Seraphina had never taken a bath with four strangers watching her.
Technically, they were royal maids. Practically? They were critics in uniforms.
The palace bath was grander than most temples—carved alabaster floors, dragon-shaped silver faucets, and enchanted steam that always smelled faintly of moonflower and lemon balm. She sat in the center of the sunken marble tub, the Veilfire Crown placed neatly on a velvet cushion beside her, glowing faintly like a cat that had claimed its favorite spot.
The water was warm, but Seraphina wasn't relaxed.
Not with four maids silently scrubbing her like she was made of soot and bad decisions.
"Her hair is… untamable," one muttered, brushing too hard.
"It's thick," the second agreed. "Must be the fire blood."
"The lady should consider sleeping with braid oil. Or at least trying."
Seraphina stared at the ceiling.
She had made it all of one night in the palace, and already, the walls hated her. And apparently, so did the staff.
"They do realize I can hear them, right?" she asked aloud.
The maids froze.
She didn't look at them. Just raised her hand lazily from the water—flicked her fingers.
A tiny pop of flame appeared above her palm. Just enough to heat the air around her.
"I wouldn't try braid oil," she added lightly. "It's famously flammable."
Silence.
Then: "Understood, my lady."
✦
Dressed and only mildly annoyed, Seraphina followed the footman down endless polished corridors toward the royal breakfast.
She was now draped in pale cream robes embroidered with faint red sigils around the cuffs—a compromise between palace-approved and personal rebellion. Her hair had been braided into a crown shape (with minor violence), and her expression was carefully blank.
"Smile softly," the etiquette scroll had said, "but not too much. Royals don't grin, they imply."
She was already exhausted.
The doors to the breakfast salon opened with a hiss of magic.
Cassian was already seated.
He looked like he'd been carved from moonlight and coffee—black coat, silver trim, and a face that was entirely blank. Queen Dowager Isolde sipped tea at the head of the table. King Alaric wasn't present, thank the gods.
"Good morning," Seraphina said with manufactured warmth.
Cassian didn't look up. "You're late."
"I was bathing," she said, pouring herself tea. "The help wanted to boil me."
"They restrained themselves, then."
Queen Isolde set her cup down. "Excellent. Already speaking like an old married couple."
Cassian sighed.
✦
Breakfast was a delicate battlefield.
Tiny silver plates. Too much porcelain. Food arranged in insulting little circles. Seraphina stared at what she assumed was an egg, or possibly a decorative rock.
She leaned toward Cassian. "Does it move?"
"That's caviar."
"It's blinking."
"Then it's fresh."
She narrowed her eyes, stabbed it with her fork, and shoved it into her mouth in one aggressive bite. Isolde hid a laugh behind her napkin.
The doors opened again.
"Your etiquette instructor has arrived," the steward announced.
In walked a woman who could kill a man with a disapproving stare.
Lady Maribelle Thistlecombe. Silver hair. Steel spine. No soul.
She curtsied to the Queen Dowager, bowed to Cassian, and looked at Seraphina like she was an unfinished art project.
"You're slouching."
"Good morning to you too."
"Your posture offends the furniture."
"And your perfume smells like disappointment."
Cassian coughed suddenly. Isolde smiled with all her teeth.
✦ LATER THAT MORNING ✦
Three hours into walking with books on her head, Seraphina decided she needed air.
She escaped—politely—by convincing her etiquette tutor she was going to "meditate in the west garden."
She did not.
Instead, she wandered.
The palace was a maze of too-bright hallways and aggressively perfect statues. She passed a room filled with enchanted harps playing by themselves, another with floating scrolls whispering history in twelve languages, and at least one corridor where the wallpaper was… breathing.
And then she saw it.
A door.
Old. Wooden. Unlabeled. Shadowed in a way that screamed don't open this, which naturally meant she had to.
She pushed it open.
Inside was cool. Dark. Smelled faintly of dust, ink, and something older.
A library? No—a vault.
Dozens of relics floated inside crystal spheres. Books chained shut. Swords glowing faintly under glass. And at the very center: a pedestal with no name, no plaque, and a scorch mark around its base.
The hairs on her arms rose.
Before she could step farther in, a voice rang out behind her:
"You're not supposed to be in here."
Seraphina turned.
Cassian stood at the doorway, one hand on the frame, eyes narrowed.
"I was exploring," she said calmly.
"This is the Hall of Forbidden Relics."
"Why is it unlocked?"
"It's not. It's warded."
She tilted her head. "Oh. Well. That explains nothing."
He stepped inside. The air chilled. His presence filled the space like shadow.
"You really don't understand what you've walked into, do you?"
"Please enlighten me, Your Grumpiness."
He came closer.
"Those are weapons. Living, cursed, or sealed. Some of them hunger. Some of them remember. And one of them"—his eyes cut to the empty pedestal—"woke up for you."
Seraphina swallowed.
"You mean the crown."
"I mean the storm that comes with it."
They stood in silence.
She crossed her arms. "I didn't ask for this, you know."
