The train station at the edge of the Imperial Capital was cold, grey, and full of silence. Not one noble escorted her here. Not one former friend came to see her off.
The world had already moved on.
To them, she was gone.
A footnote in royal history.
Good.
She preferred it that way.
Her carriage came to a stop. The driver opened the door, refusing to meet her gaze. No guards. No imperial seal. No protection.
Of course not. What protection does a villainess deserve?
Her heels clicked against the platform, sharp and steady. A few commoners turned to stare. No one said her name.
The train hissed in the distance.
"Borderlands Express. One-way."
Mireille had slipped the ticket into her coat the night before.
"Take the second-class car. First class is too visible," she had whispered while fake-crying in the hallway. "And check your bag. We hid a few things."
Seraphina reached into the inner lining now.
ID. Hidden emergency beacon. A sealed letter stamped in silver wax. Her funds were still safe. Her exile was official. But not irreversible.
She would never reverse it.
She wasn't going back.
⸻
Flashback – Age 7
Her etiquette teacher slapped her hand for the seventh time. "You hold your knife like a peasant."
Blood pooled beneath the lace gloves. Tears brimmed in her eyes. She said nothing.
Her mother sipped tea, unconcerned. Evelyn's joyous laughter carries through the corridors. So free and unfettered.
"You'll thank me when you're queen."
Guess we'll never know.
⸻
The train pulled up. No red carpets. No ceremony. Just hissing steam and chipped paint. She boarded quietly.
Inside the car, there were only five passengers.
An old man. A woman with three children. A clerk reading an e-tablet. And a quiet man with a coat too nice for this train.
Seraphina sat across from him.
He didn't look up.
Not yet.
But he would.
⸻
Meanwhile: Somewhere Else
"She's on the train."
"She left without guards?"
"Of course. That was the point. Strip her of protection. Make it look like neglect."
"And the plan?"
The veiled woman twirled a silver pendant around her fingers.
"The conductor's loyal to us. The rail signal will 'malfunction' past the checkpoint. They'll stop for twenty minutes."
"Enough time?"
"Plenty," she smiled. "Bandits are common in that region. Who'll ask questions if one unwanted girl disappears in the woods?"
The man across from her hesitated his hands fiddling nervously around the ring on his index finger. As someone who's met Seraphina and seen her in action, he can't help but wonder if his veiled ally is a bit too sure of himself. "You're sure she doesn't have backup?"
"She's smart, but she's not omniscient."
⸻
Train – 1 Hour into Journey
Seraphina watched the window blur into mist and green. Forests, hills, shadows.
The man across from her finally looked up.
Brown hair. Amber eyes. Neatly tailored jacket.
"Quite the day," he said casually.
She arched a brow. "And what about it?"
"You look like someone who just lost everything."
She smiled thinly. "Only things I never wanted."
He tilted his head. "You're calm."
"Would you prefer I weep?"
"No. I prefer honesty."
"Then I'll be honest. You're not a government clerk."
The man chuckled. "And you're not just an exiled noble."
Their eyes met.
For a long moment, silence.
Then he said: "Don't get off at the checkpoint."
She stilled.
He leaned closer. "They've bought the stationmaster. There's a planned delay. Ambush route just past the forest ridge."
Seraphina's voice was quiet. "And who are you to know this?"
"I'm someone who owes you his life."
He reached into his coat slowly — too slowly.
She tensed. Just a second.
Then he offered a ring.
Gold. Set with a crest from a nation far from Caldris.
Recognition hit her. Her lashes lowered.
"You were… that boy."
"Not a boy anymore."
⸻
Flashback – Age 13
It had been a brutal winter that year, the kind that gnawed at the bones even through velvet cloaks and silk-lined boots. The city was dressed in white, hiding its filth beneath a powdery façade. But the alleys were still the same: cold, cruel, and blind to titles.
She'd found him half-conscious in the snow behind the merchant district — bloodied, half-frozen, a tooth cracked, lip split, and one eye swollen shut. The silver embroidery on his shredded cloak still gleamed faintly: the crest of a far-off desert kingdom now allied through uneasy treaties and captured heirs.
A visiting hostage prince. A political bargaining chip.
And someone had decided he was too proud for his station.
The noble boys had left him for dead, laughing as they walked away, their names carved into silver birthrights and their cruelty masked by decorum. Seraphina had seen it from a distance. She didn't know his name. Didn't ask.
She dragged him out of the snow by his arm — he'd tried to flinch away, but passed out from the pain. She brought him into one of her old secret hideouts, an abandoned greenhouse her tutor used to lock her in when she got too mouthy.
No servants. No magic. Just fire, thread, and silence.
She cleaned the wounds with snowmelt and stitched the worst of them with trembling fingers and herbal salve stolen from the infirmary. She'd long learned to care for her own bruises; this wasn't so different.
When he finally opened his good eye, blinking against the firelight, he tried to speak.
"Don't thank me," she cut in, tone flat. "I don't need it."
He stared at her, confused, maybe ashamed.
She wrung out a cloth, wiped blood from his jaw with mechanical care. "Remember what they did," she said, voice low but steady. "Not the cold. Not the pain. Them. The ones who smiled while they did it."
She stood up, cold eyes meeting his.
"And survive."
Then she walked away. He never saw her again. But years later, when he stood tall among diplomats and generals — scarred but unbowed — he would remember.
⸻
"You're a long way from your throne," she said softly, folding her hands.
Kael Routhven smiled, that same infuriatingly sharp smile. "A minor inconvenience."
"Does your council know you're gone?"
"They'll survive," he said, adjusting his coat. "Eventually."
She raised an eyebrow. "You abandoned an empire."
"I postponed a few meetings," he said, entirely too calm. "Besides, news travels. When I heard what they planned, I couldn't stay seated on that damn golden chair."
His voice had the cool edge of command, but the warm undercurrent of something far more dangerous: personal loyalty.
"And I don't like loose ends."
The train screeched as it began to slow.
Too early.
Just like he said.
Outside the window, the forest thickened. The hills grew steeper.
Seraphina didn't move.
"They'll expect you to run."
"I don't."
He smiled and held out his hand. "Then we'll walk through fire."
She slipped off her earrings — the last relics of court life — and left them on the seat like an offering to the past.
"I need to change my shoes." She murmured.
⸻
Outside, a shadow slipped between the trees — silent, practiced.
A gloved hand rose, fingers flashing a signal under moonlight.
In the distance, metal wheels began to hiss.
The old man looked out the window and frowned. Something in the air shifted — not wrong, just… still.
The train would stop in sixty seconds.
She was supposed to die here.
Buried in snow and silence, another forgotten stain on royal record.
A clean erasure. A quiet betrayal.
But Seraphina adjusted the dagger hidden beneath her cloak.
Her breath curled in the cold like smoke from a slow-burning fire.
Let them come.
She had other plans.