The weight of the fight still clung to Nyra's body like a second skin, sweat cooling against the dried blood that painted her like war paint. Her muscles ached, bruises blooming beneath her skin, but she did not falter, did not betray the exhaustion settling into her bones. She stood in the center of the grand hall, where only moments ago, the echoes of battle had filled the air. Now, all that remained was the steady hum of murmured voices, whispers of those who still tried to comprehend what they had witnessed.
The nobles did not know what to make of her.
Some watched with cold calculation, their sharp gazes dissecting her every movement as if trying to decide whether she was a threat or an opportunity. Others looked away in disgust, their delicate sensibilities unsettled by the raw brutality she had displayed. And then there were those whose eyes lingered longer, filled with something darker—fascination, hunger, or the kind of curiosity that often led to ruin.
The warrior she had defeated had been dragged from the floor, his body a heap of broken flesh and shattered pride. The crimson smear left in his wake stood out starkly against the polished marble, a reminder that even in the highest courts, bloodshed was never truly absent. Servants scrubbed at the stain, their movements hurried, desperate to erase the evidence of what had transpired. But it would not be forgotten. No amount of effort could cleanse the memory from the minds of those who had borne witness to it.
Her chains, still slick with crimson, clinked softly as she shifted her stance. The sound was sharper than the murmurs, more present, more real. A reminder that though she had won, she was still bound. Still waiting.
King Vaelor had not taken his eyes off her.
His gaze was weighty, not just with curiosity but with something deeper—an assessment, a measure of something only he seemed to understand. He lounged on his throne with the ease of a ruler who feared nothing, his golden eyes gleaming with something unreadable. His fingers tapped absently against the armrest, a slow, deliberate rhythm that filled the silence between them.
Nyra met his gaze, steady, unwavering, waiting.
And then he smiled.
"You fight like a creature born of war," he mused, his voice cutting through the lingering tension in the hall. "But strength without direction is nothing more than wasted potential. Tell me, Nyra Vale—what do you intend to do with yours?"
The murmurs ceased altogether.
Silence settled over the court like a shroud, the weight of his words pressing down on the room. A question, a challenge, a trap—woven into a single sentence.
She could feel the expectation pressing in from all sides. The nobles awaited her response, some hoping for her submission, others for her defiance. She knew the wrong answer could shift the tide against her, but she had never been one to bow, never been one to give them what they wanted.
She lifted her chin, blood-speckled chains wrapped around her wrists, and met the King's golden gaze with fire in her own.
"Whatever I choose."
The air shifted, sharp and electric. A slow inhale, a shift in weight—subtle movements that spoke volumes in the silent court.
King Vaelor's smirk deepened, but his amusement did not reach his eyes.
Tension rippled through the gathered nobles. A few exchanged glances, whispers barely restrained. One lord narrowed his gaze, fingers tightening on the hilt of the ceremonial blade at his side. A noblewoman exhaled slowly, her lips curving into something that was not quite disapproval—but not approval either.
Kierian stood at the edge of the gathering, his presence like a shadow in the periphery. Unlike the others, he did not shift, did not murmur. He simply watched, silent and unreadable, his expression betraying nothing. But Nyra could feel it—the sharp focus of his gaze, the way he measured the space between her and the King, as if already predicting the next move in a game neither had spoken aloud.
Then, the King leaned forward, resting his elbows against his knees, lacing his fingers together. The casual posture did nothing to soften the weight of his scrutiny.
"Is that so?" he murmured, more to himself than to her.
Nyra did not blink. Did not break her stance.
The weight of the King's words lingered in the air, pressing against Nyra's skin like unseen chains. The murmurs of the court remained hushed, a delicate balance between intrigue and unease.
Nyra stood firm, her chains clinking softly as she shifted her stance, her body aching from the battle yet refusing to yield to exhaustion. Blood still clung to her skin, cooling against the heated pulse of adrenaline that had yet to fully fade.
King Vaelor's golden eyes studied her, his expression unreadable save for the lingering smirk that danced at the edges of his lips. He was amused, entertained by her defiance, but beneath the amusement lay something deeper. Calculation. Expectation.
