Chapter 9

SAPHRA'S POV

The black X won’t leave my mind.

It burns there, branded behind my eyes, stamped over every thought no matter how hard I try to smother it. I see it when I blink. I see it when I breathe. My homeland reduced to a single, merciless mark on Lucien’s conquest map.

Anger coils tighter with every heartbeat. It sharpens when I remember Lucien standing over me in the war room, offering me his version of the massacre as if truth were a gift he could dole out at his convenience. As if my eyes had lied to me. As if the ink, the bodies, the names— including my father’s were illusions I simply misunderstood.

I pace my chamber like a caged animal, fingers digging into my palms.

He thinks he can control the story.

He thinks he can control me.

My mind tries treacherously to replay another image. Lucien kneeling in that modest home, placing a pouch of gold into a widow’s shaking hands. His head bowed before children who should have been his enemies. For a heartbeat, doubt stirs.

I crush it.

Gold doesn’t resurrect the dead.

Kindness doesn’t erase conquest.

Lucien knows who I am now. He has seen the training in my eyes, the steel beneath my defiance. He has felt my resistance firsthand. Whatever game he is playing, the board is shifting and if I wait, I will lose.

I will not die on my knees.

I will not let my people’s land be swallowed while I hesitate.

So I act.

Midnight drapes the palace in silence. Torches burn low, their flames subdued, shadows stretching long and deep.

I slip from my chamber barefoot, soft as breath. Guards linger at distant posts, half-asleep, their attention dulled by routine. I move when their gazes turn away, gliding from shadow to shadow.

The kitchens lie quiet, smelling faintly of ash and old bread. I duck behind long tables, skirts gathered in my hands, heart steady despite the danger. I have stolen before. I have killed before.

This is no different.

The herb storage sits behind a reinforced door, its lock simple but sturdy. I crouch and pull a thin wire from my sleeve that i stole days ago from another servant’s discarded sewing kit. My fingers work calmly and methodically.

Click.

The lock yields.

Inside, the air is dry and sharp with crushed leaves and roots. Shelves line the walls, jars labelled in careful script. Medicinals, tonics, sedatives.

And poisons.

My eyes find what I need immediately.

Sleeping herbs.

Rare and potent. Lethal in the right dose.

My hands do not shake as I lift the jar. I measure carefully, calculating weight and potency, remembering lessons learned under torchlight long before this palace existed in my world. Enough to fell a full-grown werewolf. Enough that no strength, no cursed blood, no battle-hardened body can fight it.

I grind the dried leaves into a fine powder, the soft crunch obscenely loud in the stillness. I pause, listening.

Nothing.

I seal the powder in a folded scrap of parchment and return everything to its place. The lock clicks shut behind me.

By the time I return to my chamber, my pulse hasn’t quickened once.

That frightens me more than fear ever could.

Evening service arrives wrapped in ritual celebrations. The illusion of civility. Lucien dines in his study tonight, surrounded by maps and reports, planning futures that will never come.

I volunteer to pour the wine.

The guards assigned to him hesitates when I step forward, but one look from me and a murmured dismissal sends them retreating. Lucien doesn’t comment. He barely looks at me as I lift the decanter.

My fingers brush the rim of his goblet.

I pour.

The wine glugs softly, dark and rich, swallowing the powder without a trace. I swirl it once, subtly, my movements smooth and unremarkable. No clumps or residue.

Invisible.

Perfect.

I set the goblet beside his plate and step back.

Dinner passes in tense quiet. Lucien eats with the same controlled precision he applies to everything else. He speaks little. I answer only when spoken to, my eyes lowered, my mind screaming.

Then he lifts the goblet.

My breath catches.

He drinks deeply.

Once.

Twice.

Each swallow echoes thunderously in my ears. I watch the column of his throat move, exposed, vulnerable. The urge to strike right then nearly overwhelms me but patience is as much a weapon as a blade.

He finishes the cup.

Sets it down.

Nothing happens.

Minutes crawl by.

An hour passes. Then another.

I retreat to the corridor shadows, pretending obedience, watching through cracked doors as Lucien moves through the palace. He issues orders. He studies maps. He argues quietly with Marcus. His steps remain steady, his posture unchanged.

Doubt claws at my ribs.

Did I miscalculate? Was the dose wrong? Is he immune?

I force myself to wait.

Three hours.

The palace sleeps. Even the walls seem to breathe slower. Finally, Lucien retires to his chambers, dismissing his guards with a gesture. The door closes.

I count again.

Slowly.

One hundred heartbeats.... Two... Three.

When I move, it’s with certainty.

I draw the knife from its sheath at my thigh, the blade catching a sliver of moonlight. The weight is familiar and comforting.

Lucien’s door opens without resistance.

Inside, the room is dark and vast. Curtains billow faintly at the open window. Moonlight spills across the bed and across him.

He lies sprawled atop the covers, one arm flung aside, chest rising and falling in deep, even sleep. His face is slack, stripped of calculation and command. For the first time, he looks… human.

I step closer.

Each footfall is silent. The world narrows to the space between us. My shadow stretches over his body, swallowing him inch by inch until I am all he cannot see.

His throat lies bare.

One strike.

That’s all it will take.

I raise the knife, both hands gripping the hilt. My muscles coil, ready. My pulse roars in my ears, loud enough to drown out reason, doubt, everything except the moment.

My father’s face flashes before me.

Him laughing beneath the trees. Teaching me how to hold a blade. Telling me that justice is only as strong as the hand willing to deliver it.

I tense, tears forming almost blurring my vision body ready to bring the knife down.​