The doors of the throne room parted with a groan that echoed through the vaulted chamber. Light poured in across the marble floor, cutting a pale bar between nobles, priests, and soldiers alike. Into that light came the company that had shadowed Darius since the Hallow:

  Pontifex Tharion, head of the Sanctum of Thorns, walked first. The crozier he carried was wrought of blackened iron twined with real thorns lacquered into permanence, each barb glinting faintly red in the torchlight. The nobles closest to him bowed their heads, but not from reverence—from the prickle of unease. At his flanks moved the Saints, Eryndor and Isolde, the former pale and trembling as though battle still clung to his bones, the latter steady as iron. Behind them strode Aelun, tall and unbothered, his presence as quiet and deep as a forest glade.

  And last came Darius Veyle.

  A priest near the front lifted two fingers and traced the Sign of Thorns — an X across his chest, then a line down its heart — as though the very air had been cleansed by the arrival of the Pontifex. The procession was meant to impress — instead, it fractured the room into fear, intrigue, and awe before a single word had been spoken.

  As the company passed the Crown Prince and Selene, they offered the ritual bows. Cassian returned it with the grace of a man bred to the gesture. Selene inclined her head, smile sharp enough to cut.

  At the dais, Darius dropped to one knee before the Emperor.

  “Your Majesty,” he said, his voice carrying like a blade drawn free, “I request you grant the Sanctum leave to take Selene Altheryon into custody. She has murdered Inquisitors, defiled holy ground, and set herself against the Church. I ask permission to use every means necessary to draw confession from her.”

  The hall drew a single, collective breath.

  Selene giggled. The sound was light, girlish almost, but it carried through the chamber like a slap.

  The Emperor leaned forward on his throne of ash, laughter rumbling out of him, deep and dangerous. “There is no need for that, boy,” said Emperor Valerion Ashmar Valenfor, his voice a low thunder. “She has already confessed as much as you would pry from her.”

  Darius’s eyes narrowed. He turned his head toward Selene, who only smiled back, amused.

  Pontifex Tharion stepped forward, voice edged in iron. “If that is so, Majesty, why is she not in chains?”

  The Emperor scoffed softly, the sound carrying like sparks across tinder. “You come into my hall, you and your Saints, and have yet to offer me proper greetings.”

  A flicker of embarrassment crossed Tharion’s face. He bowed, slow and deliberate, robes pooling around him. “Pontifex Tharion of the Sanctum of Thorns,” he intoned, voice like struck bronze. “Forgive the haste of our arrival, Majesty. We were caught by surprise.”

  Only then did Valerion nod, satisfaction curving his mouth.

  “Why should I chain her?” the Emperor asked, eyes glittering like hot coals.

  Darius lifted his chin. “Because she is a witch.”

  Selene laughed, warm and mocking. “A witch? No, inquisitor. Dragon-blood runs in me. As it runs—” she pointed her staff toward Aelun, “—in your elf. Why not slay him, then?”

  Murmurs surged through the nobles. Aelun said nothing, but his eyes were fire in shadow.

  Pontifex Tharion interjected quickly: “Elves are messengers of the gods. They are sanctified.”

  Selene smirked, then brushed her dark hair back with one hand, revealing the delicate point of her ears. “I am of elven descent as well. Am I not a messenger of your gods, then?”

  Tharion’s teeth clenched. “You are the spawn of Demonkin. Corrupted and vile.”

  Selene tilted her head as though she had been given a puzzle. “So it is blood that matters? Then, which shall we choose? My Demonkin parent? My grandmother, the Saviour of Humanity? Or my grandfather, the Warlock Emperor of Altheryon? Which blood weighs heaviest, Pontifex? Which will you damn?”

  Two nobles leaned close in hurried calculation. One hissed that Altheryon’s armies would march at a word if the girl were condemned. The other smiled, whispering that alliance with such a bloodline could vault her house above all rivals. The chamber did not breathe as Tharion held his tongue. In the silence, the true danger of Selene’s lineage settled like a storm cloud above them all.

  The Pontifex's knuckles whitened against the crozier, the lacquered thorns biting into his palm until a bead of blood welled between his fingers. He did not flinch, but the iron steadiness of his voice earlier seemed suddenly brittle. The silence was not mercy — it was a chain wrapped around his own throat.

  Darius, however, would not relent. “You’ve killed too many,” he said, voice raw.

  Selene’s eyes glinted. “Or did I only kill your father, and that is why you demand my death?”

  Darius’s hand trembled on his hilt. “Garran was a good man. He laid down his life to protect this kingdom from things like you.”

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  Selene leaned on her staff, eyes wide with mock innocence. “And what am I, exactly? You make me sound like some monster.”

  “You are a murderer.”

  She laughed, unrestrained, her voice bouncing off marble and steel. The priests hissed in disgust. Nobles shifted uneasily.

  “A murderer?” Selene repeated. “I killed those who came to kill me. I never touched civilians. Can your father say the same?”

  Her eyes flicked to Tharion. “And you, Pontifex—how many civilians were you ordered to slaughter in the name of your god?”

  Tharion’s voice was cold. “They would not serve the people. They were a threat.”

  Selene’s smile turned cruel. “Was it the people they would not serve—or the Church?”

  Saints Eryndor and Isolde shifted, unease written across their faces.

  Darius cut in, voice tight. “We would have done you no harm when we first met. You attacked us first. If you were innocent, you would not need such aggression.”

  “Oh, dear Inquisitor,” Selene purred, “I am many things, but innocent is not one.”

  A ripple of laughter coursed through the chamber, nobles finding delight in her wickedness. The balance of the room tilted subtly in her favor.

