The First Kill
The night air was thick with smoke and secrets.
The West Wing gardens lay cloaked in silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of branches or distant clink of metal on stone.
It was there—beneath the ivy-draped statue of Queen Mireya the Merciful—that the trap had been set.
And it was there that Serena waited, cloaked in black, blade hidden against her thigh.
She was done being watched.
Tonight, she was the one doing the hunting.
"You're certain it's him?" she asked quietly, eyes on the shadowed archway.
Damián stood beside her, his face unreadable.
"Serren's contact. Courier. Spy. He was the one Elara met with. He's returning for the next drop."
"And if it's not him?"
Damián didn't blink. "Then we catch a liar."
Serena gripped the hilt of her blade.
She didn't feel scared.
She felt still.
Footsteps.
Fast. Soft.
Approaching.
Serena stepped back into the shadows.
Damián stayed perfectly still.
The figure appeared—gray cloak, hood low.
Just like before.
But this time, as he reached for the hollow in the statue where messages were left, Serena moved.
Fast.
Sharp.
She stepped behind him, blade at his throat before he even gasped.
"Move," she said, voice low, "and I'll open you like a letter."
The man stilled.
"Who do you serve?" Damián asked.
No answer.
Serena pressed the blade harder. "Name. Now."
He turned slightly—just enough for her to see his face.
And her blood turned to ice.
It was a man she'd known from prison.
Not a noble.
Not a servant.
A rebel.
One who had turned informant to save his own skin.
"You," she whispered. "You gave them my location. You got my people killed."
He smiled.
Crooked. Arrogant.
"I only killed the ones too stupid to kneel."
Serena didn't speak.
She didn't tremble.
She didn't flinch.
She just moved.
The blade sliced clean.
Not messy.
Not loud.
Quick.
His body dropped without a sound.
She stood over him, breath shallow, blood staining her knuckles.
Damián didn't stop her.
Didn't touch her.
He watched.
And when she looked at him—face pale, hands red—he stepped forward.
Took the blade from her grip.
Wiped it clean.
And tucked it into his belt.
"You did what I could not," he said softly.
She shook her head. "I didn't do it for you."
"I know," he said. "That's what makes it powerful."
That night, she washed her hands in silence.
The water ran red.
Elara found her in her chamber, seated on the edge of the bed, eyes vacant.
"You're shaking," Elara whispered.
"I killed him."
Elara didn't answer.
She just knelt in front of her and gently rested her head on Serena's knees.
"You survived him," she said.
"And you protected us."
When Damián entered later, Serena didn't rise.
He came to her.
Kneeled before her.
Took her stained hands in his.
And pressed a kiss to her palm.
"You've become the most dangerous thing in this kingdom," he murmured.
"What's that?"
He looked up at her.
Eyes full of reverence.
"Mine."