Morning came later than usual.
Not because the sun hesitated—
but because Seraphina did.
She stood on the balcony overlooking the ash-streaked remains of last night's violence. Her empire still stood. But it had teeth marks now.
Behind her, the room stirred.
Rhys rolled over on the velvet chaise he'd stolen from her reading nook. Shirtless, hair a mess, one leg thrown dramatically over the armrest.
"I dreamt of you stabbing nobles again," he said, voice scratchy.
She didn't turn. "Was I victorious?"
He grinned. "You always are."
---
The ballroom had been cleaned.
Sort of. The bloodstains were buffed to a dull red sheen. The chandelier now had a tasteful scorch mark. The assassin's head was gone—but only because Lucien insisted it was a health hazard.
Thorne had gone to train. Caspian was already singing again in the atrium, drawing a fresh crowd. The cats—dozens, always more—moved through the halls like spies with soft feet.
And Rhys?
Rhys didn't leave.
He never really left anymore.
He yawned, stretched, and crossed the room to her side with that loose, barefoot strut.
He leaned on the balcony railing.
"So. Who's dying today?"
"Too early to tell."
"Can I vote?"
"Rhys."
He grinned. "Fine, fine. I'll just glare judgmentally."
---
Lucien arrived precisely on time, with two folders, three scrolls, and zero patience.
He looked at Rhys like he wanted to set him on fire, and Rhys responded by sipping his coffee louder.
"We need to address the nobles."
Seraphina raised an eyebrow. "Do they have a choice?"
Lucien hesitated. "Some are… considering withdrawal."
Rhys laughed.
Not politely.
Not helpfully.
"Let them withdraw," he said, flashing teeth. "From their money. Their seats. Their necks."
Lucien exhaled through his nose. "Musclehead."
"Bookworm." rolling his eyes Rhys sipped again.
---
Seraphina didn't smile.
Not fully.
But her eyes warmed as she turned from the balcony. The room behind her flickered in soft candlelight. Velvet shadows. Gold-edged plans.
Her cats followed—one white with ice-blue eyes, one black with a shredded ear and permanent scowl.
Rhys fell in behind her.
Not because she told him to.
Because it was natural now.
His hand brushed the back of hers as they walked. Casual. Thoughtless.
She didn't pull away.
---
In the council room, the nobles waited. Stiff-backed. Nervous.
Last night had changed things.
And when Seraphina entered—with Rhys grinning lazily at her side, with Lucien polished and unreadable, and a one-eyed cat leaping onto her shoulder like a crown—
they knew.
This was not a woman you plotted against.
This was a woman you surrendered to.
---
"Gentlemen," Seraphina said, voice velvet and steel. "Let's discuss business."