The great hall of Vortigern's palace smelled of myrrh, ambition, and the faint metallic tang of fear.
Lord Adrian Voss stood near a marble pillar, crimson doublet immaculate, silver rapier at his hip more ornament than weapon tonight. At twenty-eight he had already learned that the court rewarded smiles more than swords.
King Vortigern sat enthroned on the dais, crown slightly askew, eyes bright with a fever Adrian could not name. The queen was absent again—rumored to be confined after another public humiliation. Around the king clustered the high lords: Cassian Voss (Adrian's elder brother), smug and golden-haired; Lord Draven of the Iron Marches, scarred and silent; Lady Isolde of the eastern coast, whose smile never reached her eyes.
A masked ball was in progress—nobles in silks and feathers whirling to a mournful lute. Adrian watched from the shadows, avoiding the dance floor.
Then he saw her.
A woman in deep indigo velvet, dark hair pinned with silver moons, moving through the crowd with the grace of someone who had practiced deception since childhood. Her mask was black lace shaped like raven wings; only her eyes were visible—storm-gray, sharp, seeing everything.
She paused near the throne.
The king leaned forward slightly. His gaze locked on her.
For one heartbeat, Vortigern's eyes flashed—not the usual brown, but molten gold. The color was gone in an instant, but Adrian saw it.
So did she.
The woman curtsied—perfect, practiced—and melted back into the dancers.
Adrian felt a chill that had nothing to do with the drafty hall.
Later, in the shadowed corridors, he followed her trail.
She stopped at a balcony overlooking the moonlit gardens.
He stepped into the light.
"You saw," she said without turning.
Adrian kept his hand away from his rapier.
"I saw the king's eyes change."
She turned then—mask removed, face pale and beautiful, lips curved in a smile that promised nothing.
"They always do," she said softly. "When he's pleased."
Adrian studied her.
"You're not afraid."
"I'm past fear," she answered. "My name is Seraphine. And you are Lord Adrian Voss—second son, second choice, second to everything."
He stiffened. "You've done your research."
"I've done more than that."
She stepped closer—close enough that he smelled night-blooming jasmine and something darker, older.
"I carry a secret older than your house," she whispered. "And I know the king carries one older still."
Adrian's pulse quickened.
"What secret?"
Her smile turned sad.
"Come with me tonight. See for yourself."
She offered her hand.
Adrian hesitated—only a heartbeat.
Then he took it.
The moment their fingers touched, he felt it: a faint, cold current—like shadow given weight.
And somewhere deep inside the palace, King Vortigern smiled with golden eyes, already knowing exactly where this path would lead.
The game had begun.