Cassia's POV
I can't breathe.
The Dark King sits on his massive black horse, staring at me with eyes like frozen death. His smile—that terrible, cold smile—makes every survival instinct in my body scream at me to run.
But I can't run. The guards hold my arms. My chains are heavy. And even if I could escape, where would I go?
"Bring her closer," Theron says. His voice is quiet, but it carries across the entire courtyard like thunder.
The guards drag me forward. My legs shake so badly I can barely walk. We stop ten feet from his horse.
Up close, he's even more terrifying. His silver hair catches the sunlight, making him look almost angelic. But there's nothing angelic about those storm-cloud eyes. They look right through me, like I'm already dead.
"So," he says, tilting his head slightly. "This is the traitor's daughter."
I want to defend myself. Want to scream that I'm innocent. But my voice is trapped in my throat.
Theron dismounts in one smooth motion. He's tall—much taller than I expected. He moves like a predator, all controlled power and deadly grace. When he steps toward me, the air itself seems to grow colder.
He stops right in front of me. Studies my face like I'm a puzzle he's trying to solve.
"Look at me," he commands.
I force myself to meet his eyes. It's the hardest thing I've ever done.
For a long moment, we just stare at each other. His expression gives nothing away. No anger, no curiosity, no emotion at all. Just that empty, winter-cold gaze.
Then something flickers across his face. So fast I almost miss it.
Confusion.
"Take her back to the dungeons," he says suddenly, turning away. "I'll deal with her later."
"But Your Majesty," a soldier speaks up nervously. "Queen Seraphine said you wanted to—"
"I said later." The temperature drops so sharply I can see my breath. "Unless you'd like to question my orders?"
The soldier goes pale. "No, Your Majesty. Of course not."
The guards yank me backward. I stumble, my mind spinning. What just happened? Why didn't he hurt me? Why did he look confused?
As they drag me back toward the dungeon entrance, I hear Seraphine's voice ring out.
"Your Majesty! I trust the gift is to your satisfaction?"
I glance back. Seraphine stands on the palace steps, her crown glinting in the sun. She's smiling that false, sweet smile.
Theron doesn't even look at her. "We'll discuss it later, Queen Seraphine."
The way he says "queen" makes it sound like an insult.
Then I'm pulled through the doors, and the sunlight disappears.
They throw me back in my cell so hard I hit the far wall. Pain explodes through my shoulder, but I barely feel it. My mind is still stuck on that moment with the Dark King.
Why did he look confused?
"Psst! Girl!"
I jump at the whispered voice. It's coming from the cell next to mine.
"Who's there?" I crawl to the bars that separate our cells.
An old woman's face appears in the shadows. Her hair is white as snow, and her eyes are cloudy with age. But those eyes are sharp, studying me intently.
"You met him, didn't you?" she whispers. "The Dark King."
I nod, not trusting my voice.
"And you're still alive." The old woman makes a strange sound—half laugh, half sob. "Impossible. He never shows mercy."
"What do you mean?"
Other prisoners are waking up now, drawn by our conversation. A man in the cell across from me presses against his bars.
"Don't you know the stories?" he asks, his voice shaking. "King Theron Nightshade conquered seven kingdoms in seven years. Seven! And in every single one, he left no survivors. No men, no women, no children. Just ashes and blood."
"That's not true," I say, but my voice wavers. "That can't be true."
"It is," a woman further down the corridor calls out. "My brother was a merchant in the Kingdom of Ironhold. He sent me a letter the day before Theron attacked. The next day, the entire city was gone. Burned to the ground. Twenty thousand people dead in one night."
My stomach churns. Twenty thousand people?
"He's not human," another prisoner adds. "They say dark sorcerers did experiments on him when he was a child. Took away his ability to feel anything—pain, warmth, joy, love. Made him into a perfect weapon."
The old woman nods. "I've heard he can't even smile. His face is frozen like a corpse. Some say he's already dead, just a body walking around with no soul inside."
But he did smile, I think. He smiled at me in the courtyard. Doesn't that mean something?
"Why are you all so afraid?" I ask, though I'm terrified too. "If he's going to kill us anyway, why does it matter what stories—"
"Because of HOW he kills," a man interrupts, his voice breaking. "He doesn't just execute people. He makes them suffer first. He takes everything you love and destroys it in front of you. Then, when you're broken and begging for death, he finally grants it."
