The banquet sparkled, but only on the surface.
Music soared through the ballroom, violins gliding above the hum of courtly laughter. Golden chandeliers cast soft light over polished marble, making the nobles below look more like a painting than people. Perfume hung in the air: lilies, myrrh, rosewater… and something else.
Tension.
Selene stood near the grand staircase, her silver gown shimmering like moonlight. A crystal goblet rested cool and untouched in her hand. But her focus wasn't on the wine.
Her eyes scanned the room.
The prince smiled too wide.
The Duchess of Elmere's glass was still half-full, untouched since the opening toast.
A cluster of southern nobles, uninvited, hovered near the royal advisors like flies over ripe fruit. They didn't drink. Didn't laugh. Their lips barely moved, but Selene had learned to read what silence meant in a room like this.
Something was happening.
Something she was not meant to see.
Last time, she had died for being late.
This time, she would be early.
She left her goblet on a tray and turned away from the glittering noise of the ballroom. Her gown swept behind her as she slipped through the eastern arch, away from the musicians, away from the eyes, and into the velvet-lined corridor she remembered all too well.
The hallway smelled of old wood and candle soot. Her heels clicked softly, echoing against stone. She knew every step of this path. Every creak, every shadow. There, the torch that always guttered. The tapestry slightly crooked from years of servants brushing against it.
She passed them without pause.
She didn't need a map.
Because the last time she had come this way, it had been by mistake.
She'd been chasing a servant who had dropped a scroll, a trade map. At the time, she hadn't understood why it mattered. Why a noble like Lord Sarrin had demanded it returned so quickly. She hadn't seen the signatures. She hadn't read the changes.
But now?
Now she knew exactly what those changes had done.
They had stripped her family of the southern ports. Had made her father look like a liar before the High Council. Had started the slow, quiet bleed that ended in his "heart attack" and her own execution.
She found the door near the end of the corridor.
It was already ajar.
Of course it was.
They thought they were safe here.
That no one else would dare come this way on a feast night.
Selene paused for only a breath, then pushed it open.
The conversation inside stopped mid-sentence.
Twelve heads turned toward her.
They were gathered around a lacquered table: nobles in deep green, royal blue, and southern red. Scrolls lay half-unrolled on the table, weighted with an ink pot and a single decanter of amber wine.
At the center of the group stood Cassian Viremont.
The Black Duke.
His arms were crossed. His silver-trimmed cloak pooled around his boots like spilled ink. Pale skin, colder eyes. His gaze was the only one that didn't flicker at her entrance.
But she felt the room tighten.
Lord Sarrin's knuckles whitened on his goblet. Countess Vaedra's fan twitched once in her gloved hand.
Selene smiled.
Slow. Serpentine.
"Discussing tariffs?" she asked. "Or deciding which family bleeds next?"
A sharp intake of breath from someone near the end of the table.
Sarrin was the first to speak, voice brittle. "Lady Verlane. This meeting is—"
"Private?" she offered, stepping inside without waiting. "Held in a government wing, during a royal celebration, in the same building as three hundred guests and twice as many servants?" She let her gaze flick to the parchment beneath the decanter. "With four illegal signatures tucked in plain sight?"
All eyes snapped to the table.
Vaedra hissed under her breath. "You overstep, girl."
Cassian didn't speak.
Not yet.
He raised one hand,a simple gesture, and the room obeyed. Silence snapped into place like iron doors.
Then he looked at her. Truly looked.
Not like a nuisance. Not like a scandal.
Like a threat.
"Lady Selene," he said, voice smooth and low, "you seem unusually informed for someone who lacks an invitation."
Selene tilted her head slightly. "Silly me. I thought it was an open celebration
Doors unlocked. Candles lit. And treason passed around like wine."
He stepped forward, slowly. "Or perhaps," he said, "you followed a scent."
"Fear smells stronger than perfume," she said.
He raised a brow. "So does desperation."
She took one step closer. So did he. Their words sharpened with every inch.
"Is there a difference?" she asked, her voice soft as velvet. "Men break rules when they think the room is theirs. Women wait. We watch. And when the men start to sweat..."
"We strike," he finished for her.
A heartbeat passed. Stillness, tense and vibrating.
Then, a twitch at the corner of Cassian's lips.
Not quite a smile.
An acknowledgment.
"Interesting," he said.
He moved aside, one step.
An invitation.
Selene walked forward, every inch of her controlled. Her heels echoed like a countdown. She reached the table, picked up the rolled contract from beneath the decanter, and walked to the sconce on the wall.
No one stopped her.
The scroll met flame.
Paper curled. Ink smoked. Words turned to ash.
She dropped it.
The room stayed silent.
Countess Vaedra's mouth opened, but she said nothing.
Cassian watched her, and for the first time, she saw him wondering what else she knew. How far this girl had planned ahead. What game was she playing.
She met his gaze with the calm of someone who had already died once.
Then she turned on her heel and left the room.
Because this time,
The serpent had spoken first.
End of Chapter 4.