Seraphine's POV
Daemon moves so fast I barely see it.
One moment he's beside me, the next he's between me and General Theron, his hand raised with flames dancing across his fingertips. The temperature in the library spikes so high I can barely breathe.
Lower your weapon, Daemon says softly. Now.
Theron doesn't move. His blade stays pointed at me, his expression cold. My lord, you're making a mistake. This girl is dangerous. She's a Storm Keeper
I know what she is.
Then you know she's a threat! The council sent her to destroy you
The council sent her to die. Daemon's voice drops to a deadly purr. Just like they sent the others. But unlike you, General, I don't kill people for what they might do. Only for what they actually do.
The flames on his hand grow brighter. The black veins on his skin pulse visibly, spreading further up his arm. He's losing control.
Daemon, I whisper. Don't.
He glances back at me, and for a moment his red eyes soften. Stay behind me.
Theron's jaw tightens. You're protecting her? After she admitted she came to assassinate you?
She told me the truth when she could have lied. That's more than most people in this fortress have ever done. Daemon takes a step forward. Now put down the blade before I make you.
For a tense moment, I think Theron will refuse. Think there will be bloodshed right here in this library.
Then he lowers the blade and bows stiffly. As you command, my lord. But mark my words—you'll regret this mercy.
He turns and stalks out, slamming the door behind him.
The moment he's gone, Daemon's flames extinguish. He staggers slightly, catching himself on a bookshelf. The black veins on his skin are darker than before, pulsing with dark energy.
Are you alright? I reach for him instinctively.
Don't touch me. His voice is strained. Not when the curse is this close to the surface. I can't control what it might do.
But I'm already touching his arm, and nothing happens. No burning. No pain. Just warmth spreading through my palm.
Daemon stares at my hand on his arm, then at me. You really are a Storm Keeper. No one else could touch me like this when I'm losing control.
Sit down before you fall down, I say, surprised by my own boldness.
He actually listens, sinking into a chair. I kneel beside him, keeping my hand on his arm. Underneath my palm, I can feel his pulse racing, feel the dark magic churning through his veins.
What happened to you? I ask quietly. How did you get this curse?
He's silent for so long I think he won't answer. Then he starts talking, his voice distant, like he's seeing ghosts.
I wasn't always the Blood King. Fifteen years ago, I was just Prince Daemon. Third in line for the throne, which meant I was free to be a soldier, a scholar—whatever I wanted. His lips twist into a bitter smile. I wanted peace. Can you imagine? I actually believed we could end the war through diplomacy.
What changed?
The Northern Council invited my family to a peace summit at Blackstone Keep. My parents, my brothers, my fiancée—everyone went. I was supposed to go too, but I was delayed helping refugees at the border. His hands clench into fists. When I arrived, they were all dead. Poisoned wine. Every single one.
Horror floods through me. The council murdered them?
Chancellor Mordain himself orchestrated it. Killed the entire royal family in one night because peace would have ended his war profits. Daemon's red eyes blaze brighter. I found my fiancée Arianne in the garden. She'd tried to run when she realized the wine was poisoned. She almost made it to the gates.
His voice breaks on the last word, and I see tears tracking down his scarred face. Without thinking, I reach up and wipe them away.
He freezes at my touch, then continues in a rougher voice. I hunted down everyone responsible. Killed them one by one. But it wasn't enough. I was just one man against an entire kingdom's military. I was going to lose. Going to die without getting justice for my family.
So you made a deal, I whisper.
A dark mage found me. Offered me power—enough power to take revenge, to conquer the South, to make the North pay for what they did. He lifts his hand, and flames dance across his palm. I didn't ask about the cost. Didn't care. I just wanted them to suffer the way my family suffered.
What was the cost?
My humanity. He closes his fist, extinguishing the flames. Every life I take feeds the curse. Every violent act, every moment of rage pushes me closer to becoming a literal monster. These veins— He gestures to the black lines spreading across his skin. —they're not just marks. They're the darkness consuming me from the inside.
I stare at the veins pulsing beneath his skin, suddenly understanding. How long do you have?