Silence falls over the dungeon. Heavy and suffocating.
I curl up in the corner of my cell, hugging my knees to my chest. Every story makes the Dark King sound less human and more like a nightmare given form.
But I keep thinking about that moment of confusion on his face. Like seeing me surprised him somehow.
Hours pass. The dungeon grows darker as evening approaches. Guards bring moldy bread and stale water. I can't eat. My stomach is twisted in knots.
"You there." A guard stops at my cell. He looks young, maybe only a few years older than me. "The queen says you need to clean yourself up."
He unlocks my cell and tosses in a basin of water and some rags. "Make yourself presentable. Your execution is scheduled for dawn tomorrow. Queen's orders—she wants you looking your best when you die."
The guard leaves before I can respond.
I stare at the basin of water. My reflection stares back—pale face, tangled hair, dirt and blood on my cheeks. I look like a ghost.
Slowly, I dip the rag in the water and start washing my face. The cool water feels good against my bruised skin. I close my eyes and try not to think about tomorrow. About the executioner's blade. About dying in front of a crowd while Seraphine watches with satisfaction.
When I open my eyes again, I freeze.
My reflection in the water is wrong.
For just a second—maybe less—my eyes flash bright gold. Like someone lit a candle behind them. The golden light fills the entire basin, making the water glow.
I jerk backward, heart racing. The basin tips over, water spilling across the stone floor.
What was that?
I stare at my hands, half expecting them to glow too. But they're normal. Dirty and scraped, but normal.
Did I imagine it?
"No," the old woman whispers from the next cell. "I saw it too."
I scramble to the bars separating us. "What did you see?"
Her cloudy eyes are wide with shock. "Your eyes, girl. They glowed gold. Just like in the old stories."
"What old stories?"
She grips the bars with trembling hands. "The ancient bloodlines. The ones blessed by the gods. They had gold in their eyes when their power awakened." She leans closer, her voice dropping to barely a whisper. "What's your family name, child?"
"Thornewood," I say. "But my mother's maiden name was Lightborn."
The old woman gasps. Actually gasps.
"Lightborn," she breathes. "Oh gods. Oh gods, that explains everything."
"Explains what? What are you talking about?"
"The Lightborn family descends from the Moon Goddess herself," she says urgently. "They were blessed with divine power—healing, protection, light magic. But the bloodline was thought to be extinct. The last Lightborn died three hundred years ago. Or so everyone believed."
My mind reels. "That's impossible. My mother never mentioned—"
"She probably didn't know!" The old woman cuts me off. "The power usually stays dormant unless awakened by extreme emotion or danger. You've just lost your parents, been betrayed by your cousin, and faced death twice. That's more than enough to wake ancient bloodline magic."
I look down at my hands again. They look so normal. How can I have divine power? I'm just Cassia. Just a girl whose life fell apart.
"But what does this mean?" I ask.
The old woman's expression turns grave. "It means, child, that you're far more valuable than anyone realizes. Including the Dark King." She pauses. "And it means you might be the only person in the world who can—"
BOOM.
The dungeon doors explode open.
Heavy footsteps echo down the corridor. Not guards—these footsteps are too measured, too controlled.
All the prisoners go silent.
The footsteps stop outside my cell.
I slowly turn, already knowing who I'll see.
King Theron Nightshade stands there, backlit by torchlight. His face is expressionless, but his eyes—those cold, empty eyes—are fixed on me with laser focus.
"Come with me," he says. It's not a request.
"Why?" I manage to ask, even though my voice shakes.
"Because," he says quietly, "we need to talk about why an execution blade shattered when it touched your neck. And why, when I look at you, I feel something I haven't felt in twenty years."
He unlocks my cell door himself.
"What do you feel?" I whisper.
Theron steps into my cell. Reaches out and grabs my chin, tilting my face up to his. His touch is ice-cold, but his eyes burn with intensity.
"Pain," he says. "For the first time in twenty years, when I'm near you, I can feel pain."
He releases me and steps back.
"Now come. We have much to discuss before someone tries to kill you again."
"Again?" I echo. "What do you mean again?"
Theron's lips curve into that terrible, cold smile.
"Did you really think the execution blade shattered by accident?"