CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The guard trembled.
Not from the cold of the dungeon—but from the presence standing before him.
His hands shook violently, as his mouth became dry. His thoughts screamed.
Damiel walked closer, boots echoing softly against the stone.
"So," Damiel said calmly, his voice smooth as drawn steel, "you chose vengeance."
The guard swallowed, lifting his chin as if pride alone could shield him.
"My father was no traitor," he spat. "You killed him. You branded his name in blood."
Damiel stopped an arm's length away.
His silver eyes were unreadable.
"Why," Damiel asked quietly, "take the path he took, a risk you cannot survive?"
The guard's breath hitched.
"Or," Damiel continued, tilting his head slightly, "were you simply too afraid to face the consequences of his betrayal, in the realm?"
The hatred broke through the guard's mask, as fear slowly creep in.
Damiel did not wait for an answer.
He stepped forward—and entered his mind.
The scream was immediate.
The dungeon echoed with agony as memories were torn free—plans, names, faces, whispers exchanged in corridors, secret passes through guarded gates.
And,
Serapha.
The maid.
The demon guard sister.
Damiel saw it all.
The fear the night before the feast. Her refusal to serve him.
She had not dared poison him.
She had known better.
The werewolves writhed against their restraints as the guard collapsed, sobbing, his mind laid bare.
Damiel walked past him without a glance.
Straight to the werewolves.
"Oath," Damiel said softly.
The word alone made the betas stiffen.
"Then let us not break it," he continued. "You will not speak."
He stepped closer, silver gaze locking onto the Alpha beta.
"I will simply take what I need."
"No—!" the werewolf cried, body convulsing as Damiel invaded his mind.
Images flooded the air.
A demon official. A council seat. A bargain struck in shadows.
Power promised. Protection sworn. Access granted. Greed evident.
A gate pass—provided by the guard and demon official. A crowd—used as cover. A palace—assumed careless.
Damiel withdrew.
Silence fell.
His jaw tightened.
Betrayal—within his walls.
Under his rule.
He turned sharply.
"Lock him away," he said coldly, gesturing to the broken guard. "Alive."
Roan and Kael moved at once.
Damiel walked toward the exit, fury coiled tightly beneath his composure.
It seemed he had been too quiet.
Too lenient.
He would correct that.
And everyone involved would serve as an example.
He turned toward the kitchens.
They dared plot beneath his roof.
How… amusing.
The ever-busy kitchen bustled with whispers and quiet sounds—the soft sizzle of boiling pots, the steady rhythm of chopping, murmured instructions passing from mouth to mouth.
And silent eyes.
They lingered on Reyna.
Her head remained bowed as she chopped vegetables carefully, fingers tight around the knife. She felt the weight of their gazes pressing against her skin. If Inez had not been in the kitchen, she knew it would have been worse.
Then—
The air changed.
Reyna felt it before she heard anything.
Prince Damiel entered without a sound.
The kitchen froze, head bowed, shoulder slumped.
Knives stilled. Voices died. Even the fire seemed to bow. The air around him felt colder—unnaturally so. Reyna did not know such cold could exist without winter.
Inez turned, surprise flickering across her face. Her expression softened a she looked at him.
His gaze moved slowly across the room.
Searching.
It stopped.
On Serapha.
Damiel walked through the kitchen like judgment made flesh and stopped directly before her.
"Serapha."
Her name fell from his lips softly—death written in plain speech.
She froze.
Every muscle locked as though the word itself had bound her.
"Yes, Your Highness," she said, forcing steadiness into her voice as she bowed.
Too deeply.
Fear always bowed too far.
She stood close enough to feel the cold radiating from him, sharp and suffocating, like winter pressing a blade to her throat.
"You refused to serve me," Damiel said calmly. "Yesterday."
Her fingers trembled.
"I—I was unwell, Your Highness."
A lie.
A poor one.
"Unwell," Damiel repeated, tilting his head.
The kitchen seemed to shrink.
He stepped closer.
"Strange," he murmured, "that you were well enough to move freely through the eastern wing last night."
Her breath hitched. Color drained from her face.
"I went out fo—for fres—"
He raised a single finger.
Silence fell instantly.
Damiel's eyes glowed faintly, silver sharpening into something ancient and merciless.
He did not shout.
He did not accuse.
He simply reached.
Serapha screamed as Damiel entered her mind.
Loudly.
Her memories shattered like glass.
Her father—branded a traitor, executed by Damiel's decree.
Her brother—burning with hatred, whispering revenge in dark corners.
Secret passages. Stolen schedules.
The nights she watched Damiel from behind pillars, fear and hatred twisted together.
The poison she was meant to use.
And the terror that stopped her hand.
She collapsed to her knees.
"Please—!" she sobbed, claws scraping stone. "You killed our father—we wanted justice—!"
Damiel withdrew from her mind.
The scream cut off.
He looked down at her as one might look at something broken beneath their boot.
"Your father sold information to enemies of the realm," he said coldly. "He begged for mercy when exposed. He was a traitor—and now, so are you."
Her sobs turned hysterical.
"You chose revenge over loyalty," Damiel continued. "Over survival."
He crouched, bringing his face level with hers.
"Do you know the difference between tragedy and treason, Serapha?"
She shook her head violently.
"Treason," he said softly, "is when grief becomes arrogance."
Tears streamed freely now.
"I didn't poison you," she cried. "I couldn't—I knew you'd see it—I was afraid—"
"Yes," Damiel agreed calmly. "You were."
He stood.
His boots struck stone like a final verdict.
"Fear kept you alive," he said. "But it will not save you."
He turned slightly.
"Bind her. Take her to the dungeon."
Guards moved instantly.
Iron restraints snapped around Serapha's wrists as she screamed.
"No—please—! I'll tell you everything—I'll help—!"
Damiel did not look back.
"You already have."
He paused.
Without turning, he said, "Ensure she lives."
The guards bowed.
"Long enough," he added, "to understand the consequences of her actions. This palace will remember—traitors do not hide beneath my roof."
Then he walked away.
Only after he was gone did the kitchen dare to breathe again.
Murmurs spread—how foolish she had been, how arrogant to believe she could succeed against him. Everyone knew Prince Damiel was different. More powerful. More dangerous.
Vaelith stood frozen in shock. To collude with traitors—to believe poisoning him was possible—almost made her laugh in disbelief.
Inez's gaze burned with anger—at Serapha, and at herself. For not noticing. For not paying closer attention. For daring to believe nothing could slip past her.
And beneath it all—fear.
What if Damiel had been hurt?
What if she had succeeded?
It would have been Inez's failure.
Her eyes turned to the doorway where he had stood moments before.
Serapha's screams echoed through the stone halls as she was dragged toward the dungeon—
Not the screams of punishment—
But of realization.