Chapter 65: Strings of the Marionette
Lord Orian Rellshade had always been quick with a bow, quick with a smile, and quicker still to offer his arm when a princess so much as glanced his way. But now? Now he was something else entirely.
Sephora had claimed him.
Not publicly, not officially — no betrothal vows or sanctioned ceremonies bound them. Yet in the shadows behind the throne rooms and banquet halls, Orian's metaphorical leash was already pulled taut. And she was the one holding it.
"Fetch me the Mourhollow wine," she said one evening in the lesser hall, voice pitched soft and sweet. "The vintage Father keeps hidden. You know the one."
Orian blinked. "But that is reserved for the Raven King's table—"
Her hand slipped over his wrist, nails grazing just enough to remind him of the corridor and how completely she had unraveled him there. "You told me I could ask anything," she said, pale eyes glimmering with false innocence. "Or did I mistake your devotion for mere play?"
His face flushed, shame and desire battling across his features. "Of course not. I'll… I'll get it for you."
And he did.
When she wanted a servant punished for gossiping about her absence, it was Orian who delivered the threat, his voice trembling even as he parroted her words. When she grew restless during court and wished to slip away, it was Orian who lied on her behalf, swearing to the chamberlain that the youngest princess had retired with a headache.
He obeyed, always.
But what thrilled her most was not the obedience itself — it was watching the way he feared and adored her in equal measure. His gaze clung to her at feasts, full of longing, and yet he jumped like a guilty child every time she whispered his name.
Tonight, as the nobles danced in the Blackmere rehearsal hall, Sephora leaned close to him in the alcove, her lips brushing dangerously near his ear.
"Tell me, Lord Rellshade," she purred, "would you kill for me?"
Orian froze, wings twitching, breath caught. He turned to face her, searching her expression for jest — but found only the cold amusement that danced in her ice-pale eyes.
"I…" His voice faltered. "…If you asked it, Princess."
Her smile was slow, triumphant. She laid a finger against his lips, silencing him. "Good. You'll do whatever I wish. Whenever. Wherever, and question nothing to walk and fly in my world with me."
The words were a promise and a curse all at once. For where one may fly, they can also, so easily, fall to their demise.
Young Orian swallowed as his adam's apple twitched in his scrawny throat, nodding as though in a trance. He was lost, and they both knew it.
As she drew back into the shadows, her laughter low and silken, Sephora felt the fire inside her flare. This was what made her feel alive — not the gilded duties, not her mother's scorn, not the endless comparison to her sister.
No, this — bending another to her will, making them dance like a marionette on strings spun from desire and fear — this was her kingdom.
If he had been something more than a half-wit fool, one could almost feel sorry for poor Orian Rellshade. While he may have been noble-born but weak-willed, for one such to receive the interests of a princess of the Raven Queen? He would be her first suitable, loyal subject.