She did not trust it.
"Whatever you choose?" The King mused, his voice laced with a quiet, dangerous amusement. "A bold claim. But choice is a luxury, is it not? One that must be earned."
A few nobles chuckled under their breath, though none dared to speak freely. Nyra did not shift under their scrutiny, her expression remaining carved from stone.
She moved.
The court was a storm of unspoken tension, a pulse of energy that crackled through the air like the moments before a thunderclap. Every step she took carried weight, each movement slow, deliberate, a predator closing in on its mark. The torches lining the grand hall flickered against the gleam of blood on her skin, tracing the ridges of her collarbone, gliding in sinuous lines over the curves of her body. Her chains dragged behind her in a slow, rhythmic clang against the marble, a haunting sound that set the nerves of weaker men on edge.
A ripple of reaction swept through the court like a shockwave. Some nobles leaned forward, eyes alight with intrigue, their lips parting in whispers that barely brushed the air. Others stiffened, their expressions hardening in distaste, as if her very presence was an offense to their delicate sensibilities. A noblewoman in an emerald gown scoffed under her breath, her fan snapping shut as she muttered something about 'uncivilized arrogance.'
Yet, not all disapproved.
A lord seated near the front exhaled sharply, his gaze darkening with something less than polite interest. Nyra felt the weight of his stare, the slow, lingering drag of his eyes over her body. A surge of irritation prickled beneath her skin, her fingers twitching with the desire to claw that look right off his face. But she did not react. She would not give him—or any of them—the satisfaction of knowing they could get under her skin. A few men exchanged knowing glances, their eyes trailing the curve of her hips, the way the blood-slick fabric clung to her skin. One whispered something crude to his companion, earning a stifled chuckle. Another traced the rim of his goblet with his thumb, watching her with a predatory glint that made her want to break his fingers.
The sound of her chains dragging behind her only amplified the effect. The slow, deliberate sway of her hips, the sheen of sweat and blood painting her skin—it was a sight that demanded attention, whether in admiration or contempt. Some saw a warrior, a force of nature to be reckoned with. Others saw a challenge, something to be conquered or broken.
But she was neither.
Her hips swayed with each step, not with intentional provocation, but with the effortless grace of a warrior who knew her own body, knew her own presence. She was something greater. And as she walked, as she closed the distance between herself and the King, she let them wonder—let them question just how dangerous she truly was.
Not with hesitation, not with caution—but with purpose. The moment her foot stepped forward, the air itself seemed to tighten, as if the great hall had become a living thing—watching, waiting, holding its breath. The weight of a hundred gazes bore down on her, some filled with contempt, others thick with desire, but none dared to look away.
Her stride was slow, deliberate, each step an unspoken declaration. The chains wrapped around her wrists and ankles clinked softly, the sound like a ghostly whisper against the polished marble, leaving a trail of bloodied imprints in her wake. The crimson-streaked fabric of her torn clothing clung to her skin, accentuating every curve, every line of muscle sculpted by hardship. Torchlight flickered across her, making the sweat and blood on her body glisten like war paint, the deep contrast of light and shadow making her appear almost ethereal—both divine and deadly.
Every movement was calculated, exuding a raw, primal energy, the kind that could not be ignored. The kind that made men shift in their seats, some swallowing thickly, others gripping their goblets tighter, their knuckles turning white. A nobleman seated near the edge of the gathering cleared his throat, his voice barely audible as he murmured to his companion, "She moves like she owns this court."
And perhaps, in this moment, she did. A ripple of tension, a silent inhale, a barely audible gasp. Her stride was slow, deliberate, the sound of her chains dragging behind her in soft, metallic whispers. The blood that painted her body gleamed under the torchlight, streaks of crimson tracing the curves of her form like art upon a battlefield. Each movement was precise, poised—not just of a warrior, but something more.
Something untamed. Something lethal.