  Cassian chuckled. “Best not to spar with her tongue. None of you will win.”

  Selene smiled like a predator. “The only thing Darius has won since meeting me is an inheritance.”

  Darius’s knuckles whitened. Aelun laid a hand on his shoulder before his fury could erupt.

  Cassian barked a laugh. “Blessed ash, woman. Even I felt that one.”

  The Emperor laughed with them, deep and shaking. “She has a sharp tongue. But my words are the only ones that matter.” His gaze fell to Darius. “Tell me, young Veyle—what would you have me do with her?”

  “I would kill her myself, your Majesty,” Darius said hoarsely. “I will bear the deed and its weight. Only grant me leave.”

  The chamber froze.

  The Emperor’s smile thinned until it was a blade. “You know she is no simple witch, Darius,” he said, voice smooth as ash but with a vein of anger humming beneath it. “Do you truly suppose the blood of a low-born inquisitor will soothe the wrath of the First Witch or the Warlock Emperor?”

  Silence burned in the room.

  The Emperor turned his gaze on Selene, eyes glittering like coal. “If I command my guards and these halls to seize you this instant—what will you do, Princess?”

  Selene tilted her head, eyes bright with mischief. “I would fight,” she said, voice light and utterly certain. “I would try to carve a way free. I would kill — or at least try to kill — a few very important people.” She smiled

  “Even me?” Cassian asked lightly.

  “No,” Selene smirked. “You’d make a pretty hostage.”

  Cassian laughed, and some nobles with him.

  Selene’s smile sharpened. “And if worst came to worst, I’d become exactly what your Inquisitor fears. I’d burn this capital, and your Majesty would have to kill me. That would draw war—the Queen of the Hallows, the Warlock Emperor. Can your Empire endure both?”

  “She threatens the throne!” one of the priests shouted, trying to stir outrage.

  Selene chuckled. “Not a threat. The logical end of your choices. Besides, why would I threaten his Majesty with a good time?”

  The room stilled as the Emperor laughed — a sound that shook dust from the banners and caused the ground to quake beneath them. It was not merely amusement but the appetite of a predator that found the world entertaining after a long, dull season. “How is it,” he said, voice booming against the vaults, “that this child understands me better than some of my own brood?” He leaned forward on the arm of his ash throne, the smear of soot at his elbow catching light like a stain of old blood. “If there is one thing left in this world I crave, it is a true contest. The Warlock Emperor and the Savior of Humanity — yes. Those would surely test my steel.”

  But the amusement ebbed, and the ruler in him reasserted itself. He straightened, and the room felt the change like a gust shifting the sails. “Yet I will not trade the peace of my people for my vanity,” he said, measured and grave.

  “By the ash throne of Valenfor, I, Emperor Valerion Ashmar Valenfor, absolve Selene Altheryon LeFaye of all crimes laid by the Church.”

  The chamber erupted.

  It was as if someone had thrown a torch under Darius’s restraint. Darius’s Vaylora tore loose, wild and violent. Vaylora flared green as a storm, scorching the air. Aelun staggered back from the torrent. Even the Saints shifted uneasily. Darius did not spring to his feet. He rose in a single, volcanic motion, Vaylora coiling out of him like a rope set on flame. He shoved from the floor, the world narrowing to one point — Selene’s smile.

  Selene raised a brow, amused.

  Cassian strode through the tempest, unflinching, and with a single brutal motion drove his fist into Darius’s face.

  Cassian’s fist struck like iron on an anvil. The crack rang out, a pulse of Vaylora colliding with flesh, and the air itself seemed to buckle. Ash dust shook loose from the banners overhead. Blood flecked the ground, dark against pale marble.

  For a heartbeat, even the Emperor’s laughter stilled—the hall itself holding its breath to see if the young Veyle would rise or shatter beneath the Crown Prince’s hand. But he did not fall. The Vaylora that had boiled wild in him caught on itself and retreated. His shoulders hunched; his knees folded. The world came back in ragged pieces.

  “…Forgive me, your Majesty,” he rasped. “My wrath overcame me.”

  The Emperor’s mouth twitched into amusement and dismissal. “Youth,” he said lightly, as though dismissing a tantrum, “will not be punished with death in my hall.” He waved a hand that set the court’s tempers to simmer rather than boil. “You are not to be killed for passion, Veyle. There is talent yet in your fury.”

  Selene’s eyes narrowed, assessing.

  The Emperor’s gaze shifted back to Selene. The Emperor leaned back, ash-smoke curling faintly from his throne. “But I will not grant your request to pry into my nobles’ lineages,” he said, voice low but absolute. “Especially if it means stealing away the dragon-blood that may yet strengthen my Empire. They are mine, Princess, not yours to pluck.”

  Selene inclined her head.“Then I will not take them for free. I will give you something in return.”

  The Emperor’s brow arched. “And what, precisely, could you offer me?”

  “The whereabouts of sorcerers and apostates,” Selene replied, her tone sharp enough to slice the chamber into silence. “Their lairs, their hidden seals. I will help you destroy them. A service, in exchange for blood.”

  The court convulsed. Priests shrieked, voices shrill as breaking glass. A baroness pressed a jeweled hand to her throat and whispered that such knowledge was worth entire armies. One young knight leapt half a step forward before his captain dragged him back, face pale at the thought of consorting with a witch. The Saints shifted uneasily, their eyes flicking not to Selene but to Tharion, as if waiting for him to steady the ground beneath them. Instead, the Pontifex said nothing, and the silence of his refusal only fanned the chamber’s chaos louder.