Page 10

That said and resolved, Thorne found himself facing a problem—one that he, a man of logic and calculation, had not anticipated.

While lacking proper kingslaying credentials didn’t discount one’s qualifications to murder a king, his repertoire of seduction was similarly inadequate.

A strange, ironic parallel, considering that in the matter of killing a king, Thorne could rely on his skills, his instincts, his years of honing his craft in silence.

But seduction? That was a territory he had never mapped, a land unfamiliar and untrodden by his experience.

In all honesty, it was of quite the same state.

Capable in theory, of course—seduction was hardly beyond the scope of his abilities.

But in practice, it was far more elusive.

There was a difference between knowing how to wield a weapon and truly understanding its power, a difference between knowing the theory of seduction—its art, its rhythm—and having lived through the rhythms of its dance.

Thorne had always been a man of action, his life marked by swift decisions and quieter deeds, not the slow build of tension and emotional allure that seduction required.

He had never taken the time to develop the skill.

Seduction had not been one of his preferred weapons, nor had it ever really been a necessity.

In fact, Thorne had never even attempted to seduce anyone at all.

The notion itself was foreign to him—intimate, perhaps too intimate, an invitation to vulnerability.

And Thorne, for all his bravado and expertise, had always kept that part of himself tucked away, far from the reach of anyone who might seek to unearth it.

Thorne, twenty years of age and a highly eligible bachelor of a noble family, was decidedly not a maiden, though not for lack of opportunity.

His body count in one regard was far more substantial than the other, but the latter was not entirely empty.

There had been two, to be exact—two encounters that, though brief and almost absurd in their awkwardness, had shaped his understanding of intimacy.

One had been a childhood acquaintance he'd reunited with for the first time in nearly eight years, when she came to the city for a balmy week, the humidity clinging to their clothes as they sought out a private, secluded corner behind a garden wall.

It had been clumsy, fumbling, half-clothed, with the air thick with the scent of jasmine flowers curling overhead.

It had been messy, unrefined, and completely unplanned—pure adolescent desire, born of proximity and the fleeting nature of their meeting.

The other had been with a boy at the academy—a handsome and brazen young man with a particular skill for putting Thorne in the dirt during their training sessions.

They had shared a few midnight spars, the cold sand and stone of the Rhyndor training grounds witnessing their messy attempts at something more than physical combat.

Their encounters had been equally unrefined, driven not by intention but by the spontaneous collision of two bodies, drawn together by a mutual frustration and a strange, simmering energy neither of them had known how to control.

In both cases, seduction had played no part.

There had been no calculated approach, no careful weaving of tension or desire.

It had been instinct, impulse, the chance of an opportunity taken without much forethought.

Proximity had been the prime mover, and whatever connection had blossomed between them had been based on nothing more than the randomness of the moment.

But what, Thorne now wondered, was seduction if not anticipation? The building of tension, the slow unraveling of expectation, the anticipation of a reward that only came after suffering and patience.

It was the silence before the music, the pause between songs, the brief moment of stillness before the orchestral explosion of sound.

It was the hidden knife, the one tucked into a boot, waiting to be drawn when the time was right.

The final throw, the night before a coronation—these were the moments that held the most weight, the most promise, for they existed solely in the realm of expectation, where the outcome was yet to be determined.

And the act of seduction, much like the murder he was planning, was driven by the same tension—by that space between "before" and "after."

Thorne knew something of anticipation.

It was the heart of what he did, after all.

In the darkness, where light never reached, he had learned to wait.

He had learned to hunt, to stalk his prey through shadow and silence, to move with patience and precision.

Every step, every decision was part of the perfect plan—the flawless execution that would culminate in the final, decisive moment.

The moment when a life would end with a single, well-placed strike.

That was where the power lay, in the careful, calculated anticipation of the perfect moment, the single instant in which all the planning and deception would culminate.

And so, in a way, seduction wasn’t so different from his craft.

It, too, was an art of waiting, of planning, of reading the subtle signs, of knowing when to act and when to hold back.

It was a dance, one where the rhythm mattered as much as the moves themselves.

And Thorne had always prided himself on his ability to move with purpose, to read the tension in the air and know when it was time to strike.

