Seraphina's POV
I woke to warmth.
For three confused seconds, I didn't know where I was. Soft sheets instead of stone. Sunlight instead of darkness. The scent of cedar and leather surrounding me like—
Reality crashed back. The wedding. The general. This chamber that was now my gilded prison.
I sat up quickly, heart pounding. My hand automatically reached under the pillow, finding the dagger exactly where I'd left it. Cold metal against my palm. Real. He'd actually given me a weapon.
Why?
I looked around the enormous chamber in daylight. Rich tapestries covered stone walls. Books lined shelves—I recognized some titles from my father's library. Had they stolen those too? The bed I'd slept in was massive, easily fitting four people. Red silk sheets that probably cost more than a farmer's yearly wage.
And I'd slept in it alone.
On my wedding night.
Because the general who'd destroyed my life had walked away.
I should feel relieved. Triumphant even. Instead, I felt... confused. Off-balance. Like the enemy I'd been preparing to fight had changed the rules without warning.
A soft knock made me jump.
My lady? A female voice. May I enter?
I shoved the dagger back under the pillow. Come in.
But it wasn't a servant who opened the door.
It was Cassian.
I froze, suddenly aware I was still in yesterday's dress—wrinkled, twisted around my body from sleep. My hair hung loose and tangled. I probably looked like I'd been through a war.
He looked worse.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes like bruises. His hair was disheveled, sticking up in places like he'd been running his hands through it. He'd changed into simple black pants and a white shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. No military uniform. No armor.
Just a man who clearly hadn't slept.
I'm sorry, he said immediately, stopping in the doorway. I should have knocked louder. Given you time to— He gestured vaguely at me, then looked away quickly. I brought breakfast. I thought you might be hungry.
He held a tray awkwardly, like he wasn't sure what to do with it.
The great General Valorent, who commanded armies, looked completely out of place bringing me food.
You brought it yourself? My voice came out rough from sleep.
I didn't want servants gossiping about your first morning here. He finally met my eyes, and the intensity there stole my breath. They'll talk anyway, but at least this way they won't have details.
He crossed to the small table by the window, setting down the tray. His movements were careful, controlled. But I noticed his hands weren't quite steady.
I should say something. Thank him or dismiss him or demand he leave.
Instead, I watched him move through the space. Watched sunlight catch in his dark hair. Noticed how his shirt pulled across broad shoulders when he bent to adjust the tray.
Stop it, I told myself viciously. He's your enemy. Your family's killer.
But my traitorous eyes kept cataloging details. The way his forearms corded with muscle. The scar along his left wrist. How tall he was—I'd have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze if he stood close.
There's tea, he said, still not looking at me. And bread with honey. Fruit. I wasn't sure what you liked, so I brought everything.
I like my family alive, I said coldly. But we can't always get what we want.
He flinched like I'd struck him. Good. Let him hurt.
But then he turned, and his expression was so raw, so openly devastated, that something in my chest twisted painfully.
No, he agreed quietly. We can't.
Silence stretched between us. He stood by the window, backlit by morning sun. I sat on the bed, tangled in silk sheets, dagger hidden beneath my pillow.
The space between us felt charged. Dangerous.
Did you sleep? I asked before I could stop myself.
No. He rubbed his face tiredly. You?
No.
His jaw clenched. I'm sorry. If the bed was uncomfortable, or if you were afraid—
I wasn't afraid of you, I interrupted. It was true, surprisingly. I should have been terrified last night. Instead, I'd been confused. Angry. But not afraid.
Something flickered in his gray eyes. Relief? Hope? It vanished too quickly to identify.
Good, he said. You should never be afraid in your own chambers.
This isn't my chamber. It's a prison with expensive furniture.
I know. He moved toward the door, and I hated the small spike of something—not disappointment, I refused to call it that—when he reached for the handle. I have duties today. Military meetings. But Captain Thorne will be nearby if you need anything. And I've assigned a personal maid—
Why? The question burst out. Why assign guards and maids and bring me breakfast yourself? Why give me a dagger that I could use to kill you? What do you want from me?
