A Throne of Wanting

Night fell like a velvet noose over Ravenhold.

Darkness clung to the stone walls like oil, thick and refusing to be chased away by torchlight. The moon hung high and sickle-thin, bleeding silver across the sky. Somewhere in the east, thunder echoed, a low growl that made the ravens take flight.

Seraphina stood before the mirror in her chambers, half-dressed, half-lost. The gown Mira had left for her was deep crimson, embroidered with black thorns. It looked like something a queen might wear to a funeral. Or a coronation. She traced the collar, her fingertips grazing the mark at her throat—the place Valen's lips had once lingered.

Her reflection stared back with eyes too ancient for her years.

"You look like her," a voice murmured.

Seraphina turned.

Rowan stood in the doorway, arms crossed, his silhouette limned in gold by the hall's candelabras. He didn't move to enter. He didn't need to. His presence filled the room anyway.

"Like who?" she asked, even though she knew.

"Your mother. The night before she vanished, she wore a gown like that. Same fire in her eyes. Same sadness, too."

She turned back to the mirror. "Do you think I'm her shadow?"

"No," he said. "I think you're her vengeance."

A silence stretched between them. Then:

"You kissed him."

"Are you here to shame me for it too?"

Rowan stepped forward, slowly. Each step deliberate, heavy. Like he was walking toward a battlefield.

"No. I came to ask if you regret it."

Seraphina met his eyes in the mirror. "I don't know. I regret not understanding him sooner. I regret that it felt like something inside me woke up. Something that had been sleeping for centuries."

He stopped just behind her, his breath warming her neck.

"I hate him for what he's taken from you. From all of us. But part of me... part of me envies him, too."

She turned to face him, and for a moment, neither spoke. The room hummed with unsaid things.

Rowan reached up and touched her cheek. "Don't become what he wants. Become something he could never hold."

Her heart thudded.

She could have kissed him. She could have leaned into the safety he offered. But safety was a luxury she no longer believed in.

"I have to leave Ravenhold," she said instead.

Rowan blinked. "Tonight?"

She nodded. "If I stay, the council will move against me. Lady Lysara has already sent word to the outer provinces. There's a bounty on my head."

"Where will you go?"

"To him."

Rowan looked like he'd been punched. "You're walking into a lion's den."

"No. I'm walking into my past. My truth. If I'm to destroy him, I have to understand him. And if he really wants me on his throne, he'll let me get close enough to cut it out from under him."

Rowan grasped her wrist. "Then take this."

He pressed something into her hand. A ring. His crest.

"If you fall, they'll know who you belonged to."

She smiled, sad and sweet. "I don't belong to anyone, Rowan. But thank you."

Seraphina left Ravenhold through the eastern tunnels.

Mira met her there, cloak drawn tight against the cold. Her face was pale, lips pinched. She didn't say anything at first. Just held out a small vial.

"What is it?" Seraphina asked.

"Heartroot. It'll keep him from fully binding you to him. Use it if you feel yourself slipping."

Seraphina took it. "Thank you."

"Don't thank me," Mira said, voice sharp. "Come back. Or I'll come drag your sorry, cursed ass home myself."

They embraced. Tight. Fierce. Like it was the last time.

The path to Valen's domain was not one she walked. It pulled her.

A trail of black petals led her through the Withered Vale, past trees that whispered her name and stones that bled when she stepped over them. The moon grew larger the deeper she went, until it seemed to fill the sky like a watching eye.

And at the end of the path, he waited.

Valen.

Seated upon a throne carved of bone and ash, a crown of thorns on his brow, and a look in his eyes that said he'd known she would come.

"Seraphina," he said, rising.

Her name in his mouth was a ruin turned reverent.

She stepped forward, every inch of her humming.

"So this is your kingdom."

"It was always meant to be ours."

"You don't own me."

"Not yet."

He extended his hand.

She took it.

Not out of love.

Not out of loyalty.

But because every war begins with a dance. And she intended to lead.