But this? This was different.

This wasn’t a king he was plotting to kill—it was Kaelen.

And the stakes were higher than he had ever imagined.

Whatever he knew, or didn’t know, about Kaelen, whatever Seraphina believed him capable of, was not the true issue at hand.

No, the real issue was what Seraphina anticipated his rule would spell out for her own plans.

She needed him dead.

It was Thorne’s responsibility to do so.

But it was more than just that.

Thorne wanted this.

He wanted to fight Kaelen.

He wanted to confront this force of nature, this divine being, and prove that he—Thorne, with all his skills and all his rage—could be the one to defeat him.

He wanted to win.

And not just for Seraphina, but for himself.

He wanted to see Kaelen’s expression again—the one that had been both starved and eviscerating, a bare look that left nothing hidden between them.

He wanted to see him smile, to hear his laughter, to bottle those sounds up in his mind like precious wine to keep him warm in the days to come. He wanted to remember this, to keep it with him long after the deed was done.

And he wanted, very much, to kiss him.

Seduction was, after all, about intention.

It was about desire, anticipation, and intention.

It was the thread that wove everything together, the line that connected every action, every look, every moment of tension between them.

It was the unspoken language that passed between them, even when words were not necessary.

Thorne had lived a life of “before”

and “after”—before Seraphina had discovered his magic, after she returned, before Orion almost died a second time, after Thorne killed his first man.

These moments had marked the boundaries of his life, defined him in ways he could not fully comprehend.

But now, there was another “before”

and “after” to consider.

Before tonight, when Seraphina revealed her designs to murder Kaelen.

After Thorne had met the beast, after Kaelen had charmed him, twisted him in ways he had not expected.

The afters in stories were never as simple as they seemed.

In myths, in fairytales, the afters were fraught with holes—holes in the characters, in the reader, in the ground.

They left bloodstains, burned towers, and piled bodies.

Thorne had always known that.

And now, as the final confrontation loomed before him, he knew he was stepping into another after—one that would not end as he might have expected.

Thorne would pile one more life alongside Seraphina’s path tonight.

Another victim, another body laid at the altar of ambition, his blade sinking deep into flesh as his own desires and duties twisted together, becoming something darker, more complicated.

Perhaps, in the midst of that killing moon, Thorne’s lips would find another—perhaps a third soul’s—claiming a small piece for himself in the sea of violence and politics that surrounded him.

This was for Orion, after all.

This was for his family.

If Thorne admitted the truth of his desire—if he gave voice to the yearning that simmered beneath his cold exterior—wouldn’t it make it easier for Kaelen to trust him? Couldn’t that open the door to what Thorne needed, what he truly wanted?

And yet, the question lingered, twisting in his gut like a blade of its own: If he kissed a man before he died, what would it matter in the end? What would it change, really? After all, there would be no “after”

for any of them if Kaelen didn’t die.

No peaceful resolution, no recognition for his family, no victory over a system that had long favored the privileged few, no ending where Thorne’s family got the peace they deserved in a world in which he lived—this golden standard of privilege that Seraphina so desperately fought against and reviled.

It was all at stake now, and Thorne had no choice but to carry out his part.

Still, there was a part of him—a small but undeniable part—that struggled to slip away from the notion of finding something for himself in the midst of it all.

What about what I want? he thought, but quickly shoved the question aside.

Desire was dangerous, especially in a world that had no room for weakness.

It would only cloud his judgment.

He could not afford to want something more, not now, not with everything on the line.

The objective was clear.

The mission was set. And yet, the temptation to reach for something more—the desire to claim a piece of his own, to feel something real amid the shadows—still gnawed at him.

But Thorne didn’t allow Kaelen to stray from sight for too long.

He gave him a brief head start—ten careful heartbeats, a single held breath—and then, like a predator set loose, he gave chase.

There was no hesitation now.

His eyes never left the prince, his movements fluid, calculated, as he wove through the throngs of guests.

He kept his distance, but he stayed close enough to track Kaelen’s every movement, to follow the way the prince and his vassal glided across the hall, drifting between bodies like a sleek, untouchable shadow.