The ruined fabric of her clothes clung to her frame, torn in places that hinted at the sculpted lines of her body beneath, the contrast between softness and unyielding muscle. The blood that had once been a sign of violence now became something else entirely—an adornment, an offering, a declaration. Her dark hair, damp with sweat and streaked with crimson, cascaded down her back in untamed waves, the loose strands framing a face carved from fire and defiance. Her silver eyes gleamed, sharp and unrelenting, pinning the King beneath their weight as she closed the distance between them.
The nobles reacted in a symphony of whispers and silent exchanges. Some muttered in disbelief, their voices hushed yet frantic—"A slave, standing so boldly?"—while others scoffed, unable to stomach the audacity in her stride. A few noblewomen exchanged glances, their lips curling in distaste. "How utterly improper," one sneered, gripping the jeweled handle of her fan as if it might shield her from the sheer defiance radiating from Nyra.
But the men—some could not tear their eyes away. "What a fascinating creature," a lord murmured under his breath, tilting his goblet as he observed the sway of her blood-slicked form. Another chuckled darkly, "No fear. No hesitation. She walks as if she belongs here."
Some, men and women alike, could not tear their gazes away—eyes tracing the commanding sway of her approach, lingering too long where the dim light accentuated the curves that her torn attire failed to conceal. A few noblewomen sneered, jealousy or disdain flickering behind their carefully composed expressions. Others averted their gazes entirely, uncomfortable with the sheer audacity of the slave-girl-turned-warrior walking as though she owned the space she stood in.
And the King watched it all, his expression unreadable, his amusement barely veiled beneath the surface.
He did not shift, did not move. But his golden eyes never left her. They followed the prowl in her movements, the defiance in her posture, the way she dared to approach without a trace of fear. The amused smirk that had been playing at his lips remained, but there was something else beneath it now—something sharper, something intrigued.
Then, she stopped before him, standing close enough that the scent of blood and sweat was palpable in the space between them. The tension in the room thickened, a collective breath held as they waited—waited to see if she would kneel, if she would bow, if she would do anything to acknowledge his authority.
She did not.
Instead, she lifted her chin, silver eyes locking onto gold with a fire that refused to be dimmed.
"Threaten the people I love again," she murmured, her voice dark, rich, dripping with warning, "and I will remind you why even kings should be afraid."
Silence. Thick, unrelenting.
Then, Vaelor laughed.
It wasn't the mocking laughter of a ruler who found amusement in a slave's delusions. No, this was something deeper, richer—satisfaction laced with approval. A slow, deliberate chuckle that rumbled through his chest as he reclined further in his throne, one hand resting against his jaw as he regarded her.
"You truly are fascinating," he mused, golden eyes gleaming. "Few would dare speak to me in such a way. Fewer still would live to tell of it."
Nyra did not waver. "And yet, here I stand."
Vaelor exhaled a soft chuckle. "Indeed, you do." He tilted his head slightly, as if examining her from a new perspective. "Tell me, little warrior, how old are you?"
A murmur swept through the court, hushed but audible. The nobles hadn't considered it, hadn't questioned it until now. They had seen her fight, seen the destruction she had left in her wake, and they had assumed. Assumed she was older. Assumed she was trained, battle-hardened by years of war.
Nyra held his gaze. "Fourteen."
The murmur became a wave. A sharp inhale from someone in the crowd. A muttered curse under the breath of a lord. Even those who had remained silent, impassive, let their masks crack with something close to disbelief.
The King, however, did not look surprised. If anything, his smirk deepened, as if he had already known.
"Fourteen," he repeated, tasting the word as if it intrigued him. "And already capable of breaking men twice your size. Tell me, did you learn to fight like that in chains?"
Nyra's jaw tightened. "I learned to survive in them."
Vaelor chuckled again, leaning back in his throne. "Survival is a valuable skill. But power—true power—is something else entirely." His gaze flicked toward the nobles, then back to her. "You have proven your strength, Nyra Vale. You fought and you won. So, tell me—what is it that you want?"
The room quieted once more, all eyes returning to her, waiting.
Nyra lifted her chin, the fire in her silver eyes unwavering. She had earned this moment. She would not waste it.
