The Morning After
The body was gone by sunrise.
Darius had moved quickly, summoning a handful of men he trusted—soldiers whose loyalty was to him, not the Queen. They carried the assassin's corpse away through the hidden passages, silent as shadows. Selena sat on the edge of her bed, trembling, her dagger still lying where it had clattered to the floor.
The room reeked faintly of smoke and poison. The broken vial stained the rug with a dark, ugly mark. Every time she looked at it, bile rose in her throat.
She kept replaying the moment in her mind—the flash of steel, the assassin's cry, the warmth of blood on her hand.
It had been them or her. She knew that. And yet, the weight of it sat heavy in her chest, pressing until she thought she might break apart.
Darius returned just as the first pale light of dawn crept into the chamber. His face was drawn, his eyes hard.
"It's done," he said.
Selena looked at him, her voice hoarse. "What happens now?"