It seemed the prince’s attempt to play the beast had, for the most part, dampened his social appeal.

The kingdom’s elite, now swarming the prince in their endless parade, quickly shifted from polite admiration to eager pursuit, as if Kaelen were a prize to be won.

The carrion returned to him in swift order, flitting around him like a flock of birds with too much time on their hands, seeking their moment of glory in his light.

Bowing, curtsying, scraping for even the smallest scrap of attention.

Kaelen greeted them all with his trademark charm, amiable and polite, but there was a coldness in his demeanor, a quiet distance that suggested he had little interest in entertaining the nobility’s shallow flattery.

He did not linger with any of them.

No favors, no lingering glances. He moved on.

Thorne, observing from the mezzanine above, knew the game.

He had no intention of playing it himself.

He had no desire to dance with the frivolous lords and ladies who clung to Kaelen like moths to a flame.

Instead, he grabbed another flute of champagne—another token of the night’s indulgence, though he had no plans to drink it—and made his way to the balcony, slipping into the shadows amongst the other revelers who had grown weary of the spectacle below.

He moved quietly, blending into the crowd, his gaze fixed firmly on his target as Kaelen continued to navigate the endless sea of attendees.

Thorne kept a watchful eye on the prince, but he also studied the others, the faces of the revelers, the servants weaving through the crowd, their movements practiced, seamless.

He noted their patterns, where they lingered, where they paused behind pillars and banners, where the night’s drama had drawn them away from their duties.

He watched Eryndor Havenstead, the insufferable young lord, attempt to woo another woman—green-haired and wide-eyed—her grip on his hand limp and unenthusiastic, as if she were merely going through the motions.

And Thorne caught sight of Arwenna Junier standing some distance off, her eyes lingering on the pair, a knowing look crossing her face, but she made no move to intervene.

Across the room, Elowen Draven tapped her foot to the music, swaying slightly as though she might take herself for a waltz rather than wait for someone else to ask her.

Thorne’s sharp eyes missed nothing, his mind cataloging every detail, every movement in the room.

The regent, meanwhile, sat neglected on his throne of pillows under the mezzanine, a pitiful figure fading from view, his presence only acknowledged in passing glances.

But Thorne’s primary focus remained on Kaelen.

The prince, with his vassal by his side, continued to move gracefully through the crowd.

He met dignitaries with a smile, foreign and local alike, his charm unwavering.

He greeted priests and holy men, their robes rich with embroidery, their hats tall and ostentatious like the plumes of birds, each one giving Kaelen a wide berth as they fawned over his divine presence.

He laughed with Leicester merchants in their embroidered finery, his words light, his gestures fluid.

There was no doubt Kaelen was the center of attention, but for all the people flocking to him, he did not take another to the floor.

He did not join in the dance, nor did he make any move to leave. He seemed content to stand apart, caught in his own world, a prince among men but apart from them all.

His vassal—Elliot—kept his distance from the throngs of courtiers, though he never strayed far from the prince’s side.

He shadowed Kaelen like a loyal hound, always within arm’s reach, following him when Kaelen extricated himself from one conversation and moved to the next.

Their movements were seamless, practiced; an unspoken rhythm of proximity.

When they were alone, however, something shifted.

Thorne watched as Kaelen and Elliot drew close, their heads bent together in quiet conversation, speaking with such intimacy that it almost seemed like an echo of something more.

Their bodies leaned into each other—shoulders brushing, heads bowed low, as if their words required the secrecy of closeness.

Then, inevitably, as the endless parade of guests approached once more, they pulled apart, a jagged, forced break, each returning to their polite postures like nothing had happened.

The sight twisted something inside Thorne.

Unbidden jealousy soured his thoughts, a bitter, gnawing sensation that made his breath hitch and his fingers tighten around the balcony’s railing.

He didn’t like it.

He didn’t like how easily Kaelen and Elliot slipped into each other’s space, how comfortably they moved in sync, their connection apparent in every shared glance, every subtle touch.

Thorne wondered what Kaelen had asked of Elliot, what secrets they were whispering in those quiet moments, lips close to Kaelen’s ear, his shoulders brushing Kaelen’s in the most casual of gestures.

