Chapter Four: Like Fire, Like Fangs

The morning after a midnight visit from the kingdom's most cursed duke should have been full of dread, regret, or at the very least, tea.

Instead, Seraphina woke to a letter on her breakfast tray.

Thick vellum. Royal seal.

An invitation to tea with the Queen.

She blinked.

Then blinked again.

And then laughed so loudly her maid nearly dropped the toast.

---

Ten minutes later, dressed in a shade of soft lavender that screamed "I'm innocent," Seraphina let herself be led down the marbled halls of the palace toward the Queen's private sunroom.

She'd never met Queen Ilireth in person, only heard things.

That she was beautiful. Brutal. Half-elf and half-shadow. That her temper had once made a general cry. That she hated tea.

Which meant today was not really about sipping anything.

The Queen was already waiting.

Tall, ageless, dressed in mourning black despite the clear summer sun streaming through glass-paneled walls. She stood by a sun-drenched table set for two but had not touched the tea.

Her gaze, cool and ancient, lifted as Seraphina entered.

"Lady Dorne," she said. "Come sit before the gossip pages arrive."

Seraphina obeyed, smoothing her skirts and setting her smile to "charming but lightly dangerous."

"You've caused quite the stir," the Queen said, pouring herself a cup of untouched tea purely for the performance.

"I'm told I do that," Seraphina replied. "Usually by accident."

"Is the bond an accident?"

"I didn't choose the ring."

"But you're not trying to remove it."

Seraphina leaned in slightly. "Would you? If fate handed you the most wanted man in the kingdom, and I mean wanted in every sense of the word, would you be in a rush to give him back?"

The Queen studied her. "He's cursed."

"So am I. Just... socially."

Ilireth didn't laugh. But her mouth twitched. Almost.

"You're bold," she said.

"I'm tired."

"Same thing, in court."

The Queen stirred her tea with a silver spoon that had more runes than decorative value. "The bond is older than Blackmere. We've tried to trace it. It's not just Elion who's cursed."

"Let me guess," Seraphina said. "Me too?"

"Not quite. But the bond isn't dormant anymore. It chooses. It responds."

"To what?"

"To power. Desire. Proximity. And something we can't yet name."

That last part made her pause.

Ilireth placed a small box on the table between them.

Seraphina looked down inside.

A dagger.

Slim, curved, beautiful. Its blade shimmered with darkened steel.

"For when the bond tries to consume one of you," said the Queen, softly.

It wasn't a threat.

It was a gift.

---

Back in her room, Seraphina stared at the blade.

Elion was gone. Again. Like he always was in daylight, disappearing into old wings of the castle no one dared enter.

And that was when she decided she'd had enough of waiting.

---

Night fell.

The palace stilled.

And Seraphina, armed with a new dagger, a stolen map, and exactly no common sense, slipped through an enchanted hallway and into the forbidden western wing.

It was colder here. Not magically…just wrong. The stone felt ancient. The paintings watched.

And somewhere ahead, through a crumbling door covered in black ivy, was the Black Room.

The room where Lysandra Vale had last been seen.

The room where Elion went to remember.

She entered.

The scent of magic hit her first. Not perfume magic or fancy glamour magic. This was old magic. Heavy. Breathing.

The chamber was circular, lit by a dozen blue-flamed candles that never flickered. Books lined the shelves. And at its center stood Elion, shirtless, breathing hard, blood on his hands.

She froze.

He didn't turn.

"You shouldn't be here," he said, voice hoarse.

"And yet," she replied softly, "here I am."

She did not know why she stayed, or why she did not feel afraid…'was this because of the bond,' she thought to herself

"You're feeling the pull, aren't you?"

"I don't know what I'm feeling."

He looked over his shoulder.

His eyes were glowing.

Suddenly he was in front of her, too close, and the bond screamed between them. It wasn't just warmth this time…it was fire. Wild, reckless fire.

"You need to leave," he growled.

"No."

"This isn't a court dance, Seraphina. I'm not safe."

"I'm not asking you to be."

He reached out, then stopped himself. His hands hovered near her shoulders like he couldn't trust his touch.

"I've killed before," he whispered.

"And I've survived worse."

Something snapped.

And this time, it wasn't the chandelier.

Their lips crashed.

No silk. No ceremony.

Just hunger and fate.

And the bond roared.

It felt like wind in her chest, magic clawing beneath her skin, fire behind her eyes. His hands found her waist, careful, then not. Her fingers tangled in his hair…soft, damp, real.

The kiss was a promise and a curse and an apology all at once.

Then abruptly, he pulled back, breathing like a man chased by ghosts.

"Not here," he said.

"Why?"

"Because this room remembers the last woman who tried to love me."

"And?"

"She didn't leave it alive."