"I want my own freedom and that of Riven and Seraph," she said, her voice carrying through the hall, unwavering, unafraid.
A pause. A long, drawn-out silence. Then—
The King's laughter filled the hall, deep and resounding, cutting through the tension like a blade. It was not mockery, nor was it disbelief—it was amusement, rich with something deeper.
It started low, rolling from Vaelor's chest like thunder before echoing through the grand hall. The sound sent another ripple through the nobles, some exchanging wary glances, others daring to smirk at Nyra's audacity. But the King? The King only seemed more entertained.
"You truly are fascinating," he said, golden eyes gleaming. "So bold. So fearless."
Nyra's eyes narrowed. "And yet, you laugh. Do you think this is amusing? That my life—our lives—are some game for your entertainment?" Her voice was razor-sharp, laced with barely restrained fury.
The hall tensed at her words. Some nobles sucked in sharp breaths, aghast at her tone, while others exchanged whispers, waiting for the King's reaction. A few noblemen sneered, scoffing at her audacity. Others watched with rapt attention, enthralled by her unrelenting defiance.
Vaelor's laughter softened, but the amusement in his gaze did not fade. "No, little warrior, I do not find your struggle amusing. But I do find irony in your demands."
She clenched her fists. "And what, exactly, is ironic about wanting freedom?"
The King leaned forward, resting his elbows on the armrests of his throne. His golden eyes bore into hers, and then—he dropped the bombshell.
"Because you were already free the moment you stepped into this hall." He let the weight of his words settle before adding, "As are your friends, because you are my daughter."
The court erupted.
The room detonated in a frenzy of motion—nobles leaped to their feet, some shouting in protest, others whispering in hurried, frantic tones. The clang of goblets hitting the table rang through the chamber, some spilling wine like fresh blood across the polished marble. A few men stood so abruptly their chairs scraped harshly against the stone, their faces contorted in disbelief and anger. Others remained frozen, their expressions unreadable, their minds clearly working to comprehend the revelation that had just shaken the foundation of the court.
A noblewoman near the front clutched at the pearls around her throat as if they could anchor her to reality. "A royal bastard," she hissed under her breath. "From a slave girl? This is madness!"
A lord near the back sneered, his lip curling. "The King has lost his mind. Does he mean to tarnish the bloodline with this—this filth?"
But others, those with sharper minds and quieter tongues, simply observed, calculating. A new piece had entered the game, and she was no pawn.
Vaelor, despite the chaos, remained utterly composed, lounging in his throne like a beast watching its prey scramble. His smirk only deepened.
Gasps, shocked murmurs, and outright shouts filled the chamber as nobles spun to face one another, their expressions ranging from disbelief to outrage. Some clutched their chests as if struck, while others immediately turned their eyes to Nyra, waiting to see her reaction. The whispers became a cacophony, a flood of voices overlapping in chaos.
"Impossible—" "A royal bastard?" "The King has acknowledged her—!" "A slave girl? The King's blood?"
Nyra's breath caught in her throat. The words slammed into her like a physical force, rattling her bones, making her vision blur at the edges. She stared at Vaelor, her body rigid, heart hammering against her ribs.
No. No, this had to be some kind of trick, some twisted ploy. This could not—
She turned sharply, silver eyes locking onto Kierian Voss, seeking answers, seeking something—anything—that made sense of this madness.
Voss met her gaze and, instead of giving her clarity, he smirked. A slow, devilish thing that stretched across his lips as he leaned back slightly, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug, as if this revelation was of no consequence to him at all.
Nyra's fingers curled, nails digging into her palms as the storm within her raged.
What the fuck was going on?
The weight of the revelation settled over the court like a thundercloud, pressing down with the force of something undeniable and absolute. Yet even as nobles shouted, as scandalized murmurs filled the air like buzzing insects, Nyra could not move.
Her body was frozen, every muscle locked, every thought tangled in the impossible truth that had just been spoken.
She was the King's daughter.
The words echoed inside her skull, twisting like a dagger, sharp and relentless.