Was it something he could never know? A bond shared between them that would forever remain just out of his reach?

Kaelen, oblivious to Thorne’s watchful eye, never once looked up to the mezzanine.

His gaze remained fixed on the guests around him, his smile polite but empty, carefully curated for the occasion.

His princely fa?ade was flawless, a mask he wore well, offering the same bland, practiced expression to every masked face that approached him.

It was a smile Thorne knew all too well.

He’d spent years at court, years watching Seraphina play her own game, watching his father don that same smile to hide every slight, every dismissal.

Thorne had seen it too often to mistake it for anything else.

It was the smile of a man who kept his true thoughts locked behind carefully constructed walls. He had learned to recognize it in others, to see the cracks where sincerity was buried beneath artifice.

The chimes of the clock rang out, cutting through the murmur of voices.

It was two quarters after ten.

Kaelen made another turn around the room, once again greeting guests, but Thorne’s mind wasn’t on the prince.

He had drifted back into thought, his champagne forgotten in his hand as he wondered what his father must be doing now.

Probably squinting at papers in his study, ruining his eyes and spine in the dim light, stubbornly working through the night, as always.

Thorne would think his mother should do something to stop him, but she herself was just as guilty, pouring over her own papers at all hours.

Seraphina, too, would be awake—he was sure of it. She hadn’t slept a wink, not until word of the king’s assassination broke. The anxiety that gripped her had always manifested in sleeplessness. Thorne remembered the nights at the academy, lying awake beneath her room, hearing the creak of the floorboards above him as she slipped out, slipping away to places unknown.

But then, another chime rang out.

The sound snapped Thorne’s attention back to the present.

Kaelen had broken from his retinue, casually diverting his course, and made his way toward the regent, Rufus.

Thorne’s pulse quickened as he watched the two speak for a few moments, their words muffled by the noise of the crowd.

Rufus waved Kaelen away with a dismissive gesture, and Kaelen nodded, his polite smile never faltering.

He exchanged a few quiet words with Elliot, who stood nearby, then made his way toward the ballroom doors, flanked on either side by a pair of guards.

It was time.

Thorne’s heart pounded in his chest, every beat thundering in his ears.

He couldn’t afford to hesitate.

With a sharp breath, he tossed his drink into a nearby planter, slipping quickly through the crowd, his movements fluid and precise as he made his way toward a blue-breasted banner of a knight.

He edged it aside, revealing a hidden servant’s passage behind it.

The narrow passage was a tight fit, but it would lead him to where he needed to be.

Thorne slipped through the shadowy corridor, his footsteps light and calculated.

He emerged into the darkness just in time to see Kaelen and his guards close the ballroom doors behind them, their retreating figures disappearing down the hall.

Thorne pressed himself into the shadow of a gilded suit of armor, watching as Kaelen and his retinue continued down the dimly lit corridor.

They turned right at the end, making a sharp, unexpected turn, and Thorne’s brow furrowed in confusion.

This wasn’t the direction he had assumed they would take—he had thought they would head toward the residential area of the castle, where the king’s private chambers were.

But instead, they veered in another direction entirely.

Thorne didn’t waste any time.

He moved swiftly, pushing forward from his hiding spot, his footfalls soundless on the stone floor as he followed them.

They descended another set of stairs, passing under the ballroom now, and then descended yet another staircase, reaching the ground floor.

Kaelen’s voice was low, his words indistinguishable from this distance, but his expression remained pleasant as he spoke with one of the guards near a set of pale doors.

There was something odd about the scene, something that set Thorne’s instincts on edge.

The guards, for reasons unknown, suddenly departed, leaving only Kaelen and his two remaining guards.

The prince’s smile remained polite and controlled, but Thorne could sense a shift—an undercurrent of tension that Kaelen was doing his best to hide.

Then, without a moment’s hesitation, Kaelen shoved open the doors ahead of him and strode out into the night, his two remaining guards trailing in his wake.

The doors slammed shut with a heavy thud that reverberated down the corridor, the sound cutting through the silence like a final, irreversible act, the echo fading into the dark like footsteps lost in an abyss.

