Chapter 2.5 A Throne Surrounded by Kings

A Throne Surrounded by Kings

Seraphina exhaled and turned away from the mirror, stepping toward her grand four-poster bed. The silk sheets were cool against her fingers, but sleep wouldn't come to her so easily tonight.

Her mind was racing.

The system had told her she needed to complete each route.

Five men. Five paths.

Only then would the world be saved.

But even now, even knowing that this world was real, she couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong.

Was she playing the game, or were the characters playing her?

She had written them. Created them. Poured her soul into every detail of their personalities, their histories, their desires.

And yet…

Now they were real. Living, breathing. Unpredictable.

She closed her eyes, letting her thoughts drift.

For a moment, the world around her shifted.

The grand bedroom faded, replaced by a vision—one so vivid, so intoxicatingly real that she could almost feel it.

A throne.

Her throne.

She sat upon it, draped in glistening silk, adorned in gold, the weight of a crown resting atop her head.

And around her, like celestial bodies orbiting a single sun—the five men.

Each of them radiated something dangerous. Something powerful.

Lucien, the Duke.

To her right, Lucien stood tall in an immaculate black coat, silver embroidery lining the edges. His presence alone could send shivers through the nobility—a man of quiet dominance, the sharp cut of his jaw and piercing blur eyes unwavering as he regarded her. His short raven-black hair was neatly styled, giving him a polished, untouchable air.

One gloved hand rested on the throne's armrest, just beside hers. Close, but not touching. A silent promise that he was always near—always watching.

Caius, the General.

Behind her, Caius stood like an unshakable wall, his red spiky hair an unruly contrast to his disciplined stance. He smelled faintly of steel and leather, a warrior's scent. His amber eyes, burning like fire, flickered with amusement as if he was the only one here not bound by rules.

A single hand rested on the back of her throne, his fingers casual but possessive. He was the least restrained among them—a man who would take what he wanted when he wanted, and right now, his eyes were fixed only on her.

Valen, the Archmage.

At her feet, Valen knelt with effortless grace, his head bowed slightly—yet it was clear the gesture was not submission, but reverence. His light blue hair was tied back into a loose ponytail, strands of it falling over his forehead. His robes, laced with silver arcane symbols, shimmered faintly as if infused with magic itself.

His heterochromatic eyes—one golden, one sapphire— gazed up at her with something both knowing and devoted. He lifted her hand, his fingers cool yet searing. His lips brushed against her knuckles, sending a faint shiver through her spine. A mage's devotion was absolute. And his? It was hers entirely.

Elias, the High Priest.

To her left, Elias stood in pristine white robes embroidered with gold, his long sleeves draping elegantly at his sides. He was the image of untouchable divinity, his silver-white hair cascading in soft waves around his face, framing eyes as deep and rich as violets in bloom.

His fingers curled beneath her chin, tilting her face upward, forcing her to meet his piercing gaze.

"Look at me, Seraphina," he murmured, his voice like honey-laced poison. A command, not a request.

The Crown Prince.

At the base of her throne, the Crown Prince sat on the lower step, looking up at her with an expression both unreadable and reverent.

His golden hair gleamed under the flickering torchlight, his sapphire-blue eyes holding the kind of intensity that could leave entire courts breathless. He was well-built—not a delicate royal, but a man forged in battle, his broad shoulders proof of his strength.

Slowly, he leaned down, his lips brushing against the top of her foot.

A silent vow. A declaration that she was above even the empire itself.

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A shiver ran through her.

She had created them. Crafted their personalities, their ambitions, their strengths, and weaknesses.

And yet, looking at them now—at their burning gazes, their unwavering devotion, their undeniable power—

She wondered if, in the end, she was the one who had fallen into their hands instead.

The vision shattered.

She was back in her room, her heart hammering.

She exhaled, pressing a hand to her chest.

It was only a dream.

And yet, it left behind a lingering sense of inevitability.

A whisper of what was to come.

Five men. Five endings. One throne.

And she, Seraphina Evernight, was at the center of it all.

The game had begun.