It couldn't be true. It shouldn't be true. And yet, Vaelor sat there, watching her with the satisfaction of a man who had just upended an entire kingdom with a single sentence.
Her breath came in slow, steady inhales, but beneath the surface, she was unraveling.
She forced herself to move. Forced herself to swallow back the storm raging inside her and speak.
"You lie." The words were sharper than steel, cold as winter's breath.
Vaelor merely tilted his head. "Do I?"
She clenched her jaw. "I am no daughter of yours. I was born in the slums, raised in chains. Your blood does not run through my veins."
A dark chuckle rumbled from his chest, smooth and confident. "And yet, you stand here, fierce and unbreakable. A girl who should have died in the gutters, a child who was meant to be nothing—now a warrior who commands the attention of an entire court." He leaned forward, golden eyes gleaming. "Tell me, Nyra, where do you think that fire came from?"
She hated how her stomach twisted at his words, how some part of her—some wretched, hidden part—wanted to believe him.
The court was still in chaos. The nobles were not quieting, their anger growing louder, their dissent sharp.
"This is an insult to the bloodline!" "A slave girl cannot be acknowledged as royal!" "She has no place among us!"
Vaelor's gaze never left hers, unwavering. "The truth does not require their permission."
Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms.
"And if I refuse to accept it?" she asked, voice low, dangerous.
"Then you waste what is already yours." The King gestured to the grand hall, to the power that had shifted with a mere sentence. "They may rage, they may curse my name, but they cannot undo what is done. The moment I spoke your name into existence, you became more than what you were. You can walk away and reject it, but that does not change who you are."
Nyra wanted to throw his words back at him, to spit them out like poison, but she hesitated.
Because deep down, she knew the truth: The world would never let her forget this moment.
And neither would she.
The storm of voices around them swelled to a breaking point. The nobles were demanding action. Some called for proof, others called for her removal. Some even called for her blood.
Vaelor exhaled, exasperated, before standing.
The room fell silent. Instantly.
The power of a king.
He looked over the nobles, his expression shifting from amusement to cold authority. "This is not a matter of debate," he said, voice smooth but absolute. "She is my daughter. That alone is enough."
"Then prove it!" A voice rang out, sharp and commanding. A nobleman stepped forward, his face twisted with anger. "Words mean nothing. We demand proof of her bloodline!"
Others nodded, voices overlapping in agreement. "A test! A trial!" someone else called.
The murmurs barely had time to spread before the air thickened—before an unseen force pressed down on the chamber like an invisible hand crushing the very breath from their lungs.
A suffocating aura radiated from the King, thickening the air until it felt like drowning in unseen pressure. The chamber trembled under its weight, the torches flickering violently as if caught in an invisible storm. The very walls seemed to constrict, as though the palace itself was bending to his fury. Nobles gasped, some dropping to their knees, their faces twisting in sheer panic. A few clutched at their throats, choking on nothing but the sheer force pressing into their lungs, their vision blurring with black spots as though death itself loomed in the shadows. Even those who had once sat confidently in their seats now gripped the edges of their chairs, their knuckles white, as if holding on would keep them from being crushed entirely. It was not just power—it was dominance. A raw, unshackled force that reminded them exactly who sat on that throne.
A gasp—someone fell to their knees, choking. Another stumbled back, hands clutching at their throat as if unseen fingers had wrapped around them. The room trembled under the weight of his presence.
And then, Vaelor spoke, his voice slow, deliberate, and filled with something darker than mere irritation.
"I see the years have made you forget." His golden eyes burned with silent fury, his aura pressing down harder, making the walls themselves groan under the strain of his power. "You forget who I am. You forget who holds your leashes. You, who dare to question me—who are you?"
Silence. The court had turned to stone, faces pale, sweat beading on their foreheads. Hands trembled against silk and gold, some nobles gripping the arms of their chairs with knuckles white as bone. A few dared to glance at one another, their eyes wide with barely contained terror, breaths coming in short, rapid gasps as if the very air had been stolen from their lungs. One noble, his skin waxen, swayed on his feet before crumpling to the ground in an unceremonious heap, his body betraying him where his pride refused to kneel.
