The doors open on a hush so thick it settles against my skin.
Light spills from chandeliers too bright to be comforting, cold enough to make the marble below them shine like water. The air carries something sharp—polish, metal, something faintly smoked. The kind of scent expensive power wears without realizing it.
Marcus walks half a step behind me, shoulders tight, eyes lowered. The emissary leads us through the threshold and then… disappears sideways, absorbed by the shadows along the wall. Like his job was only to deliver me to the mouth of the beast.
Inside, the Hall isn't as large as I expected. Grand, yes. Ornate, yes. But controlled. Everything here feels chosen. Weighted.
Five banners hang along the far wall, each marked with the crest I saw on the summons.
Five families. Five sectors. Five futures. All staring at me from silk.
My breath snags.
Someone else inhales in response.
A single figure stands at the center of the room.
Not one of the quiet guards lining the walls. Not staff.
No—this one belongs here. He stands like the room was built around him.
He's dressed in black tailored suit like it was poured on, the line of his shoulders too perfect to be accidental. His hair is dark, cut close at the sides, longer on top. His posture… still. Not military. Not stiff. Controlled. Like he's listening to the floorboards, the air currents, my heartbeat.
His eyes lift as I enter.
And everything stops.
Cold gray—no, steel. Not lifeless, though. There's heat coiled deep behind the restraint, something sharp and aware. The kind of gaze that has measured threats all its life and isn't convinced I'm not one.
The first heir.
He doesn't step forward. Doesn't speak. But the air changes around him, the room bending to his presence.
Marcus stumbles to a stop beside me, as if hit by an invisible wall of expectation.
I force myself not to shrink.
The heir's gaze moves down me—dress, shoulders, hands—slow enough to read intent in every inch. Not desire. Not yet. Evaluation. A cataloging. What I am. What I'm not.
His brows lift by a fraction. Approval or surprise—I can't tell.
For a moment, no one moves.
Then a door opens at the far right.
Footsteps. Confident. Polished wood under expensive shoes.
The second heir enters like he's walking onto a private stage—tall, golden tie, expression smooth. His eyes, a warm amber, flick instantly to the steel-eyed man, then to me.
And he smiles.
Not friendly. Not harmless. The kind of smile that knows exactly how much attention it commands and uses it like currency.
"So," he says softly, "she's arrived."
His voice carries warmth, but around the edges there's a hum—political charm sharpened to a blade.
He circles halfway around me, not touching, but close enough my breath catches on instinct. The heat of him trails along my arm.
"Seraphina Quinn," he murmurs, tasting the name. "You were not described accurately."
I tense. "How should I have been described?"
He smiles wider. "Not like this."
The first heir shifts. The sound is microscopic—the whisper of fabric, the adjustment of weight—but it's tension. Directed. The amber-eyed heir feels it; I see the moment his smile twists, delighted by the reaction he's drawing.
Then the third heir walks in.
No announcement. No flourish. Just silent movement, like a shadow detaching from the darker corner of the hall.
He's dressed in charcoal. Broad shoulders. A scar along his jaw, pale against his skin. His expression reveals nothing. His eyes—a deep, assessing brown—slide over me, then shift away again, uninterested or pretending to be.
But something in the way he stands, angled slightly between me and the room, suggests instinct more than indifference. Protection wrapped in denial.
The temperature in the room drops a degree.
Three heirs. Three kinds of danger.
My throat tightens.
A rustle, then the fourth arrives—steps clipped, impatient. He's leaner than the others, sharp-featured, his tie undone like he didn't bother finishing getting dressed. His eyes are cold blue and already irritated.
"You're late," he announces.
"I wasn't given a choice," I say.
His mouth twitches. Maybe amusement. Maybe annoyance. Hard to tell. "If you think choice exists here, you haven't been listening."
I want to fire something back, something cutting, but the room itself presses in, swallowing cleverness.
Four heirs.
Only one left.
The air shifts before I hear him.
It's small—a disturbance, the way you feel someone looking at you before you confirm it. A slow, rolling presence that makes the tiny hairs on my arms lift before the sound of his footsteps begins.
He appears in the doorway like a shadow the light hasn't decided whether to reveal. Tall. Dark suit. His hair is tousled, not careless but lived-in, like he's been somewhere colder before walking in here.
His eyes meet mine first.
Deep. Sharp. Black where brown should be, or maybe it's the lighting. Whatever color they carry, the effect strikes something primitive—fear layered with something dangerously close to recognition.
He doesn't look at the other heirs first. He looks at me.
And I feel it—something in the room bending, shifting, tilting in our direction like the floor has changed slope.
The first heir straightens. Slightly. Enough to betray surprise.
The fourth heir mutters something under his breath. Irritated again.
The second heir's smile fades, replaced by something tighter.
Only the scarred heir doesn't move.
But the fifth heir… he keeps coming.
A smooth, slow stride. Not predatory. Not confident.
I can't name it.
As he approaches, my body reacts before my mind does—breath catching, shoulders drawing tight, something electric climbing the inside of my spine.
He stops a few feet in front of me.
Not close enough to touch.
Close enough to feel.
His voice is low, steady. "Seraphina."
He says it like he's known it longer than the others. Like he's been waiting for the sound.
I don't know why, but my heart stumbles.
He studies my face, not my dress, not my posture—me. As though he's looking for something only he expects to find.
"What?" I manage, voice thin.
He doesn't blink. "You shouldn't be afraid of us."
The room reacts violently.
A ripple. Breath sucked in. A chair leg scraping softly against marble.
"You don't speak for all of us," the golden-eyed heir says.
"She should fear someone," the fourth snaps.
The first heir's jaw tics—a tiny shift, a warning in silence.
Only the scarred heir remains statuesque, eyes unreadable.
My pulse pounds.
I force my chin up. "Why shouldn't I fear you?"
The fifth heir's gaze flickers. Not uncertainty. Something heavier.
"Because," he says quietly, "you're already trapped. Fear changes nothing."
My spine goes rigid.
He steps back once, a clean retreat, giving me space—a gesture so unexpected I forget how to breathe.
The first heir finally speaks. His voice is deep, level, smooth in a way that hides the weight beneath it.
"For now, we observe." His eyes hold mine. "And we see if you belong to any of us."
Belong.
The word slices.
I take a step back, almost without meaning to. Marcus moves instinctively, half a step toward me, before remembering he isn't allowed to intervene.
Five heirs now stand before me. Five lives tangled into mine. Five futures I didn't choose.
Each presence distinct. Each gaze heavy. Each waiting.
And I feel it—their attention settling like invisible hands, different in pressure but united in purpose.
Behind them, the banners sway slightly in the draft, silk whispering in unison.
The fifth heir's eyes stay on me the longest.
And the thought hits, unwelcome and electric:
One of them will claim me.
But the room isn't watching them.
It's watching how I react.
So I straighten my back. Lift my chin. Lock my shaking hands behind me where they can't see.
The first heir's steel gaze flickers—approval or irritation, impossible to tell.
The second's smile returns—too slow, too knowing.
The third's jaw ticks once, mild interest surfacing like a ghost.
The fourth rolls his eyes, muttering something clipped.
The fifth… watches with an intensity that makes my skin burn.
Someone in the corner clears their throat. A bell chimes softly from deeper in the Hall.
Something begins.
But I'm not ready.
Not anymore.
Not less.
Just here.
Trapped in a room with five heirs and no exits that don't cost me something I can't afford to lose.
And every single one of them is already deciding what I'm worth.