Lines Drawn in Blood and Silk
The corridor was suffocatingly silent.
Tanya turned first.
The fury she had worn moments ago melted instantly, replaced by shock — then pain — then something heartbreakingly fragile.
"My king…" she breathed.
Raven stood a few paces away, his presence alone enough to crush the air. His gaze flicked briefly to Tanya's reddened cheek… then moved on.
To Vanella.
Her cheek was swelling.
The temperature in the corridor dropped another degree.
"What happened?" Raven asked.
Tanya took a trembling step forward. "I merely asked for directions," she said softly. "I did not expect such insolence from a servant. She—she struck me."
Silence.
Raven did not look at her.
His hand lifted.
Not toward Tanya.
Toward Vanella.
His fingers brushed her chin, tilting her face gently so he could see the mark.
Vanella stiffened but did not pull away.
Raven's jaw tightened.
Slowly, deliberately, he turned to Tanya.
"You struck my servant."
The words were calm.
Deadly.
"I—" Tanya swallowed. "She provoked me."
"She told you the truth," Raven replied flatly.
Tanya's eyes widened.
"You do not give orders in my palace," he continued. "You do not raise your hand to those under my protection. And you certainly do not decide who belongs at my side."
Her breath hitched.
"You believe yourself fit to be queen?" Raven asked quietly.
He stepped closer.
"Then you should learn restraint before ambition."
Tanya's voice shook. "My father—"
"Your father," Raven cut in, his eyes hardening, "may speak to me himself if he has something to say. I do not accept messengers. Especially not ones who forget their place."
Each word landed like a blade.
Tanya's face drained of color.
"And as for you," he added, lowering his voice further, "you do not hold a candle to her."
The corridor seemed to tilt.
Vanella's breath caught.
Tanya looked between them, humiliation burning through her composure.
Raven reached for Vanella's hand.
She froze.
His grip closed around her fingers — firm, unyielding — and without another glance at Tanya, he turned and pulled Vanella with him.
"Come," he said.
They walked toward the west wing.
Vanella stumbled to keep pace, her heart hammering wildly.
Behind them, Tanya stood rooted to the spot, nails digging into her palms hard enough to draw blood.
She had not come here to lose.
And she would not forgive this.
Not ever.