Chapter 5 Maidens and Monsters

A soft breeze drifted through the silk paneled corridor of the Vellaren estate, scented with crushed herbs and the fading blush of winter jasmine. But Seraphyne smelled something else.

Blood.

Not real blood, memory's phantom. Her breath caught as she passed a marble niche inlaid with sunstone: a decorative alcove that had once hidden the sword used to slay her father.

She kept walking.

Each step through the estate now bore double meaning, what it was, and what it had become. The servants who had once seemed harmless. The cousins who smiled with veiled daggers. Even the painted portraits whispered secrets she hadn't heard the first time.

And above all else, there was the creature she'd married.

Rael Solmyn.

In her past life, she had believed herself lucky. A prince from a neighboring kingdom. Handsome. Witty. Generous with flattery and gifts. She had thought herself special chosen.

She had not known that monsters wore masks carved from charm.

The royal palace shimmered on the horizon like a snow laced citadel, all white stone and silver archways. That morning, Seraphyne rode alongside her family in a procession meant to honor the seasonal rites, the traditional Maiden's Festival, where eligible noble girls paid homage at the

Temple of Starlight and danced for the gods.

A debutante affair. A spectacle of silk, song, and strategic gossip.

Seraphyne had once loved it.

Now she saw it for what it was.

A stage.

She had chosen her gown with precision: midnight blue layered with ghost-pale embroidery, the color of prophecy and veiled power. Her jewelry was sparse but ancestral. A phoenix pendant rested at her throat, small but unmistakable.

Across the procession, Isandra Vellaren wore scarlet.

Too bold. Too loud. Too hungry.

Typical.

Their eyes met briefly across the crowd.

The air between them snapped like a drawn bowstring.

The Temple of Starlight sat atop a rise, its spiral towers reaching like fingers to the winter sun. Girls from all noble houses gathered in ceremonial silence. The high priestess blessed each maiden's offering, a white blossom dipped in consecrated silver ink and whispered a brief fortune.

Seraphyne stepped forward.

The high priestess stilled. Her gaze lingered.

Then she took Seraphyne's flower and spoke a single sentence:

"Yours is the path of flame and shadow, child."

Whispers followed her back to her place in the circle.

Isandra's smirk wavered.

Good.

After the rites came the dances.

Gold ribboned musicians played ancient songs while noble families watched from balcony alcoves.

Seraphyne moved with calculated grace, just enough elegance to remind them she was a Vellaren, but not enough to appear desperate.

Eyes followed her.

Among them: Kaelith Virelius.

He stood apart from the other heirs and generals, a silent shadow in black. His silver eyes flicked to

her only when he thought she wouldn't notice.

She always noticed.

Isandra made her move shortly after. She chose Prince Rael for the first ceremonial dance.

Seraphyne sipped her winter cordial, watching the two glide across the marble floor. She saw how

Isandra leaned in, how her hand lingered on Rael's shoulder, how her laughter carried just loud enough to reach her cousin's ears.

Pathetic.

Rael caught her gaze as the dance ended. He smiled.

She offered a cool nod.

He approached anyway.

"Lady Seraphyne," he said, bowing low. "You shine brighter than the temple fires."

"Thank you, Your Highness," she said. "Your compliments remain as polished as ever."

His eyes sparkled. "And your words remain sharp. Like a finely honed dagger."

"Only when necessary."

"Then I must ask, am I to be cut or spared?"

"That depends," she said, stepping closer. "Are you here with good intentions?"

He chuckled. "Always."

Liar.

She let her voice drop. "Then perhaps you'll explain why a Solmyn envoy recently brought silks marked with our family crest across your borders, unsigned, unclaimed, and mixed with military dispatches."

Rael stilled.

She tilted her head. "No? How strange. Perhaps my information is flawed."

"Seraphyne," he said softly, "what are you playing at?"

"Chess," she replied. "The kind you played with my life."

His jaw tightened.

She curtsied. "Enjoy the festival, Your Highness."

Then she turned and walked away.

Kaelith's gaze followed her again.

That night, she slipped into her private study and unsealed the latest message from her masked informant.

The Griffin had left it at a prearranged drop, beneath the lionhead fountain.

Inside, a single name:

Commander Therin Hault.

A palace guard. Loyal to Varek. Present the night of the massacre.

She remembered him now, his heavy boots on marble, his voice shouting orders as her family was surrounded. She remembered his sword.

She penned a reply: When does he patrol next? Then burned the rest.

She would not kill him, not yet.

But she would corner him. Question him. And leave him afraid.

The game was beginning in earnest.

Three nights later, she visited the palace under the pretense of diplomatic supper, her family was seated beside the imperial high table.

As expected, Commander Therin stood near the inner guard post. Silent. Professional. Forgettable.

Until she passed him.

"Commander Hault," she said quietly.

He bowed. "My lady."

"You served with my cousin's house, yes?"

"Indeed."

She smiled. "Then you won't mind delivering a gift for me."

She held out a small velvet pouch. Inside: a polished obsidian token marked with the Vellaren sigil.

"A reminder," she said.

He frowned. "Of what?"

She leaned closer. "That the dead remember."

His face paled.

She left him standing in silence.

In the days that followed, she stirred small shifts in the web of power.

She requested her own steward, ostensibly for learning estate management, but in truth to review every transaction tied to Varek.

She charmed her mother into hosting afternoon teas with lesser noble wives, gathering rumour's and alliances in equal measure.

She sent a letter to Kaelith, through formal diplomatic channels, thanking him for a minor favor he had not yet done. Forcing him to fulfill it.

It arrived three days later, accompanied by rare black tea from his personal stock.

Well played.

Isandra struck next.

A rumour bloomed like rot through the noble circles: that Seraphyne's mind had been altered by dark spirits, that she saw ghosts, whispered nonsense, and spent too much time in solitude.

A dangerous rumour.

She waited.

Then struck back.

At the next gathering, she requested a priestess's blessing, in public. The holy woman examined her aura and declared it "clear as a winter bell."

Then Seraphyne laughed and said, "It seems spirits fear clever minds."

The insult was obvious. The nobles chuckled. Isandra's smile cracked.

But Seraphyne wasn't done.

She gave a small performance, an impromptu recitation of a sacred poem in three tongues. Each word flawless. Each turn of phrase a blade.

Let them whisper now.

Let them fear the cleverness they could not control.

At twilight, she returned to her chambers.

There, waiting by her window, stood Kaelith.

He did not speak immediately. Neither did she.

Finally, he said, "You maneuver like a general."

"I study the terrain," she replied.

He studied her in turn. "Your cousin. Your uncle. Prince Rael. You see them all as enemies?"

"Don't you?"

"I see danger. And I see you walking its edge."

She met his gaze. "Are you here to warn me?"

"No."

"To threaten me?"

"No."

"Then why?"

His eyes softened, not with affection, but recognition.

"Because I've seen phoenixes burn," he said. "And I've seen what they do to those who fan the flames."

Then he left.

That night, Seraphyne lay awake beneath her canopy.

She thought of her father's blood. Her mother's screams. The sword at her throat.

She thought of Rael's smile.

And she thought of Kaelith's warning.

No one could protect her.

But she could protect herself.

And when the time came, when her vengeance finally arrived, she would not be the maiden they remembered.

She would be the monster they created.