POV: Seraphine Vale
Captain Renn's grip on her arm is unbreakable.
Seraphine does not struggle. She learned long ago that struggling only makes things worse. Instead, she stands completely still and watches as the king in front of her slowly turns around.
The champagne drips from his collar in small, steady drops. It soaks into the black fabric of his uniform. He looks down at his sleeve with the kind of calm attention someone might give to a spill at their breakfast table. Not angry. Not yet. Just... noticing.
Then his dark eyes lift to find her.
The people standing near him take a small step back without meaning to. Even Captain Renn shifts slightly, as if standing too close to the king in this moment is dangerous. Seraphine can feel the fear rippling through the ballroom like something alive. Fear of what he will do. Fear of what he is thinking. Fear of the absolute silence that has fallen over a room that held a thousand conversations just seconds ago.
She knows who this man is. Everyone knows.
King Darian Ashvael. The Crimson King. The man who took the throne at sixteen and has kept it through force and fear ever since. The stories about him are always the same: he is ruthless, merciless, cold as winter stone. Every story about him ends with someone dead. Or ruined. Or wishing they had never caught his attention in the first place.
And right now, he is staring directly at her.
Her father has gone completely silent across the room. The foreign buyers have disappeared into the crowd. Even the orchestra has stopped playing, as if the musicians understand that any sound at all is disrespectful in this moment.
Seraphine should bow. Protocol demands it. She should apologize profusely. She should beg forgiveness. She should make herself small and harmless and forgettable.
Instead, she does something that surprises even herself.
She lifts her chin.
It is a small movement. Just her head rising an inch. Just her eyes meeting his directly instead of looking down at her feet the way a proper lady should. But in that single moment, she chooses defiance over safety, and the entire ballroom holds its breath.
The king's mouth moves slightly.
It is almost imperceptible. Just the corner of his lips curving upward, like the start of something he has not quite decided to finish. And Seraphine — standing here with Captain Renn's hand on her arm, surrounded by a thousand people who want her arrested, facing a man who could end her life with a single word — understands something with absolute clarity.
He is not angry.
He is intrigued.
The silence stretches between them. It grows heavier with every passing second. It becomes a living thing, pressing down on everyone in the ballroom. Seraphine can feel her own heartbeat in her throat. She can feel the weight of Captain Renn's confusion beside her — a man trained to read the king's moods suddenly uncertain. She can feel her father's panic from across the room like a physical force.
But she does not look away.
Neither does Darian.
His dark eyes move over her face with the kind of attention that makes her feel like he is reading something no one else can see. Not her beauty. Not her status. Something deeper. Something about who she actually is beneath the white gown and the practiced smile and the desperation that must be written all over her if anyone bothered to look close enough.
And he is looking close enough.
"Your Majesty," Captain Renn says carefully, his voice tight with a respect that borders on fear. "What are your orders?"
The king does not answer immediately. He simply keeps watching her. The moment stretches on. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty. In a ballroom full of thousands, the only sound is the slow drip of champagne hitting the marble floor, each drop echoing like a countdown.
Finally, he speaks.
His voice is quiet. So quiet that if you were not paying attention, you might miss it. But the entire ballroom is paying attention. The entire ballroom is holding its collective breath waiting to hear what the Crimson King will say.
"Tell me," he says softly, his eyes still locked on hers. "What is your name?"
Seraphine's mouth is dry. Every sensible instinct is screaming at her to give him a simple answer and nothing more. To be invisible. To be forgettable. To say her name and disappear into the background of his memory.
But she has never been good at being sensible.
"Lady Seraphine Vale, Your Majesty," she says. Her voice is steady. She is amazed that her voice is steady. "I apologize for the accident. It was entirely—"
"Not an accident," Darian interrupts quietly. His lips curve into something that is definitely a smile now. A dangerous smile. "You were running."
It is not a question.
Seraphine's mouth closes. There is no point in denying it. Everyone saw her running. Everyone understands what she was doing. The only question now is what he is going to do about it.
The king takes a step forward. Captain Renn's grip on her arm tightens. The crowd around them shrinks back further, creating space as if they are afraid they will be caught in the blast radius of whatever is about to happen.
Darian's eyes move between hers, searching for something. Testing her. Measuring her. And then he says something that changes everything:
"Lady Seraphine Vale. You have just committed three offenses that would see a normal person executed. You touched a member of the royal guard without permission. You caused damage to the king's property — quite deliberately, I might add. And you attempted to flee the ballroom during a royal event."
Her heart is slamming in her chest. This is it. This is the moment she dies. This is the moment the Crimson King decides she is too much trouble to keep alive.
But then he smiles fully, and it is the most beautiful and terrifying thing she has ever seen.
"Which is why you will come with me," he says. "Immediately. You are no longer a guest of this gathering. You are now a guest of the crown. Take her to the carriage."
Captain Renn does not hesitate. He begins moving, pulling her forward, and Seraphine understands in that moment that she has not escaped her fate at all.
She has simply traded one prison for another.
A far more dangerous one.