The Great Hall of Veredon glittered under a thousand chandeliers.
Every pillar was wrapped in crimson velvet.
Every silver goblet reflected the trembling candlelight.
Every noble in the kingdom had gathered like moths to a flame.
It was a celebration, or so the court whispered.
A celebration of unity, of marriage, of peace.
Selene knew better.
It was a battlefield.
And tonight, the first real blood would be drawn.
She stood at the top of the grand staircase, framed by towering doors and flanked by Cassian's personal guard.
The dress she wore was a masterpiece of courtly lies: flowing silk the color of fresh snow, embroidered with threads of dark red that curled like creeping vines along the hem.
Each fold of the skirt hid a blade.
Each delicate movement concealed a weapon.
She was a queen.
She was a spy.
She was a blade waiting to be unsheathed.
Cassian stood a few steps ahead, speaking quietly with one of his commanders.
Even without looking at her, he knew she was there.
Selene felt the awareness between them like a taut, invisible string.
Pulling. Stretching.
Threatening to snap.
The steward at the foot of the staircase raised his staff and struck the marble floor once, the sound cracking through the hall like thunder.
"Her Majesty, Queen Selene of Veredon."
A hundred heads turned.
A hundred hungry eyes settled on her.
Selene smiled, a slow and graceful thing, and began to descend the stairs.
Every step was measured.
Every glance was calculated.
Every breath was a dance between life and death.
She reached Cassian's side without faltering.
Without bleeding.
Without breaking.
He offered her his arm, formal and cold, and she placed her hand lightly on it.
A king and his queen.
A conqueror and his captive.
A pair of wolves dressed in human skin.
The night unfolded in a blur of music and murmured conversations.
Nobles drifted past, offering toasts and congratulations, each one more false than the last.
Selene accepted their praises with a serene smile, all the while mapping the room in her mind.
There, near the wine tables, Lady Alessa of Rivermount whispered behind a jeweled fan.
Near the musicians, the Duke of Marvane exchanged a long, heavy glance with the High Commander.
Small alliances.
Invisible daggers.
Everywhere she looked, the court split and shifted like ice cracking over a frozen lake.
And somewhere beneath it all, deeper and darker, something stirred.
Something that had nothing to do with Selene.
Nothing to do with Cassian.
Something older.
Something hungry.
She could feel it in the way the shadows moved.
In the way the servants darted too quickly through the halls.
In the way the musicians' notes trembled, just slightly, off key.
Cassian leaned closer, his breath brushing her ear in a way that made her spine stiffen.
"Smile," he said softly.
Selene obeyed.
The Duchess of Marvane approached, her gown a waterfall of emerald silk, her eyes sharp and glittering like shattered glass.
She offered a deep curtsy, but there was nothing submissive in the tilt of her chin.
"Your Majesties," she said sweetly. "What a joy it is to serve such a united and... resilient crown."
Cassian's smile was a razor wrapped in velvet.
"The crown endures," he said. "No matter the storms that batter it."
Selene met the Duchess's gaze, feeling the weight of the unspoken words between them.
The Duchess smiled wider, then turned and disappeared into the swirling crowd.
Selene exhaled slowly.
Another enemy counted.
Another blade waiting in the dark.
Hours passed.
Dancers spun in glittering circles.
Wine flowed like rivers of blood.
Laughter rose and fell like the tolling of a distant bell.
Selene kept her mask in place.
Until she caught a glimpse of something that did not belong.
Across the room, half-hidden by a column, stood a figure cloaked in deep gray.
No noble's colors.
No house crest.
Selene's instincts screamed.
The figure turned and vanished into the side hallways, slipping past the guards with unnatural ease.
Selene excused herself from the conversation with a courtier she had not been listening to.
She moved swiftly but without urgency, her steps light, her skirts barely whispering against the marble floor.
Cassian's gaze found her from across the room.
Sharp. Questioning.
Selene offered a soft, meaningless smile and continued toward the side doors.
She could not afford to waste this chance.
The hallway beyond was colder, darker.
Torches sputtered against the stone walls.
Selene moved quickly now, slipping deeper into the shadows, the hidden blades in her skirts pressing reassuringly against her thighs.
Ahead, a door stood slightly ajar.
She approached silently and peered through the gap.
Inside, two men stood over a low table, speaking in hurried, urgent tones.
Neither wore noble colors.
Neither looked like a servant.
On the table between them lay a map.
Not of Veredon.
Not of the palace.
But of the borderlands.
Lines marked in black ink.
Symbols she did not recognize scrawled across the parchment like the handwriting of a dead language.
And pinned to the map's edge with a small iron dagger was a single scrap of fabric.
Deep crimson, embroidered with silver vines.
Selene's stomach dropped.
It was a piece of her own gown.
A hand clamped over her mouth.
Selene reacted instinctively.
She drove the hidden blade from her sleeve backward, catching soft flesh, hearing the sharp intake of breath.
The grip loosened and she twisted free, slashing low and fast.
The figure stumbled back, clutching a bleeding forearm, eyes wide with shock.
Selene darted forward, aiming to incapacitate, not kill.
She needed answers.
But before she could strike again, one of the men inside the room threw something at the torches.
A cloud of thick, choking smoke exploded outward.
Selene coughed, stumbling back.
By the time she forced her eyes open again, the room was empty.
Only the bloodstained scrap of her gown remained, pinned to the map.
And a single word scratched into the table in jagged letters:
TRAITOR
Selene stood there, heart pounding, vision swimming, the smoke burning her throat.
The message was clear.
She was not the only blade moving in the dark.
And if she did not strike first, she would bleed for it.