Cassian studied her face. "Neither did I."
For the first time, something shifted between them—less fire and frost, more quiet recognition.
Then she smirked. "You always lurk like this, or is it just around me?"
He exhaled, annoyed. "Let's go. If the King finds you here, he'll have you thrown out a window."
"Is that a royal tradition?"
"No. But I'd watch him try."
✦
The Court of Evaria smelled like expensive soap and hidden agendas.
Seraphina stood beneath the domed skylight of the Grand Council Chamber, flanked by twelve marble pillars, a dozen magical nobles, and about four hundred silently judging eyes.
She had never felt so naked while fully clothed.
Her outfit—a deep crimson court dress with golden trim and trailing flame embroidery—had been approved by the Dowager herself. Modest, but defiant. Regal, but not royal. Still, nothing could hide the fact that she didn't belong here.
Not yet.
"Lady Valemire," said the Chancellor from the top of the dais, "please state your intent."
She arched a brow. "My… intent?"
The man flinched. "As the crown-bearer. Your first appearance marks the beginning of your political visibility. You must declare your loyalty and… goals."
Goals. She had plenty.
Escape this engagement.
Survive the palace.
Not set the drapes on fire again.
"I intend," she began, slowly, "to not make a complete ass of myself in front of the nobility today. But I make no promises about tomorrow."
Gasps. A stifled laugh from the back. Possibly Queen Isolde.
Cassian, standing beside his father in the royal box, didn't react. His expression was pure ice. But his knuckles, Seraphina noted, were white where they gripped the bannister.
Later, as the court descended into debate over whether her appointment violated sacred succession, Seraphina smiled. Let them argue. The crown was on her head. And for now?
It stayed.
✦ THATNIGHT ✦
She couldn't sleep.
The palace was too quiet. Too wide. Too heavy.
She wandered barefoot through the darkened corridor of the eastern wing, white nightgown trailing behind her like mist, hair loose and wild. She warmed the stone beneath her feet with a whisper of magic—just enough to stave off the biting cold of midnight.
But magic had limits. Her mana thinned the longer she used it. Too much warmth could burn her out completely. She already felt a headache pulsing at her temple.
She should've turned back.
Instead, she turned a corner—and smacked straight into someone.
"Bullsh—!" she yelped, stumbling.
A hand caught her arm, firm and steady.
"Careful," Cassian muttered.
"Do you sleep standing up like a vampire or something?" she snapped, pulling away.
Cassian—dressed in black sleep robes with silver embroidery—gave her a long, unreadable look. "I was walking."
"Through the halls?"
"So were you."
"Because I couldn't sleep."
"Neither could I."
They stood in awkward silence, moonlight catching in the space between them. His hair was tousled. Her cheeks were flushed. Her bare shoulders shimmered faintly with warmth.
"…You're going to freeze," he muttered, nodding to her nightgown.
"I'm not cold."
"You're barefoot."
"I'm fire-blooded. I heat myself."
"That burns energy."
She rolled her eyes. "What are you, my doctor?"
"No," he said, too evenly. "Just the unfortunate soul betrothed to you."
"Ouch."
He turned on his heel and began walking. She followed.
The corridor opened into a frost-lit garden—a courtyard drenched in silver and silence. Trees sparkled with pale flowers kissed by cold. A still pond reflected the moon, sharp as glass. Their footsteps crunched lightly over frost-slick stone.
They walked in silence until Seraphina finally spoke.
"You hate this, don't you?"
Cassian didn't look at her. "What gave it away? The brooding, or the sarcasm?"
"Mostly the way you look at me like I'm a cursed riddle."
He didn't argue.
She stopped near the edge of the pond, arms folded against the thin chill. Then, carefully:
"What if… we undid it?"
Cassian turned to her slowly. "Undid… the relic?"
"I mean, reversed the crown's choice. Together." She looked up at him, gaze serious now. "You don't want this. I really don't want this. If we work together, maybe we can make it choose someone else. The proper way."
"It hasn't chosen in decades."
"Maybe it was waiting for the wrong disaster."
"…and got you instead."
She smirked. "Flattered."
Cassian stared at her—longer this time.
"You want to team up," he repeated.
"Enemies make the best allies, don't they?"
"No," he said dryly, "they make the most dangerous ones."
She extended her hand anyway. "So? Do we have a deal, your iciness?"
He didn't take it. But he didn't walk away either.
"I'll consider it," he said.
✦ MEANWHILE… ✦
Back in her room, the crown sat on its velvet cushion. Still. Silent.
Until the door creaked open.
A shadow slipped in.
A figure, cloaked in servant's garb, padded silently toward the pedestal, gloved fingers twitching with a shimmer of null-magic—an anti-enchantment spell.
He reached for it.
The moment his fingers brushed the metal—
CRACK.
A blinding pulse of heat surged outward. The intruder screamed.
He was thrown backward into the wall, smoking.
The crown remained untouched.
Silent.
But very much awake.
Its glow deepened… and twisted slightly at the edges.
It had been chosen.
And it would not be taken.