He stopped, hand on the door, back to me. His shoulders tensed.
I don't want anything, he said finally. Except maybe... He turned slightly, profile sharp in the sunlight. Except maybe to give you something I couldn't give them.
Them?
Your family. His voice roughened. I can't bring them back. Can't undo what I did. But I can try to keep you safe. Keep you alive. It's not atonement—nothing could be. It's just... all I can do.
My throat tightened. I wanted to scream at him. To throw something. To hurt him the way he'd hurt me.
Instead, I heard myself say, I heard you last night.
He went very still. What?
Through the wall. You were... I heard you talking. I swallowed hard. You said my father's name.
All color drained from his face. Seraphina
Don't. I stood up, the silk sheet falling away. Don't apologize again. Don't explain. Just... I didn't know what I wanted. Just leave.
He studied my face for a long moment, and I saw too much there. Guilt. Grief. And something else. Something that looked almost like longing.
As you wish, he said softly.
Then he was gone, the door clicking shut behind him.
I stood frozen in the middle of the chamber, heart racing.
What was that? That moment when our eyes met and the air seemed to thicken? The way my breath had caught when he'd looked at me like I was something precious instead of a prisoner?
No. Absolutely not.
I would not feel anything for him except hatred.
I moved to the breakfast tray, determined to ignore it. But my stomach betrayed me with a loud growl. The bread smelled incredible. Fresh-baked, still warm.
He'd brought me warm bread.
I grabbed a piece viciously, biting into it like I was biting into his heart.
It was delicious.
I wanted to throw it against the wall. Instead, I ate three pieces, hating myself with each bite.
A knock interrupted my angry breakfast. This time, it really was a servant—a young woman with dark hair and red-rimmed eyes.
Good morning, my lady. I'm Elena, your personal maid.
Her accent caught my attention immediately. Northern. Rothaven.
You're from home, I said.
Elena's eyes filled with tears. Yes, my lady. I survived the Keep. I was in the servants' quarters when... She couldn't finish.
My chest tightened. Another survivor. Another ghost from that horrible night.
The general, Elena whispered, glancing nervously at the door. He ordered all Rothaven servants be treated well. Good positions, fair wages. He specifically requested I serve you, said you'd need someone who understood.
I laughed bitterly. How generous. He kills our families then gives us jobs.
I know it sounds mad, my lady. Elena twisted her hands. But he's... I've seen things. Heard things. He's not what
Not what? I challenged. Not a killer? Not the man who murdered everyone we loved?
Elena fell silent, but something in her expression said she wanted to argue.
I waved her off. Help me dress. I want to explore this prison.
She helped me into a simple gown—dark blue, not quite mourning but not cheerful either. As she worked, she talked quietly about fortress layouts, dangerous courtiers, which servants could be trusted.
I filed away every detail.
After Elena left, I explored the chambers properly. The sitting room connected to the bedroom, lined with books. My fingers traced spines—poetry, history, military strategy. An eclectic collection.
In the corner sat a writing desk with fresh paper and ink. For me? Or had someone just forgotten to clear it?
I moved to the massive windows overlooking a courtyard. Soldiers drilled below, their movements precise and deadly. Captain Marcus—the guard from prison—stood among them, shouting orders.
Why had he helped me? What did any of them gain from kindness to a prisoner?
A sound from the next room made me freeze.
Movement. Footsteps pacing. Coming from the study that connected our chambers.
Cassian was back.
I pressed my ear to the wood paneling, barely breathing.
Papers rustled. Heavy footsteps. Then a sound that made my heart clench—a groan, deep and pained.
Not again, Cassian muttered. God, not again.
Was he hurt? Sick?
Then he cried out, sharp and desperate: Lord Ashmont!
My breath stopped.
