Chapter 7

SAPHRA'S POV

The next day dawns with my mind already in ruins.

I wake tangled in sheets that feel soft and clean, my thoughts nowhere near the present. Every time I close my eyes, I see Lucien’s library filled with the towering shelves, the massacre reports, my father’s name bleeding red across parchment. Strategic notes written by hands that decided who lived and who died.

I press my palms to my eyes, breathing hard.

Hatred should be simple.

But nothing about Lucien is.

A knock breaks through my thoughts.

“Saphra.”

Marcus’s voice.

I straighten, schooling my face before opening the door. Marcus stands there, hands folded behind his back, expression carefully neutral.

“Lord Lucien requests your presence,” he says. “There is a council session this morning. He wants you to attend.”

My stomach tightens. “Attend how?”

Marcus hesitates. “Stand behind the throne.”

So not a guest.

A display.

I nod anyway. Refusal is not an option in this palace.

The council chamber is vast and cold, carved from dark stone that swallows sound. High banners hang from the walls, sigils stitched in gold thread. The air smells like old incense and iron. The councilors file in, murmuring among themselves, their eyes flicking toward me with thinly veiled curiosity.

Lucien enters last.

The room stills instantly.

He takes his seat on the elevated throne—less ornate than I expect, built for function rather than beauty. I move to stand behind him, just to his right, close enough that I can see the rigid line of his shoulders, the way he holds himself like a drawn blade.

A man is dragged into the center of the chamber and forced to his knees.

His clothes are torn. His face is bloodied. He looks up at Lucien with wild, desperate eyes.

“Treason,” a councilor announces. “Correspondence with enemy forces and sale of troop movements.”

The man shakes his head violently. “Lies! I was framed...my lord, please—”

Lucien raises a single hand.

Silence crashes down.

“Guilty,” Lucien says, his voice carrying easily across the chamber. “By law and by proof. Your sentence is death. Immediately.”

The word lands like a blade through flesh.

The man screams.

“No! Please! I have children... mercy my lord! Please mercy!”

Guards seize him, hauling him upright as he thrashes and sobs. His cries echo off the stone as they drag him toward the side exit, the one that leads to the execution yard.

I look at Lucien’s face.

Nothing. No satisfaction. No hesitation. No flicker of doubt.

He watches the man disappear as if he’s just signed a ledger.

The council session continues, but I barely hear it. My chest feels tight, my skin crawling. This is who he is, I remind myself. This is the man who destroyed my family. A tyrant who kills without blinking.

And yet,

That night, I follow him.

It’s reckless. I know that. But when I see Lucien leave his chambers alone, cloaked and unguarded, something sharp and insistent twists inside me.

Answers don’t come to the obedient.

I keep my distance, trailing him through darkened corridors, my steps silent against the stone. When he pauses, I flatten myself into alcoves, pressing my body into shadow, barely breathing as he turns his head like he can sense me.

He never looks directly at me.

Eventually, the palace gives way to the lower quarters with narrow streets, modest homes, and flickering lanterns. This part of the city smells like bread and smoke and damp earth. Lucien stops in front of a small house, its door worn, and its windows cracked.

I freeze, confusion slicing through me.

He knocks.

A woman opens the door. Her face crumples when she sees him. She drops into a deep bow, hands trembling.

“My lord—”

Lucien lifts her gently. He says something I can’t hear.

He presses a heavy pouch into her hands.

Gold.

More than enough to change a life.

Then children appear behind her—two of them, thin and wide-eyed. Lucien kneels in front of them, lowering himself until he is eye level. He speaks softly, his expression unreadable even from here.

One of the children reaches out.

Touches his sleeve.

My hatred falters.

I don’t understand this man. I don’t understand how the same hands that signed a death sentence hours ago now offer comfort in silence.

I retreat before I’m seen, my thoughts in chaos.

That night, sleep refuses me.

Instead, curiosity leads me somewhere far more dangerous.

The war room.

I expect it to be locked.

It isn’t.

The door opens with a soft creak, and I slip inside, heart pounding. The room is lit by low-burning lamps, shadows dancing along stone walls. A massive table dominates the centre, covered in maps.

Conquest maps.

Territories outlined in blood-red ink. Arrows marking invasion routes, cities circled and borders erased and redrawn with ruthless precision.

I step closer, my breath shallow.

Then I see it.

My pack’s land.

Marked with a black X.

My fingers curl into fists as rage surges through me, hot and blinding. So this is it. This is what waits at the end of all his quiet moments and hidden mercies.

Destruction.

Footsteps sound behind me.

I spin.

Lucien stands in the doorway, filling it completely, blocking my only exit. Lamplight gleams in his eyes, turning them sharp and dangerous. He leans against the frame, arms crossed, utterly relaxed.

He doesn’t speak.

Neither do I.

The silence stretches, thick and alive. The maps lie between us like accusations, like confessions carved in ink and blood.

My hand slides slowly toward the knife hidden in my sleeve.

Lucien’s nostrils flare.

His gaze drops just for a second to my wrist.

Then, back to my eyes.

The standoff holds.

Challenge crackles in the air, tangled with something darker, something that makes my pulse race and my skin burn.

Neither of us moves.

Because we both know that the next move may change everything.​