A herald's voice rang out suddenly, thundering across the palace square:
"Behold! His Majesty, Emperor Soreth of Bravenna, and his betrothed, Lady Reyndis Veyra, daughter of Lady Yekaterina!"
The crowd gasped. Murmurs rose, an eager tide swelling as nobles exchanged knowing glances.
"No…" Vasiliska whispered. "No, this cannot—"
But Soreth raised a hand, commanding silence. "Today, Bravenna rejoices not only in victory, but in the future of its empire. With Reyndis, daughter of Lady Yekaterina—whose alliances bind the noble houses of the south—I secure a reign unchallenged by division."
Reyndis inclined her head sweetly, though her eyes glittered with cruel triumph.
Vasiliska's nails dug into her palms until they bled. Alliances. Always alliances. Her mother, Lady Italia, had been nothing but a concubine—an assassin in white silk wielded by their father like a blade. That stain would never wash away, no matter how many kingdoms she conquered for him.
"And me?" her voice broke, trembling and furious all at once. "What am I to you, Soreth? After all I have done—after all I gave?"
The nobles leaned in, hungry for the spectacle.
Soreth's gaze was merciless. "You are what you have always been. A weapon. Nothing more."
The words struck like a blade driven straight into her chest.
Reyndis stroked his arm, playing her part with delicate grace. "Do not be cruel, my emperor," she murmured sweetly, her gaze sliding to Vasiliska. "Sister should be honored. Weapons are displayed, are they not? Bright, shining, revered—until they rust."
The laughter of nearby courtiers cut into Vasiliska's ears, sharp and mocking.
Her body screamed to move, to draw steel and silence every smirking mouth. But she was frozen, betrayed twice over—by the man she had raised to glory, and by the blood that tied her to the viper now taking her place.
Soreth lifted Reyndis's hand, his lips brushing against her pale skin in front of the court. The nobles erupted into thunderous applause, the marble halls ringing with it.
Through the roar, Vasiliska saw it—the deliberate turn of Reyndis's head, the sly curl of her lips as her eyes locked with hers.
A smirk. A promise. A triumph.
The smirk was the final spark. The world tilted, blood roaring in her veins.
"YOU—"
She lunged forward, hand flying, a streak of battle-calloused fingers aimed for her sister's perfect, porcelain face. The same hand that had torn down walls, that had split men and monsters alike, now sought only to leave a mark on Reyndis's smug skin.
Reyndis gasped, flinching—but before the strike could land, strong arms clamped around Vasiliska's wrists.
"My General—!"
Her own soldiers. The Crimson Guard she had led across fields of carnage. Faces she knew, voices that had once shouted her name in loyalty and love, now trembling as they pinned her arms back.
"Release me!" she roared, thrashing. The marble floor trembled beneath her boots as if it too felt her rage. "Do you not see? Do you not see what they are doing to me?"
A shadow fell across them. Soreth, eyes blazing with imperial authority, raised his hand. "You dare lift violence against my betrothed in front of the court? Restrain her—or every last one of your bloodline will hang before sunrise!"
The hall gasped. A noblewoman clutched her pearls, while others leaned forward with hungry glee.
Vasiliska's struggles grew wilder, desperate. "You swore your oaths to me—to Bravenna's sword! And now you drag me down like a common criminal?"
The Crimson Guard's grips only tightened. Not one met her eyes.
Reyndis, untouched and radiant in her silks, tilted her head with a false show of pity. "Oh, sister. Still so quick to violence. No wonder Father always said you were unfit for court. A blade cannot be taught manners."
Laughter rippled again, crueler this time.
Vasiliska let out a guttural sound, halfway between a sob and a war-cry. The betrayal was worse than any wound she'd suffered on the battlefield. The man she had raised to the throne now threatened her army's families; her men, once her brothers, now shackled her hands.
Her voice trembled as she spat at Soreth's feet. "Ungrateful bastard. I carved this empire with my blood and bones, and this is how you repay me?"
Soreth did not flinch. Instead, he pulled Reyndis closer, his hand possessive at her waist. "Enough. You are no longer needed, Vasiliska. A weapon that turns against its master is a danger… and a shame to its name."
Her knees nearly buckled. She remembered the warmth of his hands years ago, when he was just a lordling she had shielded with her sword. She remembered his vows, his promises that they would rule together once the war was won. And now, in the glittering light of victory, he stood with her half-sister in his arms, spitting venom where once he had spoken love.
"Take her away," Soreth commanded coldly. "Strip her titles. She will be judged for treason against the throne."
"General…" a voice whispered hoarsely.
It was Captain Ilyan again, his grip shaking as he held her bound wrists. His eyes glistened, shame carved into every line of his face. "Please… forgive us. We have no choice."
Another soldier, young Rhal, barely past twenty—the same boy she had saved at the Siege of Darkmere—leaned close, his voice breaking. "General, if we disobey… my sisters, my mother—they'll…" His throat closed, tears burning in his eyes. "I would rather die than do this to you, but they'll slaughter them all."
Vasiliska's breath hitched. Her men. Her Crimson Guard. The ones who had followed her through fire and slaughter. The ones who had sung her name after every hard-won battle. They knelt with her now, not as comrades, but as unwilling jailors.
One by one, whispers filled the air:
"Forgive me, General.""We cannot protect them otherwise.""We are yours, but our families…"
Each voice was a dagger to her chest.
Her eyes stung. She wanted to scream, to tell them to fight back, to stand with her against this farce—but how could she? How could she command them to risk the lives of innocent wives, children, parents?
A sob tore from her throat, raw and unrestrained. "You… you owe me nothing to forgive," she whispered, her voice hoarse. "This shame is not yours. It is his."
Her head snapped up, blood-red hair whipping across her face as she glared at Soreth. Her silver eyes burned like wildfire. "It is YOU who betrays Bravenna today! Not them. Not me. YOU!"
The court fell into stunned silence.
But Soreth only tightened his arm around Reyndis, as if her venom meant nothing. He looked down at her as though she were nothing more than a discarded weapon—once sharp, now useless.
"You were forged to win wars, Vasiliska," he said coldly. "And you did. But peace requires something more than a sword. It requires alliances, it requires bloodlines worth respect. Reyndis and her mother bring the South with them. What do you bring?"
He let his words hang like a blade above her. Then his lips twisted cruelly. "The blood of an assassin's whore."
The court gasped. Whispers rippled like wildfire.
Vasiliska's heart plummeted. He had spoken the truth she had buried under victory after victory. The truth she had spent her whole life trying to rise above. Daughter of Lady Italia, concubine and white lotus assassin. A shadow to her sister's shining nobility.
And now he had ripped it open, bleeding her in front of the court.