Thorne cursed under his breath, frustration rising in his chest.

He had accounted for the guards in his plans for a confrontation.

At least, he had considered their presence when he’d mapped out the logistics of a fight—had even prepared for the possibility of slipping a knife into a guard or two if it came to that.

But this? This would complicate everything.

Seducing the beast in front of his guards was a far more precarious endeavor than silently ending a life in the shadows.

The idea of slipping a blade into a guard’s throat seemed far more desirable than attempting anything like seduction with the prince, especially when Kaelen’s personal security was so near.

For a moment, Thorne regretted not taking the chance when it had been presented to him.

Why hadn’t he simply shoved Kaelen off the balcony earlier, when the opportunity had been handed to him on a silver platter? The thought gnawed at him—anger, regret, frustration—he was no fool, yet the chance had slipped away from him.

Now, he was left trailing Kaelen through dark corridors, tangled in a web of desires and obligations, all the while wishing he had taken a simpler path.

His mind churned, considering the doors at the end of the hall.

What was Kaelen doing? Why had he suddenly decided to leave the party, to step outside into the cold night air? Thorne’s curiosity bloomed, an instinct that had served him well in his past.

What awaited Kaelen out there? Was someone waiting for him in the gardens, waiting for the prince's presence? Or was it a secret meeting of some kind—an illicit rendezvous? Thorne’s teeth ground together at the thought, his mind racing, though he didn’t yet know the answers.

He moved quickly toward the doors, pressing his ear against them for a moment, listening for any sounds that might give him a clue to the prince's intentions.

Satisfied that the coast was clear, Thorne eased the door open just enough to slip through the gap.

He cautiously scanned the area for Kaelen, but the prince and his retinue were nowhere to be seen.

Slipping out into the cold, he gently closed the door behind him, making sure not to make a sound.

He stepped into a pale patch of moonlight that washed over the stone, the chill of the night creeping into his bones.

The gardens.

That’s where Kaelen had gone.

The door had led him out onto a small, neglected terrace, the cold bite of winter still clinging to every stone, every bare branch.

The season’s neglect was evident, the flower beds around him little more than husks of their former selves, the earth cracked and lifeless from the long, bitter chill.

A set of circular paving stones led further into the grounds, their edges softened by the frost, winding toward the depths of the garden.

Thorne’s gaze swept the area once more, but there was no sign of Kaelen.

He had disappeared into the night, leaving Thorne with no choice but to follow.

With no other course of action, Thorne moved toward the path, his cape pulled tight around his shoulders to ward off the worst of the night’s bitter cold.

His ears remained attuned to every little noise, every movement in the distance, though the sound of his footsteps was muffled by the frost beneath him.

The chill in the air was biting, more brutal now that he was fully exposed.

Erethos' cruel breath had lost its edge in the thick of the garden’s dark recesses, though it still carried a sting, a reminder that winter had not yet released its grip on the land.

Thorne felt the cold seep into his bones, an uncomfortable sensation that made him shiver despite himself.

How he longed for the warmth of Palea, for the humid air, the buzzing of insects, the warmth that wrapped itself around the body like a blanket.

He had spent so much time in Erethos, in its cold, that he could hardly remember the suffocating humidity of his homeland, and how it felt to sweat under the sun.

In just two moons' time, Tarvela's capital would be swamped by heat and insects.

Thorne could already picture it—the stifling air, the buzzing of flies, the endless swarms of mosquitoes, all part of the nightmare that would descend upon Palea's streets.

Sister Mercedes would certainly have her share of horror stories to share, ones that would send unruly children squirming in their seats during Sunday services.

Thorne and Orion had each been on the receiving end of her frightening tales, more than once.

Sister Mercedes had an imagination far too vivid for the comfort of any child, and her stories had been enough to make even the bravest among them think twice about their actions.

But for now, he had no time to dwell on memories of summer heat or irritating nuns.

Thorne focused his attention back on the task at hand—the gardens, the path that lay before him, the sounds of the night that were suddenly more alive around him, more pressing.

He followed the winding path, stepping carefully over the paving stones as the landscape unfolded before him.

The once vibrant garden was now a pale shadow of itself, the plants withered by the unforgiving season.