Five years. Maybe less. His smile is terrible. Every day I can feel it spreading. Feel my thoughts getting darker, my control slipping. Sometimes I lose entire hours and wake up covered in blood, not remembering what I did. He looks at me with those burning eyes. That's why your poison would have been a mercy, little bride. Because what I'm becoming is worse than death.
My throat tightens. There has to be a way to stop it. To reverse it.
I've had every scholar, every mage, every healer in the South searching for fifteen years. There's no cure. He stands abruptly, pacing away from me. The curse is tied to my rage, my need for revenge. As long as I'm angry, as long as I want the North destroyed, it keeps spreading.
Then stop being angry, I say.
He laughs, a harsh sound. Stop being angry? They murdered my entire family. They started a war that's killed thousands. They sent you here to die just to get rid of you. He whirls to face me. How do I stop being angry when every day gives me new reasons to burn the world?
I stand, facing him even though the heat radiating from his body makes my skin prickle. I don't know. But I know becoming a monster won't bring your family back. It won't make the pain stop. It'll just make you into the very thing they claimed you were.
He stares at me like I've slapped him.
You don't understand
You're right. I don't understand losing everyone you love. I step closer. But I understand being trapped by other people's choices. Being forced into a role you never wanted. Feeling like you have no control over your own fate. My voice strengthens. The difference is, you still have a choice. You can keep feeding this curse until it consumes you, or you can fight it.
I've been fighting it for fifteen years!
By killing more people? By staying angry? By pushing everyone away so you don't have to feel anything? I shake my head. That's not fighting. That's surrendering slowly.
His hand shoots out, gripping my chin with burning fingers. You know nothing about what I've suffered. What I've sacrificed. What I've become.
But his touch doesn't hurt. Despite the anger in his eyes, despite the curse raging through his veins, his hand is just warm against my skin.
We both notice it at the same time.
Why doesn't it burn you? he whispers. Even when I'm losing control, even when the curse is at its strongest, you don't burn.
Maybe that's what Storm Keepers do, I say quietly. Maybe we can handle the heat because we're meant to.
He releases my chin and steps back, running his hands through his hair. This is impossible. You've been here two days and you're already affecting the curse in ways I don't understand.
Is that bad?
I don't know! He sounds frustrated and frightened. The bond forming between us—it could suppress the curse or it could make it stronger. It could save me or doom us both. There's no way to know until it's too late.
Then we figure it out together.
He looks at me like I'm insane. Why would you risk that? Why would you tie yourself to a dying monster when you could run? I'd let you go. Right now. I'd send you north with gold and protection and you'd never have to see me again.
The offer hangs in the air between us.
I think about running. About leaving this fortress and this cursed man and this impossible situation.
Then I think about Daemon defending me from Theron. About the tears on his face when he talked about his murdered family. About the exhaustion in his voice as he fights a transformation he never asked for.
Because someone should choose to stay, I say simply. Because for fifteen years, everyone's either run from you or tried to kill you. And maybe— I take a breath. Maybe you need someone who does neither.
He stares at me for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiles—a real smile, sad and grateful and human.
You're either a saint or a fool, Seraphine Ashford.
Definitely a fool. I manage a shaky smile back. But I'm your fool now, apparently.
The words hang between us, charged with meaning neither of us is ready to acknowledge.
Then Daemon's expression changes. His head snaps toward the door, his body going rigid.
What's wrong? I ask.
Someone's coming. Multiple people. Armed. His red eyes flare brighter. Theron's making his move faster than I expected.
What do we do?
He grabs my hand, his burning touch wrapping around mine. We run. Now. There's a passage behind the bookshelf, it leads to my private chambers. If we can get there—
The library door explodes inward.
Ten guards pour through, weapons drawn. And standing behind them, wearing a triumphant smile, is General Theron.
Forgive me, my lord, Theron says, not sounding sorry at all. But I can't allow you to protect this Storm Keeper any longer. For the good of the kingdom, she must die.
Daemon pulls me behind him, flames erupting across both his hands. Touch her and burn.
We're not here for her, my lord. Theron's smile widens. We're here for you.
Three guards step forward holding chains that glow with strange symbols. Binding chains. Magic suppressors.
Horror floods through me as I realize what's happening. This isn't just about killing me.
This is a coup.
And Daemon, weakened from fighting the curse, might not survive it.