The throne room of Vrogran's stronghold wasn't carved, it was made by ancient magic from the hands of the devil himself. Crimson roots weaved through black stone walls, pulsing faintly like veins. The air was thick with the scent of ash and night-blooming flowers, sickly sweet and cloying.
Manon stood near the center, surrounded by courtiers who never blinked. The Red Fae, Vrogran's chosen, watched her with silent hunger. They bowed when he entered, but it was her they couldn't stop looking at.
She met every gaze without flinching.
Vrogran strode in, tall and silent, his eyes locked on her like a predator. His crown, forged of flame-wrought bone, tilted ever so slightly as he approached. He didn't speak to the court. He spoke only to her.
"You wear the mark well."
She inclined her head. "You made sure of it."
Vrogran smiled, slow and possessive. "It suits you. You were born to wear more than chains, Manon. You were born to wear a crown."