The shriveled remnants of shrubbery and trees reached out like gnarled fingers, their leaves long since gone, leaving behind only brittle branches that whispered in the wind.

As Thorne moved further into the garden, the statues began to reveal themselves—silent, frozen sentinels of a forgotten era.

They were knights and heroes, kings and princes, their forms preserved in stone and ice.

The figures seemed to emerge from the shadows themselves, standing tall among the weeds and frost, their eyes glazed with ice, their weapons still raised in eternal, unmoving battle.

The statue of a gryphon, poised on a slab, caught Thorne’s eye.

The creature, a lion-bodied beast with outstretched wings, appeared as if it might take flight at any moment, though it had been extinct for over a century.

Perhaps even more impossibly, in less than two moons’ time, the Demetrius family would return to their seaside manor, just as they had discussed before Thorne left.

The plans were already in motion—the balmy summer ahead, filled with long days by the sea, evenings under the stars, the promise of family and respite.

Even Orion had promised to come for a few weeks, to make up for the lost time.

It had almost been two whole years since the family had spent that summer together, and the thought of it, of the simplicity of it all, made Thorne feel something akin to yearning.

But there was so much more to attend to first, before all of that—before the summer and the return to the comfort of home.

The rest of the spring social season was still to come, and it would not wait for him to finish this bloody business.

Thorne had quite a bit awaiting him when he returned from this mission, and he felt the weight of it all pressing down on him.

He cared little for the endless parties and social gatherings that littered his calendar, but there were other things—things he couldn’t ignore.

A famous weapons master would be in Palea for the summer, and Thorne had already planned to acquaint himself with him.

There was also the hunting trip with Petra, something they’d been discussing since last autumn, the promise of shared days in the forest, a welcome escape from the world.

And, more than all of that, there was the new clinic their father would be opening at the end of the next moon.

It was something Harper had dreamed of for years—an opportunity to serve the less fortunate in Palea’s Little Sylvan, particularly in the refugee quarter.

It was a noble endeavor, and Thorne knew he had to be there for his father.

His presence, his support, would mean everything.

But somehow, all of that—the promises, the plans, the future—felt as distant and unreal as a dream, hanging in a place untouched by the present chaos.

Life would resume, yes, after tonight, if all went according to plan.

It was a strange thought, as though everything would go back to normal once Kaelen Elenar Olivet was dead, the turmoil and bloodshed of this night behind them.

Erethos would be thrown into chaos, but Thorne would go home.

He would return to Palea.

He would go to the beach with Orion.

He would have tea with his mother, enjoy the simple, mundane pleasures of life once more. He would attend court and take up his position beside his princess, behind Dawna and Ladislava, the comforting routine of their family and life there waiting for him.

But even as he thought this, something gnawed at him—a strange sense of unreality, as if all of it was slipping away, fading with every step he took further into the night.

It seemed impossible to imagine the world as it would be after all of this, after everything had been set in motion, after Kaelen’s death would tear through Erethos like a storm.

Thorne felt himself pull away from that future, if only for a moment, needing to focus.

He had a task at hand.

There was no place for distractions.

He forced his mind back to the present, back to the task before him.

Whatever Seraphina had planned for when this was over, whatever the future held for her, it was of no consequence to him right now.

Thorne’s life awaited his return, and whatever else would happen—whatever else had to happen—would happen in time.

He would see this through, no matter the cost.

After some time, the stone path abruptly veered left and disappeared into a rising swell of dense shrubbery, a tall and foreboding gateway that loomed ahead, its foliage tinged with shades of brown and blue in the moonlight.

A hedge maze? Thorne furrowed his brow as he stopped, scanning the area.

The path before him narrowed, leading directly into the heart of the overgrown thicket, with no other routes branching away.

He quickly swept his gaze over the ground, noticing that there were no footprints—no sign of anyone having passed through the wispy grass on either side of the path recently.

The absence of tracks seemed strange, almost intentional.

Someone had been here, surely, but there was no trace left behind.

Glancing back toward the entrance of the maze, his mind racing with possible explanations, Thorne was startled by the sudden clattering of approaching footsteps.