The orders were clear, his voice continued, broken and anguished. No survivors. I watched the life leave his eyes and felt something inside me die too.
He was talking about my father. In the middle of the day. Alone.
The boy, he choked out. Twelve years old. His eyes... I see them every time I close mine. Every single time.
Elias. He was remembering Elias.
A crash—something hitting the floor. Then the worst sound imaginable:
The Butcher of Rothaven was crying.
Not quiet tears. Soul-deep sobs that sounded like they were being torn from somewhere dark and broken. The kind of crying that came from a man who'd lost pieces of himself and couldn't find them again.
My hand pressed flat against the wall. My own eyes burned with unexpected tears.
This wasn't possible. Monsters didn't cry about their victims. They didn't break down alone, begging forgiveness from ghosts.
I should have refused, he sobbed. Should have turned the sword on myself. Should have been strong enough to
His voice cracked completely, dissolving into ragged gasps.
I backed away from the wall, my hand shaking.
What kind of monster has nightmares about his victims?
What kind of killer tortures himself with memories?
The answer whispered through my mind, unwanted and terrifying: Not a monster. A man.
No. I couldn't think like that. Couldn't humanize him.
But I'd heard the raw truth in his voice. The genuine torment. This wasn't an act. No one performed this level of grief alone where no one could see.
His crying gradually quieted, replaced by harsh breathing.
I stood frozen in the middle of my chamber, mind racing.
The general who'd brought me breakfast with gentle hands was the same man sobbing over my father's murder. The man who'd given me a weapon was the same one who couldn't sleep because of what he'd done. The cold, controlled general was a mask hiding someone broken underneath.
And somehow, that made everything worse.
Because hating a monster was easy. Monsters deserved death. Revenge against monsters was righteous and clean.
But what about hating a man who hated himself just as much?
What about destroying someone who was already destroyed?
My hand moved to my chest, pressing against the ache there. I couldn't afford these thoughts. Couldn't afford to see him as human. That path led to sympathy, and sympathy led to weakness, and weakness meant abandoning my vow.
Make them pay, Elias had whispered with his dying breath.
I had promised.
But which them? The general who'd followed orders? Or the Emperor who'd given them?
And if I learned to understand Cassian—really understand the man behind the mask—could I still drive a dagger into his heart?
I looked down at my hands. They were shaking.
Through the wall, I heard Cassian moving again. Water pouring. Probably washing his face, composing himself, rebuilding his armor before facing the world.
Just like I did every morning.
Two prisoners in connected cells, both haunted by the same ghosts.
I moved to the connecting door, my hand touching the wood. On the other side, he was breathing. Living. Suffering.
I snatched my hand back like the door had burned me.
No, I whispered to the empty chamber. No, no, no.
I couldn't sympathize. Couldn't understand. Couldn't see him as anything but the enemy.
Because if I did—if I started to care about his pain—then I'd lose the only thing I had left.
My hatred.
My purpose.
My reason to survive.
I pressed my palms against my eyes, forcing back tears.
I had to find his secrets. Read his journals. Discover his weaknesses. Learn everything about him so I could destroy him completely.
Even if destroying him meant destroying someone who was already broken.
Even if his pain somehow made mine worse instead of better.
Even if understanding him was the most dangerous thing I could possibly do.
That night, I dreamed of storm-gray eyes filled with grief.
I woke up crying and hated myself for it.
Because the worst thing wasn't that I'd married my enemy.
It was that I was starting to see him as a person.
And people were so much harder to kill than monsters.
People could make you feel things you didn't want to feel.
People could break your heart while you were trying to break theirs.
People could make you question everything you thought you knew about revenge and justice and right and wrong.
The general had given me a dagger to protect myself.
But the real weapon—the one that could destroy us both—was the truth I was beginning to see:
We were both prisoners of the same war.
Both victims of the same Emperor.
Both haunted by the same ghosts.
And that understanding was more dangerous than any blade.