The Knife Behind the Veil
The banquet hall gleamed like a mirror polished in ambition.
Gold-framed portraits watched from above. Chandeliers glittered like ice about to shatter. Nobles from kingdoms near and far filled the room in silks, velvets, and politics disguised as compliments.
Tonight was Damián's first public appearance as crowned ruler.
But no one looked at him.
They looked at her.
Serena Vale.
The rebel.
The killer.
The King's chosen.
The woman in midnight silk with her shoulders bare and her mouth painted the same red they accused her of spilling.
"Careful," someone whispered. "She's sharper than she looks."
"She wears the collar like a crown."
"She doesn't wear it. She makes him wear it."
At the center of the long table, Serena sat beside Damián, her posture perfect, her gaze unreadable. Elara sat just two seats away, eyes wide with awe and pride, sipping champagne like she was part of a fairytale she hadn't realized she'd wandered into.
Across the table, foreign dignitaries whispered in tongues Serena had once only studied in stolen books.
But she listened.
She always listened.
Prince Kael of Adris rose halfway through the feast.
Younger than Damián. Prettier. Dangerous in the way boys born into privilege often were: charming, sharp, and arrogant enough to mistake silence for obedience.
He toasted the new king, then turned to Serena with a smile that bit too deep.
"And to Lady Vale," he said. "Who proves that bloodlines are merely… decorative."
Laughter.
Tight. Thin.
Damián's jaw tensed.
But Serena smiled.
And stood.
"I thank you, Your Highness," she said sweetly. "And I'm honored to be acknowledged by a man whose entire existence is, in fact, purely decorative."
Kael's smile faltered.
"But," she continued, tilting her head, "should you ever question my presence here again, I'd be delighted to remind you why I was chosen."
She leaned in slightly.
"Preferably with a blade."
The room went silent.
Damián didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
He raised his glass—only once—and drank.
Everyone followed.
Because if the King didn't correct her, no one else would dare.
Later that evening, in the rose marble corridor just outside the banquet doors, Damián found her alone.
Hands resting lightly on the edge of a windowsill.
He stepped behind her, placing one hand on her hip, the other brushing her bare shoulder.
"You enjoy terrifying foreign royalty," he murmured.
"They came to measure my silence."
"And?"
"They choked on it."
He turned her around, pressed her against the wall, his mouth at her ear.
"You make this kingdom tremble."
"Not as much as I make you," she whispered back.
He didn't deny it.
He kissed her like he wanted the whole court to hear it.
And when he pulled away, breath ragged, voice low, he said,
"I want to give you a crown."
She looked up.
"No," she said softly. "Give me a kingdom instead."