The palace slept in layers.
Servants first. Then guards. Then the last of the drunken nobles slumped across velvet couches, masks askew and secrets spilling from loose tongues.
Lord Adrian Voss did not sleep.
He followed Seraphine through the shadowed gardens, past moonlit hedges and dry fountains carved in the likeness of forgotten gods. She moved without hesitation, as if the palace grounds had once belonged to her.
"You walk like you've escaped this place before," Adrian murmured.
"I have," she replied. "Many times."
They reached the outer wall where ivy climbed the stone. A narrow servant's gate stood ajar—left that way deliberately.
"You planned this," Adrian said.
"I plan everything."
She slipped through. After a breath's hesitation, he followed.
The Thornwood began where the manicured royal gardens ended.
Moonlight struggled through its canopy. The air smelled of damp earth and pine resin. Somewhere distant, an owl called once, twice—then fell silent.
Adrian's hand hovered near his rapier.
"You're taking a great risk," he said quietly. "If this is treason—"
"It is," Seraphine answered.
He glanced at her sharply.
She stopped walking.
"You saw his eyes."
"Yes."
"And you felt it too, didn't you?" Her voice lowered. "When he looks at someone long enough. Like something is weighing their soul."
Adrian remembered the execution that evening—a minor lord accused of sedition. Vortigern had leaned forward, almost tenderly.
Mercy is for those who understand obedience, the king had said.
The man had screamed until his voice broke.
Adrian swallowed. "You're suggesting possession."
"I'm stating it."
A branch snapped behind them.
Adrian turned instantly, drawing steel.
Shapes emerged from the trees—four figures stepping into the dim light.
A broad-shouldered warrior with braided dark hair and burn-scarred hands.
An older man with iron-gray beard and calm, assessing eyes.
A young woman barely past girlhood clutching a satchel of herbs.
And another shadow behind them, silent.
Seraphine didn't flinch.
"Stand down," she said.
The warrior's gaze flicked to Adrian. Hostile. Measuring.
"You brought a noble," he said. "Into our forest."
"He's not just a noble," Seraphine replied. "He's useful."
Adrian sheathed his rapier slowly. "I would prefer to be consulted before being categorized."
The older man stepped forward.
"Garrick," he said simply. "And you are Adrian Voss. Second son. Recently out of favor."
"News travels quickly," Adrian said.
"Truth travels faster than lies," Garrick answered. "And there are many lies in that palace."
The warrior snorted. "Ask him if he still kneels."
Adrian met his gaze. "I kneel to no tyrant."
"Bold words," the warrior said. "They'll cost you."
Seraphine stepped between them. "Thorne. Enough."
The name hung heavy. Thorne's stare lingered on Adrian a heartbeat longer before he stepped back.
Garrick gestured deeper into the woods. "Come. If you are to see truth, you must see all of it."
They reached a clearing encircled by standing stones half-swallowed by moss. Symbols carved into their surfaces caught faint silver light.
Adrian frowned. "Old pagan ruins."
"Older than pagan," Mirael—the young healer—whispered.
Seraphine moved to the center.
"You want proof," she said.
Adrian nodded once.
She closed her eyes.
The forest seemed to inhale.
When she opened them again, they were no longer storm-gray.
They were black—endless, starless.
The air bent around her like heat rising from stone. Her shadow stretched unnaturally long across the clearing, splitting into thin, wavering tendrils.
Thorne's posture shifted—reverent now.
"This is Vespera," Seraphine said, though her voice carried a second whisper beneath it, soft and layered. "Demon of veil and untruth."
Adrian felt cold press against his ribs—not fear exactly, but recognition. Something ancient brushing the edge of his senses.
"You're possessed," he breathed.
"I am a vessel," she corrected.
The shadow behind her coiled, forming the faint outline of wings before dissolving again.
"Your king is also a vessel," Vespera's layered voice continued. "But his is not one of our kind."
Adrian's heartbeat thundered.
"Then what?"
Seraphine's human eyes flickered through the darkness for a moment, sorrow threading her expression.
"Lucifer."
The name seemed to silence even the insects.
Thorne stepped forward, firelight flickering faintly beneath his skin as if embers glowed in his veins. "The fallen one wears your crown. And he feeds."
"Feeds on what?" Adrian asked.
"Conflict," Garrick answered. "Suffering. Broken faith."
Mirael's fingers tightened around her satchel. "The old seals are weakening. Every unjust execution. Every burned village. It gives him more ground."
Adrian's mind reeled.
"That's madness."
"It is design," Seraphine said softly. "You think the cruelty random? The wars he provokes? The western incursions he 'fails' to prevent?"
Adrian thought of Vortigern's speeches—how he always seemed one step ahead of dissent, how fear swelled exactly when loyalty wavered.
Golden eyes.
Carefully measured chaos.
"If what you say is true," Adrian said slowly, "why not strike him down yourselves?"
Thorne barked a humorless laugh. "Because we would die."
Garrick's gaze was steady. "And because killing the body does not kill the will behind it."
A distant horn echoed faintly through the forest.
Everyone stilled.
Mirael's face drained of color. "Riders."
Thorne's expression hardened. "They followed."
Adrian's stomach dropped. "The king's guard?"
Seraphine's eyes darkened again—human now, but blazing.
"He knew," she whispered.
As if summoned by the thought, the sound of hooves grew louder.
Far away, in the highest tower of the palace, King Vortigern stood at his window, gazing into the dark horizon.
His eyes gleamed molten gold.
"They gather," he murmured softly, though no one stood beside him.
Another voice answered from within the same mouth—calm, amused.
"Good."
In the Thornwood clearing, torches flared between the trees.
Steel rang.
And Adrian realized the path he had chosen could never lead back to silk halls and polite lies.
The hunt had begun.