, but I pushed harder. At the end of the alley, I saw the village well. I'd memorized the route this morning. I turned left toward the market square where lanterns still burned even this late at night.
The footsteps stopped.
I didn't stop running until I reached the square, where a few late-night workers were cleaning up. They looked at me with suspicion but said nothing. The drunk man didn't follow. He'd given up or found someone else to worry.
I leaned against a wooden post, shivering, trying to catch my breath. My hands shook so badly I could barely balance myself. This was the third time this month someone had turned angry because of my voice. It wasn't normal, what my voice could do. My grandma had warned me about it a thousand times.
"The voice of a siren, child, is a weapon," Grandmother would say, her ancient eyes burning with worry. "It makes people feel too much. It breaks them open. That makes them dangerous."
I'd never believed her. I thought she was just being protective of her lonely granddaughter. But she was right. My voice didn't just entertain people—it killed them.
The market square was quiet. Just a few sellers closing their stalls for the night. An old woman sweeping. A boy bringing water buckets. Normal people living normal lives that didn't involve running from angry drunks or hiding who you really were.
I walked slowly to the village inn, trying to look calm, trying to fit in. My room was on the second floor—a small, cold place with a narrow bed and a single candle. The innkeeper had given it to me for three nights of shows. After tonight, he might not want me back. The drunk man had friends. The story would spread. By tomorrow, everyone would know I caused trouble wherever I went.
I locked my door and sat on the edge of the bed, still shaking.
My lute was still at the bar. I'd dropped it when I ran. The thought made me want to cry. That harp was everything I had. I'd bought it three years ago with saved coins. It was scratched and damaged and held a hundred songs inside it. Without it, I had nothing.
I couldn't go back tonight. The man might still be there. But I couldn't leave it behind either. I'd return early in the morning, before the tavern opened, and collect it.
I lay down on the hard bed, still wearing my journey clothes. My mind wouldn't stop running. Would the landlord throw me out tomorrow? Would the village turn against me? Would I have to run again, like I'd run from the last six villages?
The questions chased each other in loops. My body was tired, but my mind stayed sharp and afraid.
Hours passed. The inn grew quiet. Guests stopped moving in their rooms. The village outside went quiet. But I couldn't sleep. I stared at the ceiling, listening to every creak and footstep, afraid the drunk man would come looking for me.
Just before dawn, when the sky was starting to turn gray, I finally heard something that made my fear shift into doubt.
Footsteps. But not angry ones. These were slow, careful, moving through the inn like someone trying not to wake anyone. They stopped outside my door.
My breath caught. I grabbed my walking stick from the corner—my only weapon—and held it like a club.
The footsteps didn't move away. They just... waited. There was someone standing on the other side of my door. I could feel them there, the way you can always feel when someone is watching you, even if you can't see them.
Then I heard breathing. Deep breathing. Like someone was trying to calm themselves down.
"Seraphina," a voice called softly through the wooden door. It wasn't the drunk man. It was someone else. A man's voice, but cold and smooth, like water over river stones. "I heard you sing tonight. Before the chaos."
My blood froze.
How did he know my name? I never told anyone in this village my real name. I always used fake names—Sarah, or Sara, or Senna. It was safer that way. The fewer people who knew the real Seraphina, the safer I was.
"I don't know you," I called back, my voice calm even though fear was eating me alive.
"No," the man agreed. "But I know you. Or rather, I know what you are."
My chest went tight. What I am. Those words held a weight that made my stomach turn inside out.
"Your voice," he continued, and now his voice sounded different. Hungry. "Your voice is not normal. It's not just song. It's something old. Something rare."
I didn't answer. I couldn't answer.
"Open the door, Seraphina."
"No."
"I won't hurt you. I simply need to see you. To confirm what I heard."
"Who are you?" I demanded, holding my stick tighter.
There was a pause. When he spoke again, his voice was different. It was lower, more dangerous, carrying a power that I could feel even through the closed door. It made the air in my room feel heavy, like the world was getting darker.
"I am King Theron Nightshade."
The stick fell from my hands.
I knew that name. Everyone in the towns knew that name, spoken in whispers late at night. The Twilight King. The immortal master who lived in the obsidian palace beyond the mortal lands. The king who had ruled for more than eight hundred years. The king who, according to tradition, could kill a person just by touching them.
The king whose curse was so strong that countries feared him.
And he was standing on the other side of my bedroom door.
"Open this door right now, or I will break it down," he said quietly. "Your choice. But choose quickly, girl. My patience is ancient, but even ancient patience has bounds."
My han
d moved toward the lock without my permission.