My first thought wasn't of myself, but of Elara. The young princess, innocent and terrified, would be alone in her chambers.
I raced through the echoing corridors, the sounds of battle growing louder with every step.
Smoke began to curl through the air vents, carrying the acrid scent of burning wood and something metallic – blood.
I burst into Elara's room, finding her huddled beneath her covers, her small frame trembling.
"Lady Elara," I whispered, pulling her into my arms. "It's alright. Just a bad dream. Stay here, don't make a sound."
I quickly locked her heavy oak door from the inside, then jammed a sturdy chair beneath the handle, hoping it would buy her precious moments.
"Everything will be fine," I murmured, though my heart screamed the opposite.
I pressed a kiss to her forehead, then slipped out, locking the outer door behind me, praying it would hold.
The castle was a maelstrom. Northern soldiers, clad in dark furs and bearing the wolf sigil of my former house, swarmed through the halls.
They were brutal, efficient, cutting down any resistance. I pressed myself against a cold stone wall, watching, a ghost in my own home.
My stomach churned with a sickening mix of fear and a strange, unsettling familiarity.
These were *my* people, yet they were destroying the life I had built, the kingdom I was now bound to protect.
The sounds of fighting intensified, moving closer to the Duke's private wing. I knew they would find Draven.
My heart pounded, a frantic drum against my ribs. I had to get back to him, to explain, to protect him from *them*.
But before I could move, a group of Northern warriors rounded the corner, their swords still dripping, their faces grim.
They stopped dead when they saw me. Their eyes, hardened by battle, softened, then widened in disbelief.
"Seraphina?" one of them, a burly man with a scarred cheek I vaguely recognized from my childhood, breathed, his voice laced with shock.
"By the gods, it is you! We thought... we thought you were lost!"
Another, a younger man, rushed forward, his helmet clutched in his hand.
"Lady Seraphina! We've come for you! We heard you were held captive by the Southern Duke, forced into this marriage. We're taking you home!"
My mind reeled. They didn't see Melanie, Draven's wife.
They saw Seraphina, the lost daughter of the Northern Lords, the one they believed they were rescuing.
Their faces were filled with relief, with a fierce, protective joy.
They reached for me, not to capture, but to embrace.
*No!* I screamed internally, recoiling. *You don't understand! I'm not her! Not anymore!* The Seraphina they knew, the one who belonged to the Northern lands, was a ghost.
This wasn't a rescue; it was a catastrophic misunderstanding, a cruel twist of fate that would only deepen Draven's betrayal.
"Retreat!" I cried out, my voice raw with desperation, my eyes darting around for any sign of an escape.
"Retreat now, or I swear, I will never come back home!"
My words seemed to hang in the air, creating a momentary lull in the surrounding chaos.
The Northern Lords paused, their faces a mixture of confusion and anger at my defiance.
"Enough of this foolishness, Lady Seraphina!" the burly man snapped, his patience clearly at an end.
He tightened his grip, his fingers digging painfully into my arm, and began to pull me aggressively, dragging me forward.
The others moved to flank me, their expressions hardening. "You're in shock, but we haven't time for this! We're getting you out!"
I stumbled, fighting against their combined strength, my feet scraping uselessly on the stone floor. "No! Let go! You don't understand!"
My voice was a desperate plea, lost in the rising din of the castle. They ignored me, their powerful hands forcing me along, their faces set with grim determination.
Just then, everywhere seemed to slow down. The shouts of distant battle faded into a dull roar.
I felt the burly man's hand still clamped around my wrist, pulling me, but then the grip suddenly went slack.
The hand wasn't pulling me anymore. I looked up, my eyes following the arm attached to it, and a choked scream tore from my throat.
The arm, still clutching my wrist, had been severed just above the elbow.
It fell to the ground with a sickening thud, releasing my hand.
Blood, hot and gushing, sprayed from the stump of the Northern Lord who had been holding me, his eyes wide with disbelief and agony before he crumpled.
Before I could even process the horror, there was a swift, brutal sword slash. Then another, and another.
The six men who had surrounded me, my "rescuers," were on the floor, dead, their blood mingling with that of their fallen comrade.
I shivered, a cold dread seeping into my bones. My gaze slowly lifted, following the blood-stained blade.
He stood there, swaying slightly, his face a mask of sleepy, furious anger.
Draven. One hand, still strong despite its tremor, held the sword, its tip dripping crimson.
The other hand was pressed against his temple, as if trying to clear a fog, assisting the shaky, drugged hand that had just wrought such devastation.
His eyes, though clouded by the powerful draught, burned with a terrifying intensity as they fixed on me.
He had seen me, surrounded by the Northern Lords, and in his drugged, disoriented state, he had acted.
My mind raced, a whirlwind of horror and confusion. *Whose arm was supposed to be severed? Was it my brother's in the novel? Or Draven's? I don't understand this novel anymore!*
The plot had completely unraveled, twisted into something unrecognizable and far more dangerous.
I didn't know if I should apologize for the chaos I had caused, or try to stop him from fighting, from inflicting more damage in his drugged fury.
He was a force of nature, a lethal weapon, and I was caught directly in his path.
Then, with a guttural groan, Draven's legs gave out.
He dropped to one knee, the sword clattering beside him, his head bowed, both hands now pressed against his temples.
He was struggling, fighting the drug that still coursed through his veins, his body wracked with pain and disorientation.
"Draven!" I gasped, my fear momentarily overridden by a surge of concern.
I took a hesitant step towards him, reaching out a hand, wanting to help him, to steady him.
He flinched away from my touch, his head snapping up, his eyes still blazing with that terrifying, drugged anger.
"Don't," he rasped, his voice raw. He pushed himself up, using the wall for support, swaying precariously.
His gaze, though unfocused, seemed to be searching for something, or someone.
"Elara..." he mumbled, taking a stumbling step in the direction of the princess's chambers.
Even in his drugged state, his protective instincts were paramount.
Before he could take another step, a new figure burst into the corridor.
It was Duke Nathan, Draven's younger brother, his usually charming, roguish face now streaked with grime and sweat, his armor dented, a furious glint in his eyes. He had clearly just come from the thick of the battle.
"Draven! What in the blazes happened here?!"
Nathan roared, his gaze sweeping over the dead Northern Lords, then landing on his brother, who was still swaying, his face pale and contorted.
"Where were you?! The Northern dogs breached the inner keep! The castle was falling, and you were nowhere to be found!"
His voice was laced with a mixture of relief that Draven was alive, and incandescent fury at his absence.
Draven tried to speak, his jaw working, but the words seemed to catch in his throat.
He struggled, his eyes darting between Nathan and me, the drug making coherent thought impossible.
Finally, he managed to force out a few slurred words, his gaze locking onto mine with a chilling intensity.
"I... I was drugged," he choked out, his voice barely audible, but clear enough to carry in the sudden, tense silence.
"By... by my wife."
Nathan's eyes widened, his gaze snapping to me, a flicker of disbelief and accusation replacing his anger.
But Draven wasn't finished. With a sudden, terrifying surge of strength, he lunged, his hand shooting out like a viper.
His fingers clamped around my neck, not tight enough to choke, but firm enough to convey absolute power, absolute accusation.
His face was inches from mine, his breath hot against my cheek, his eyes burning into my soul.
"Did you drug me?" he demanded, his voice a low, dangerous growl, the question a poisoned dagger aimed straight at my heart.