I had dismissed Zaeran to her chambers myself.
Not because she obeyed—she never truly does—but because the way her jaw tightened, the way her eyes burned with restrained fury, told me she was one word away from making this spectacle far more difficult than it needed to be.
When the doors closed behind her, I let the silence settle.
Then I dropped the mask.
I turned slowly to face Rostamir and the two council members, the warmth draining from my expression as if it had never existed.
The throne room felt smaller with only the four of us present, the air heavier, charged with something far more honest than courtly pleasantries.
“Let us be clear,” I said calmly. “What I permit in public is not what I tolerate in private.”
Lord Caldrien stiffened. His hand drifted—just slightly—toward the hilt at his side.
“I did not raise my daughter,” I continued, my voice even, precise, “to be a bargaining chip. You will not use her name to consolidate power. You will not touch her mind, her will, or her body for ambition. And if you dare—”
I stepped closer.
“I will have you executed.”
The word landed cleanly.
Steel rasped free of its sheath.
Lord Caldrien drew his sword halfway before my guards moved in perfect unison, blades flashing up to his throat, their points hovering close enough to kiss skin. He froze, breath shallow, eyes flicking to me in disbelief.
Before anyone could speak, Lady Maereth moved.
Fast.
A dagger pressed cool and firm against my throat, the edge biting just enough to draw a bead of warmth. Her hand was steady. Skilled.
Good. No-excellent infact.
I did not flinch.
Instead, I smiled.
Slow. Deliberate enough to hint at my intent.
“Well,” I said softly, as though we were discussing wine instead of murder, “I am quite pleased.”
Her brows knit in confusion.
“You have fangs,” I continued. “Enough to defend your family without hesitation. Enough to stand against an empire when cornered.” I tilted my head slightly into the blade, unafraid. “I suppose that makes you fit to stand beside my daughter.”
Silence.
Then, slowly, I lowered my sword, letting it hang loose at my side
“Stand down,” I ordered.
The guards obeyed instantly, blades lowering as one. Lord Vaelor exhaled and slowly sheathed his weapon, his gaze never leaving mine.
Lady Maereth withdrew her dagger, eyes sharp, assessing, calculating.
Rostamir had not moved at all.
He merely adjusted his cuffs, expression composed, almost bored, as though none of this had surprised him.
At last, he spoke.
“Her Imperial Majesty need not concern herself,” he said evenly. “I have no intention of using Lady Zaeran as a tool.”
His eyes lifted to meet mine—steady, unflinching.
“For her,” he went on, “I would burn every kingdom to ash.”
The words were not dramatic.
They were factual.
I studied him for a long moment.
Such a sweet boy, indeed.
Yes.
This would do.
“Good,” I said simply. “Then we understand one another.”
And with that, we returned to discussion—lands, borders, ceremony—our blades metaphorically clean, our intentions laid bare.
Zaeran would hate me. It was expected.
But she would live and that was enough for me.
And she would rule beside someone capable of surviving her.
And Seraphyn's wicked plans.
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