Chapter 8
Seraphina's Scrutiny
Valerius's second, Seraphina, watches Elara with cold eyes. She resents the slayer's hold on the king and plots in the shadows, her loyalty to Valerius warring with her growing jealousy.
The chill that permeated the castle wasn't merely the absence of heat; it was a deep, ancient cold that seeped into bone and soul. It was the kind of cold that clung to stone, to tapestries woven with forgotten battles, and, I was beginning to suspect, to the very air Valerius breathed. My days were a monotonous cycle of waking to the same opulent cage, the same suffocating silence, punctuated only by the clinking of silverware as my meals—rich, bloody offerings that tasted of iron and regret—were delivered. My nights were a torment of dreams, a kaleidoscope of Valerius’s eyes, his touch, his whispered words that slithered through my sleep like venom.
It was during one such twilight hour, the fading sun casting long, skeletal shadows across my chamber, that she appeared. Seraphina. I’d glimpsed her before, a fleeting silhouette at the edge of my vision, a shadow amongst shadows, always near Valerius but never quite in focus. Now, she stood in the doorway, a figure carved from obsidian and moonlight. Her hair, the color of a raven's wing, was swept back from a face that was sharp, angular, and utterly devoid of warmth. Her eyes, the color of a storm-tossed sea, fixed on me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
“He keeps you well,” she stated, her voice a low, resonant hum that held an undercurrent of something sharp, like a finely honed blade. She didn’t ask, she declared, her gaze sweeping over the silken sheets, the heavy velvet curtains, the untouched platter of food. It was an assessment, a judgment.
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