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Let them all believe I am the villain of this tale. As long as they are safe, I do not mind being the truest monster of them all.

Tabitha Wysteria

Ash had not noticed the deceit until it had already slithered through the castle’s walls, embedding itself into the heart of the evening like a venomous serpent.

The Grand Hall had been alive, a great beast of laughter and clinking goblets, the scent of roasted meats wafting through the air as the nobility basked in the illusion of peace.

And Ash—fool that he was—had been preoccupied.

His gaze had lingered on Mal’s siblings, their presence a dagger lodged beneath his ribs. Had they known of her betrayal? Had they watched him, knowing he was a man condemned, awaiting the cruel hands of fate? Surely, surely, they must have known.

Kage Blackburn had left suddenly, his dark eyes shining with something sharp and unreadable before he strode off, leaving Bryn Wynter and Haven Blackburn exchanging glances of confusion.

Ash had barely been able to look at Haven—her face was too similar to Mal’s, a painful reminder of what he had lost in the span of mere hours.

How could life shift so violently in a single day? One sunrise ago, he had woken beside his wife. He had kissed her bare shoulder, traced the curve of her jaw, whispered loving words into the warmth of her skin. He had been happy. And then—Hagan. Hagan had come and torn it all apart.

At some point, Ash had searched for his oldest friend, but Hagan was missing. Odd. The Red Guard had always been close, too close, lurking in the shadows of Ash’s every move.

The king had clapped his hands, summoning the next course, and Ash had barely spared a glance as the servants stepped forward, gracefully replacing dishes.

He had not noticed the one standing at his father’s side.

He had not seen the golden hands shift, skin darkening into a hue marred by inked runes, fingers curling around something hidden within their sleeve.

‘The witches salute you, King Egan.’

A flash of purple. The glint of silver.

Ash’s breath caught in his throat as he saw the blade too late.

The dagger found the king’s neck, slipping in like a lover’s kiss. Blood gushed forth, a crimson bloom spreading over silk and gold.

Screams erupted.

Servants turned upon their masters, slicing through unsuspecting throats with merciless precision. The scent of wine and roasted lamb was drowned beneath the stench of spilt life.

And now—only corpses remained.

Ash had fought. God, he had fought. Haven had been at his side, her sword cutting through enemies like fire through parchment.

The necklace at her throat had stirred without warning, shedding its stillness as it unravelled in a slow, sinuous glide down the contours of her body.

In the next breath, the shadow-serpent had struck—silent and swift—its bite laced with something far subtler than venom, drawing its victims into the quiet void of unconsciousness as effortlessly as night swallows the last trace of dusk.

Bryn Wynter had joined them, his blade flashing like the steel fangs of a wolf.

But it had not been enough. The witches were too many.

Now, he sat bound, shoved into a chair, his wrists trapped by an invisible noose that cut deep into his skin without ever touching him. Across the room, hidden in the darkness, he saw Wren Wynter, pressed behind a column, her blue eyes wide with silent fury.

Above them, perched upon a grand chandelier, Kage’s crow watched. Waiting.

The doors of the Grand Hall swung open, and Hagan stormed in.

His presence should have been a relief—his best friend was safe, unharmed. The rush of it nearly knocked the breath from Ash’s lungs. But then—

The witches followed him.

Not as captors. As shadows at his heels.

A slow, suffocating dread pooled in Ash’s stomach, something dark and ugly coiling inside him. No .

No, no, no.

Hagan turned to face him, and his eyes—

They were purple.

‘Your sister is gone,’ Hagan said, voice smooth, too smooth, as if the words were silk gliding over sharpened steel.

Ash's breath turned to ice. Gone .

Not dead. Not dead.

Alina was a fighter. A survivor. She would have found a way out—she had to.

Something heavy thudded against the floor at his feet.

Ash’s body locked up. A terrible, primal feeling scraped against his ribs, clawing up his throat.

He forced himself to look down.

And the world—his world—collapsed.

Two severed golden horns lay before him, drenched in dark, glistening blood.

Alina’s blood.

A scream tore from Ash’s lips, shattering the world as he knew it.

The only sounds that remained in the Grand Hall were the broken sobs of the Fire Prince, raw and ragged, tearing through the silence like a funeral dirge. The dead—silent in their cold repose—listened, while the living bore witness to his agony, frozen in place by the horror of it all.

Ash’s breath hitched as his tear-soaked gaze lifted for the first time—and he saw.

King Egan’s body hung above the dais where the throne once reigned supreme, suspended by an invisible force.

His head—severed from its rightful place—had been discarded like a rotting fruit atop the banquet table.