One by one, they bowed their heads, voices shaking with submission.
"Forgive us, Your Majesty." "We spoke out of turn." "We did not mean to offend."
Vaelor let the silence stretch, let their fear fester before he finally eased his grip on the air, allowing breath to return to their lungs. When he next spoke, his voice was softer—but no less menacing.
"She has already been tested," he declared. "But if any of you still doubt her, if any of you believe she has not earned her place—then challenge her. Prove your claim with steel."
A hushed stillness swept through the court.
No one moved.
Then—
Laughter.
Low at first, then growing—rich with amusement and something far more venomous.
Nyra smirked, the edges of her lips curling in something slow and deliberate, her silver eyes gleaming like a blade catching the light.
Her expression shifted, turning predatory, the kind of smile a serpent would give before striking.
When she spoke, her voice was low, dripping with venom, each syllable drawn out like silk over steel. The sound slithered through the tense air, a whisper of inevitable violence.
"By all means," she drawled, her voice dripping with mockery. "I welcome the invitation. Let them come and see how quickly they fall."
The tension did not break. If anything, it thickened, her words slithering through the air like poison.
Vaelor exhaled through his nose, the edges of his lips curling in satisfaction. "Then it is settled. If any man or woman wishes to challenge her claim—let them step forward."
Not a single noble dared to move. The challenge hung in the air like a blade poised at their throats, waiting for the slightest shift to sever their resolve.
Some nobles swallowed hard, their Adam's apples bobbing as they fought to maintain composure. Others stiffened in their seats, hands curled into tight fists atop their laps, as if grappling with the weight of their own cowardice. A few flicked nervous glances toward one another, silently pleading for someone—anyone—to be the fool who stepped forward. But none did.
The echoes of the King's command lingered, pressing into their very bones, and fear kept them frozen in place, shackled by an authority they dared not defy.
Nyra tilted her head, letting her smirk deepen. "That's what I thought."
The silence that followed was deafening.
The silence following Nyra's challenge was suffocating, thick with unspoken fear and the weight of shattered expectations. The nobles, once so eager to sneer and scoff, now sat frozen, their tongues trapped behind clenched teeth. Not a single one dared to move.
Vaelor leaned back into his throne, his golden eyes gleaming with cold amusement as he surveyed the room. "I expected as much," he murmured, his voice carrying effortlessly through the chamber. "For all your talk of purity and lineage, none of you have the spine to prove your claims."
A flicker of resentment crossed a few faces, but none spoke. The King's aura still lingered in the air, a phantom weight pressing against their throats, reminding them of their place.
Nyra tilted her head slightly, letting the silence stretch just a little longer before exhaling a slow, amused breath. "So much for all that noble bravado," she drawled, her voice smooth, lethal. "All this noise about blood and honor, and yet the moment you're given the chance to put steel behind your words, you shrink."
She let her silver gaze roam over them, picking out the ones who had been the loudest before—those who had called for her proof, her removal, her blood. Now, they averted their gazes, looking anywhere but at her.
Cowards.
A smirk curled at the edges of her lips. "Perhaps it's not my blood you should be questioning," she added, voice like a blade slipping between ribs. "Perhaps it's your own."
The murmur that followed was uneasy, shifting through the nobles like a sickness, their pride warring with their fear. But still, none of them rose.
Vaelor chuckled, deep and pleased. "Enough," he said, the finality in his tone extinguishing any remaining sparks of rebellion. He turned his gaze back to Nyra, his smirk still in place, but something heavier now rested behind his eyes. "You have made your point. And I have made mine."
She narrowed her eyes. "And what point is that?"
"That you belong here."
A slow, steady beat of silence followed, and for the first time since she had stepped into this chamber, Nyra found herself unsure of how to respond.
Belong?
The word sat uneasily in her mind, foreign and jagged, like a blade that did not yet fit its sheath.
She had never belonged anywhere.
