Chapter 6

Serenya’s steps echoed faintly along the marble corridor as she slipped out of the ballroom. Behind her, laughter swelled, masks clinked, and chandeliers glowed in decadent splendor. But once the doors closed, the music dulled into a haunting thrum — distant, almost menacing.

Her fingers brushed the folded note hidden within her sleeve. Its words pulsed in her mind like a heartbeat:

The throne is not what it seems. Meet me at the north gallery before dawn.

The message was both a lure and a warning. And perhaps, a trap.

“Leaving so soon?”

Serenya froze. Kaelen stepped from the shadows, his mask still hiding half his face. How had he followed her so silently? His gaze fixed on her hand, as though he could see the ink burning through silk.

“You saw,” she whispered.

“Enough.” His voice was steady, but his eyes were sharp. “Notes slipped into palms during masquerades rarely carry good tidings. Who risks contacting you, and why?”

“I don’t know,” she said quickly. Too quickly.

Kaelen studied her, then sighed. “Secrets may protect you, Serenya Vale. But secrets also kill.”

Her heart stuttered at the sound of her true name — or what little of it he seemed to know. Had he guessed, or was it a slip of the tongue? She wanted to demand how much he had uncovered, but footsteps echoed at the far end of the corridor, cutting her words short.

A pair of courtiers drifted past, laughing too loudly, their masks glittering. They barely noticed her, yet she noticed the subtle flick of one man’s eyes. Not toward her, but toward Kaelen.

The glance was sharp. Too sharp.

She waited until they were gone before she whispered, “We’re being watched.”

Kaelen’s jaw tightened. “Then you’ll need to decide quickly if you trust me.”

Serenya said nothing. She slipped away, her slippered feet gliding faster over marble floors, guided by instinct rather than courage.

The north gallery was silent, cloaked in shadows. High windows spilled moonlight across portraits of kings and queens long dead, their painted eyes watching with cold disapproval.

Serenya’s breath fogged faintly in the chill air. She clutched the note tighter, each step echoing too loudly in the cavernous hall.

“Over here,” a voice hissed.

She spun, pulse racing. A figure cloaked in gray emerged from behind a statue of a crowned warrior. The mask was simple, the posture hurried.

“You came,” the figure whispered. “Good. We don’t have much time.”

Serenya’s throat tightened. “Who are you?”

The figure glanced around before stepping closer. “A friend. One who knows what you are.”

Her blood ran cold. “You’re mistaken.”

“No.” The figure’s voice sharpened. “The Duke hunts because he suspects. He doesn’t know yet. But if he discovers the truth, you’ll be dead before the moon wanes.”

Serenya’s hands trembled. “Why warn me?”

“Because the throne is not what it seems. Those who sit upon it are not crowned by blood or merit, but by bargains older than this kingdom itself.” The figure leaned closer, shadows veiling their face. “If you claim it, you inherit not only power but chains.”

Before she could speak, a new sound sliced through the silence — the scrape of steel.

Kaelen stood at the far archway, his sword drawn, eyes blazing. “Step away from her.”

The cloaked figure hissed like a cornered animal. “You brought him?”

“I didn’t—” Serenya began, but the figure had already retreated, melting back into shadows with speed that spoke of training, or desperation.

Kaelen was at her side in moments, his blade still gleaming. “Who was that?”

“I don’t know,” she whispered, though her heart throbbed with the weight of the figure’s words.

“Don’t lie.” His voice was quiet but fierce. “They spoke to you as if they knew you.”

She looked away, her voice breaking. “They knew too much.”

Kaelen’s silence was heavier than any accusation. Finally, he sheathed his sword. “Then you must choose carefully, Serenya. Whispers can be as deadly as daggers. And someone in this castle wants yours silenced.”

Later, in her chambers, the night pressed in close. Serenya sat by the window, staring at the stars. The masquerade still flickered behind her eyes — Thalric’s smirk, Kaelen’s steady hand, the note’s jagged script.

A soft knock startled her.

“Enter,” she whispered.

Isolde Mirean slipped inside, carrying a bundle of herbs and a weary smile. The healer’s presence was gentle, grounding.

“You left the masquerade early,” Isolde said, setting the herbs down. “Too much finery, I suspect?”

“Something like that.” Serenya forced a laugh, but Isolde’s keen eyes lingered.

“You should be careful, Serenya. Rumors stir more easily than smoke. And tonight…” She trailed off, lowering her voice. “They said you danced with the Shadowblade himself.”

Serenya’s heart skipped. “Kaelen?”

Isolde nodded. “A man with no allegiance, no home, no master — yet his blade has ended more wars than treaties. Some call him protector. Others call him curse.”

“And what do you call him?” Serenya asked softly.

Isolde’s expression grew unreadable. “Danger. Not because of what he does, but because of what he could mean to you.”

Serenya said nothing, but when she closed her eyes, it was Kaelen’s steady grip she remembered. His voice, warning yet grounding. His presence, unshakable as stone.

And somewhere beyond the walls, whispers moved like serpents through the castle — whispers of betrayal, secrets, and an heiress who had no right to exist.

By dawn, Serenya knew one truth: her path had narrowed.

Trust was a blade with two edges.

And betrayal was already breathing at her door.