The palace seemed colder in the days following Verin's execution.
The laughter in the halls grew quieter.
The smiles became sharper.
The courtiers bowed lower, but only after glancing over their shoulders first.
Fear had settled into the stones of Veredon like a second foundation.
Selene had learned her lesson well.
She sat at a small writing desk in her private chambers, the afternoon light slanting pale and sickly across the polished wood.
In her hands, she held a length of fine silk thread and a needle so thin it was nearly invisible under the sun.
Her fingers worked quickly and precisely, sewing delicate embroidery into the hem of her newest gown.
At least, that was what anyone looking through the door would have seen.
Hidden between the careful stitches, she was crafting something else entirely.
Tiny pockets, barely noticeable unless you knew where to look.
Pockets for thin blades, for poison vials, for lock picks and escape tools.
Weapons sewn into silk and velvet.
Survival hidden inside beauty.
Selene worked in silence, her needle flashing in and out of the fabric with the same ruthless efficiency she had once applied to sword training and strategy drills.
She had no illusions about what Cassian expected of her.
He had shown her, bloody and unflinching, what it meant to stand at his side.
It meant being feared.
It meant being watched.
It meant becoming something sharper than a queen.
A blade hidden in plain sight.
Selene tied off the thread with a flick of her wrist and smoothed the fabric with a satisfied hand.
It was the first of many.
A knock came at her door, polite but firm.
She rose, slipping the gown into the wardrobe with practiced ease, and crossed the room.
One of Cassian's guards stood outside, helmet tucked under his arm, his expression carved from stone.
"His Majesty requests your presence in the armory," the man said.
Selene blinked, surprised.
The armory.
Not the council chamber.
Not the gardens.
Not the endless, glittering halls of courtly death.
The armory, where real blood was spilled and survival was measured in steel, not silk.
She smiled sweetly.
"Of course," she said.
The armory of Veredon was nothing like the gilded halls above.
It was raw, functional, brutal.
Rows upon rows of weapons gleamed under torchlight.
Swords, spears, axes, crossbows, shields.
All meticulously cared for and waiting for hands to wield them.
Cassian stood at the far end, speaking quietly with an older man dressed in blacksmith's leathers.
At Selene's approach, the blacksmith bowed and withdrew, leaving them alone among the blades.
Cassian turned to face her.
He wore no crown and no armor.
Only a simple black tunic and the same tired but unbreakable expression.
He studied her for a long moment, then gestured to a rack of weapons beside him.
"Choose," he said.
Selene frowned.
"Choose what?"
Cassian stepped closer, his voice low and steady.
"Choose what you'll wield when the court decides to gut you."
Selene swallowed down the sharp twist in her throat.
This was not a lesson.
It was preparation.
The attack would come.
Not if.
When.
She stepped forward slowly, letting her fingers trail over the hilts and handles laid out before her.
Longswords were too heavy and too obvious.
Daggers were quick, silent, and personal.
Throwing knives were deceptive and deadly at a distance.
Her hand hovered over a slim stiletto blade. It was wickedly narrow, designed for slipping between ribs or through the cracks in armor.
She picked it up, weighing it in her palm.
The blade whispered against its sheath as she tested its balance.
Perfect.
Cassian watched her silently.
"You've handled weapons before," he said, almost conversational.
Selene smiled.
"A lady must have hobbies."
He snorted softly, not quite laughter, but close.
"Tell me, Selene," he said, voice dropping lower. "Who taught you how to kill?"
She met his gaze evenly.
"My father," she said.
A truth buried inside a lie.
Her father had taught her to survive.
The Order had taught her to kill.
Cassian's mouth curved in a humorless smile.
"Good," he said.
"You'll need it."
He reached behind him, pulling a leather belt from the rack.
It was fitted with discreet slots for blades, vials, and hidden tools.
He held it out to her.
Selene took it without a word, feeling the warmth of the leather still lingering from his hand.
It was not a gift.
It was a declaration.
You are a weapon now. Act like it.
Cassian turned away, pacing slowly among the racks of gleaming steel.
"You're not the only queen at court," he said.
Selene tilted her head slightly.
"Is that a warning?"
Cassian shrugged with casual indifference.
"A truth."
He plucked a thin, curved dagger from a display and twirled it between his fingers.
"Lady Alessa of Rivermount. The Duchess of Marvane. Even some of my councilors' wives."
He slid the dagger back into place with a soft, metallic click.
"Every one of them would slit your throat if it meant gaining a sliver more power."
Selene smiled thinly.
"Then I'll just have to be sharper."
Cassian's gaze met hers, cold and clear, and for a moment, a flicker of pride stirred in his expression.
"Good," he said.
As they left the armory together, Selene glanced down at the belt now wrapped around her waist, hidden beneath her cloak.
Steel against skin.
Blades where no one could see.
She was not just surviving now.
She was preparing.
And when the knives came for her, she would not be the helpless new queen smiling at her enemies.
She would be the blade they never saw until it was too late.
That night, she sat at her writing desk once more, her hands steady as she sharpened the small blades and tucked them into their secret pockets.
Needle and thread.
Steel and poison.
A queen's weapons.
A spy's tools.
A survivor's promise.
She stitched and stitched until the candle burned low, her fingers aching and her shoulders tight.
Until the lines between Selene Arlont, the grieving daughter, and Selene Veredon, the silent blade at the king's side, blurred beyond recognition.
And somewhere deep inside, a new vow took shape.
Not just to survive.
Not just to destroy.
But to win.
At any cost.
Even if it meant losing herself completely.