Not in the slums, not in chains, not in the shadows where she had carved out her survival. Every step of her existence had been a fight, a struggle to hold onto something that no one had ever wanted to give her.
And now, this man—this King—expected her to accept this place, this throne-adjacent existence, as if it were something she should desire?
Her fingers twitched, curling slightly before she forced them to relax. "I belong to no one."
Vaelor's smirk did not fade. If anything, it deepened. "You misunderstand," he said smoothly. "You do not belong to anyone. But you do belong to this bloodline. To this throne. To this kingdom. Whether you accept it or not, the court will now see you for what you are."
Nyra's jaw tightened. "And if I refuse?"
The King leaned forward slightly, his expression unreadable. "Then you refuse," he said simply. "But that does not change the fact that the world now knows your name. That they will watch you. Fear you. Expect something from you."
Her breath was steady, but inside, her thoughts were anything but.
She had spent her life being ignored, overlooked, treated as something beneath notice. Now, in the span of a single evening, she had become something else entirely.
A threat. A spectacle. A piece on the board of a game she had never asked to play.
And despite herself, despite every instinct screaming at her to reject this, to spit in the King's face and carve her own path as she always had—
She knew he was right.
The world would never unsee her now.
She exhaled slowly, rolling her shoulders as she met his gaze once more. "So be it."
Vaelor's smirk widened just slightly, and with a flick of his wrist, he dismissed the court. "This discussion is over. The matter is settled."
One by one, the nobles rose, their movements slow, reluctant. Some still shot her wary, calculating looks. Others avoided her entirely. But they all filed out without another word, the grand chamber slowly emptying until only Nyra, Vaelor, and a few lingering shadows remained.
She did not move immediately. Did not speak.
Only once the heavy doors shut behind the last noble did she let her breath slip out, long and measured.
Vaelor watched her carefully, his amusement replaced with something quieter. "You did well tonight."
Nyra scoffed, shaking her head. "I did what I always do. I survived."
The King chuckled at that, but there was something knowing in his gaze. Something she did not yet have the patience to decipher.
"For now," he agreed, rising to his feet. "But survival is only the beginning."
She held his gaze for a long moment before finally turning on her heel, her chains dragging behind her as she strode toward the exit.
Vaelor let the silence linger a moment longer before he spoke, his voice smooth but carrying an air of finality. "Kierian, return her to her chambers."
From the shadows, Kierian stepped forward, his usual unreadable smirk in place as he inclined his head in acknowledgment. "As you wish, Your Majesty."
Nyra's gaze flicked back to the King, a question forming on her lips, but Vaelor spoke again before she could voice it.
"Your friends will be moved to quarters near yours," he said, watching her carefully. "You will see them tomorrow."
Her fingers twitched at her sides, but she did not respond. A part of her bristled at his authority over her life, at the ease with which he dictated her circumstances. But another part—one she refused to acknowledge—felt something different.
Relief.
Vaelor did not wait for her reply. With a flick of his wrist, he turned away, the matter settled.
Kierian stepped closer, his presence looming but relaxed. "Shall we, little warrior?" he murmured, amusement lacing his tone.
Nyra exhaled sharply but said nothing, turning on her heel as she strode toward the exit, her chains dragging behind her.
Kierian watched her go, his smirk deepening, but something flickered behind his usual amusement—something darker, more intrigued. His golden eyes traced the way her torn, blood-streaked dress clung to her curves, how the flickering torchlight caught on the sheen of sweat still glistening on her skin. The bruises, the battle-worn edges of her, only made her more alluring.
The slow sway of her hips, the way the chains accentuated every movement, sent something primal curling in his stomach. She was defiant, unbroken, and now, undeniably captivating. He had always found her intriguing, but tonight? Tonight, she was something else entirely.
Power suited her. Blood suited her. And gods help him—he wanted her.
His tongue flicked over his bottom lip as his gaze lingered on the trail of crimson sliding down her thigh, pooling at the curve where muscle met softness. The sight was both lethal and intoxicating.
Kierian chuckled low under his breath, shaking his head as he finally turned to follow.
This was going to be fun.