A king reduced to carrion for crows. Ash did not dare to ask where his mother was.

He already knew. She was gone. They were all gone.

A shadow shifted before him.

Hagan .

The warlock crouched, leisurely, almost thoughtful, and scooped up the blood-slicked trophies from the floor—Alina’s golden horns. He rolled them between his hands, the way a gambler might test the weight of dice before a throw.

‘You are the last drakonian royal, Ash Acheron.’ Hagan’s voice was smooth, taunting. ‘Tell me… how does it feel?’

Ash said nothing.

Hagan licked his lips, his amusement only growing. ‘And how would you like to go? ’

‘We are not to kill him.’

The words rang through the hall like a blade unsheathed. Ash turned his glassy eyes towards the speaker. The same witch who had once stood beside them on the battlefield, who had fought against her own kind. Had it all been a lie?

Standing beside her, watching with cold disinterest, was Adara.

Ash’s breath trembled as the grief shattered inside him once more.

‘Mal Blackburn must be the one to kill him,’ the witch continued. ‘She must strike the final blow, or the curse will come to pass.’

Hagan groaned, bored and irritated. ‘Fuck’s sake, Vera, you and your silly prophecies.’

‘Are you willing to risk it? Just to satisfy your own ego?’

A muscle in Hagan’s jaw twitched. ‘Fine,’ he grunted, standing up with a huff. He rolled his shoulders before casting a lazy glance around the ruined hall. ‘Where is the bitch?’

‘Retrieving the dagger,’ Vera said. ‘Patience .’

Hagan snorted. ‘Oh, she just needs to kill him, right? He doesn’t need to be entirely whole for that purpose.’

His boots scraped against the bloodied floor as he prowled closer. Ash didn’t flinch, even as Hagan crouched beside him, even as he gripped his face in a vice-like hold, fingers digging so deep into his jaw that Ash swore he could feel his bones splintering.

‘Shall I cut your tongue out?’ Hagan mused, his voice a silk-coated blade. ‘You’ve spent your whole life whining about your stutter, haven’t you, Ash? I’d be doing you a favour.’

The warlock wrenched Ash’s mouth open, forcing his tongue forward.

And then— the blade.

Inches away.

Ash struggled, but whatever dark magic bound him made him powerless, a marionette with his strings tangled by invisible hands. His eyes widened, locked onto the edge of the steel poised to silence him forever.

A blur.

Something struck Hagan hard, sending him reeling backwards. The spell broke.

Ash hit the ground, gasping for breath as his body surged into motion. At the same moment, Haven Blackburn lunged.

Her dagger—hidden beneath her skirts, a secret, a whisper of steel—found its mark.

The blade carved across Hagan’s face.

‘I will kill you!’ Hagan howled, blood pouring in thick, dark red rivulets down his jaw.

The magic returned and paralysis struck like an iron chain.

Hagan’s grip twisted into Haven’s short black hair, yanking her off the floor as if she weighed nothing. The witches—some of them, at least—watched with delight. But Ash’s gaze slid to Vera and Adara. They stepped forward, uneasy.

‘I don’t need you, do I?’ Hagan mused, almost thoughtful.

Her shadow moved.

A dark coil—Haven’s snake.

It slithered with deadly grace, wrapping itself around Hagan’s arm, its fangs seeking flesh.

And then—chaos.

Wren Wynter’s whistle split the air like lightning.

Two massive wolves stormed into the Grand Hall, their growls like rolling thunder. They descended upon the witches, tearing, shredding, ripping bodies like they were made of parchment.

Kage Blackburn entered like a specter, his calm, unbothered expression a stark contrast to the carnage.

The first witch that turned on him did not even have time to react. A flash of steel, a single, swift motion, and the spellcaster crumpled where they stood.

Then—the valkyrian named Freya appeared.

She rushed forward, lifting Bryn Wynter off the ground, dragging him away from the slaughter. She made for Haven, reaching—but Hagan still had her in his grip.

Ash took a step forward.

‘Let her go, Hagan,’ he demanded. His voice—unwavering. Cold as ice. ‘Your fight is with me.’

Hagan turned, blood still slick on his lips. And he smiled.

‘I am s-so s-scared.’ The warlock mocked him. Imitated his stutter. ‘B-but I’m n-not here to fight you, Ash Acheron.’ Hagan’s purple eyes gleamed, cruel and bright with something far worse than hatred. ‘I’m here to watch you suffer .’

And before Ash could move, before anyone could stop him—

Hagan snapped Haven’s neck.

And let her body fall.

…

Wren froze.