The palace woke under a black sky.
The scent of burnt tallow and spilt blood clung to the stones, too thick to be washed away by water or prayer.
Servants moved like ghosts through the corridors, scrubbing and polishing, trying to erase the memory of the feast.
But Selene knew.
Blood left stains no soap could cleanse.
Especially when it was spilled for power.
She stood at the window of her chambers, watching the gray light of dawn seep across the city below.
The rooftops of Veredon gleamed with frost, brittle and fragile, like a kingdom on the edge of shattering.
Behind her, the door creaked open.
Selene turned, expecting one of her maids.
Instead, it was Cassian.
He was dressed in simple black, his cloak thrown over one shoulder, a sword strapped low at his waist.
There were shadows under his eyes, but his voice was steady.
"Walk with me," he said.
Selene hesitated for only a breath.
Then she nodded.
They moved through the deserted halls in silence.
No guards.
No advisors.
No witnesses.
The palace was too quiet, as if the stones themselves were waiting for the next blow.
Cassian led her not to the council chambers, not to the war rooms, but deeper into the old wing of the castle.
A place where the air tasted of dust and forgotten things.
At last, he stopped before a heavy wooden door bound in iron.
He pushed it open and gestured for her to enter.
Selene stepped through without flinching.
Inside was a narrow chamber, bare except for a single long table.
On that table lay a body.
Selene moved closer, the hem of her gown whispering against the floor.
The dead man's face was half-shrouded, but she recognized the uniform.
One of the palace guards.
One of Cassian's own.
A traitor.
The blood staining his tunic had not come from the assassin's dagger last night.
It was older.
Hidden.
Silent.
Cassian's voice was low behind her.
"We found him this morning," he said. "Trying to smuggle documents out of the palace."
Selene studied the corpse.
His hands were broken, the bones shattered with brutal precision.
His lips were blackened with poison.
A suicide, but not a quick one.
"He chose death over betrayal," she said softly.
Cassian's mouth twisted in something that was not quite disgust.
"Or he chose death because he knew what I would do if he lived."
Selene turned to face him.
"And what would you have done?"
Cassian's eyes were cold.
"I would have made him name his masters."
Selene nodded slowly.
It was a ruthless answer.
It was the only answer.
Trust was a luxury Veredon could not afford.
Cassian stepped closer, the shadows sharpening the hard planes of his face.
"This is the beginning," he said. "Not the end."
He pointed to the dead man's hands.
"One by one, they will reveal themselves."
Selene's voice was quiet, almost gentle.
"And if they do not?"
Cassian smiled without warmth.
"Then we burn the whole rotten tree to find the worms."
For a long moment, the only sound was the crackle of the old fire sputtering in the hearth.
Selene felt the weight of the future pressing down on her shoulders.
The path ahead was not paved with victory.
It was paved with ashes.
And she would have to walk it with blood on her hands.
Just like Cassian.
Maybe even more than him.
Later, as the sun clawed higher into the frozen sky, Cassian summoned the council.
The nobles came, cloaked in heavy velvet, their expressions solemn and wary.
Selene sat at Cassian's right hand, her posture regal, her face unreadable.
The Duke of Marvane spoke first, his voice slick with false concern.
"We must restore faith, Your Majesty," he said. "We must show the people that the Crown stands strong."
Cassian's lips curved slightly.
"Faith," he said. "Like trust, must be earned. Or enforced."
He gestured to the Captain of the Guard, who stepped forward carrying a heavy parchment.
An arrest list.
Names inked in sharp, black letters.
Selene's heart tightened as she scanned it.
Some of the names were expected.
Others were... surprising.
The High Chancellor paled visibly as he read his own name at the top.
Cassian's voice was cold and final.
"Today," he said, "the rot will be cut out."
He rose from his throne, his cloak billowing behind him like the shadow of a storm.
"And tomorrow," he added, "the kingdom will remember why crowns are bathed in blood."
The guards moved.
The arrests began.
The Throne Room dissolved into chaos.
Selene watched it all with a calm she did not feel.
She knew the truth.
This was not about justice.
It was not even about loyalty.
It was about survival.
And survival, in Veredon, was a blade pressed against your own throat.
Ready to cut.
Even if your hands were steady.
Even if your heart was already broken.
That night, alone in her chambers, Selene traced the scar on her wrist where a hidden blade had once kissed her skin.
A silent promise to herself.
She would not fall.
She would not break.
She would not be consumed by the fires rising around her.
If Veredon burned, she would rise from its ashes.
Crowned not in gold.
But in steel.