Roselle's POV
The wind outside howled softly through the open balcony, but the room remained untouched—silent, warm, and dark like my thoughts.
Abigail's scent still lingered faintly in the air, perfume and pride mixing together like the final notes of a tragic song. I let it fade slowly as I stood in the center of my private training chamber, the dim light casting dancing shadows across the crimson-carved floor.
I rolled my shoulders, sighing as I removed my heels, letting the cold marble kiss the soles of my feet.
"Enough politics for one day," I muttered. "Time to let the darkness stretch."
With a thought, the magic stirred within me—a slow, coiling pulse of shadow gathering beneath my skin. My fingertips darkened, laced in smoke-like energy as the Goddess of Darkness within me unfurled like a sleeping beast disturbed from slumber.
"Midnight Serpents."
I whispered the words, and the shadows around me responded. From the corners of the room, wisps of black slithered into shape—coiling, snapping serpents of pure void dancing around my arms.
They hissed playfully, but I could feel their hunger. Their need to lash out.
I raised a hand toward the far wall and flicked a finger.
The shadows lashed like whips—splitting the reinforced steel wall with a thunderous crack.
"Still too slow," I muttered, narrowing my eyes. "Again."
The air trembled with each command. One by one, I summoned shadow blades, tendrils, illusions. I danced across the room with lethal grace—no wasted movement, no hesitation. I wasn't doing this to kill. No. I was doing it to feel alive. To keep the darkness inside me sharp.
To remind myself… that I am not a pawn.
I am not a woman begging for love.
I am Roselle Vasilyev—the Queen without chains. The Goddess who bled herself into power.
After a final strike that cracked the floor beneath my feet, I stood panting slightly, strands of my dark hair clinging to my cheeks, sweat tracing my spine. The shadows recoiled around me like loyal dogs returning to heel.
"Heavenly Demon... Samuel..."
My lips curled into a smile.
"You're still out there, aren't you?" I whispered, looking to the sky beyond the open window. "Still breaking everything in your path. Still rewriting the script."
I traced a finger over the mark on my wrist—where his power once clashed with mine.
"You're getting stronger. I can feel it."
And yet, so was I.
This time, if we met again—it wouldn't be as enemies.
But whether we'd meet as lovers or rivals… even I couldn't predict.
Only the darkness knew.
And it never answered kindly.
________________________________________
The night had settled over the city like a velvet cloak—silent, brooding, and filled with secrets. I had just finished my training, my body still humming from the exertion and the familiar thrill of shadowplay. I stood by the wide balcony, sipping a glass of aged wine, when I heard the faint knock on the chamber door.
"Come in," I said without turning.
The door creaked open, and I didn't need to glance to know who it was. That scent—cigars, blood, and old leather—belonged to only one man.
"You're late, Mikhail," I said coolly.
"And yet, you waited," his gravelly voice replied as he stepped forward, trench coat soaked from the rain, hat still casting a shadow over his weathered face. His silver hair was longer than the last time I saw him.
He stopped a few feet behind me and set a sealed file on the table nearby.
"You're not here for old stories," I said, finally turning to face him. "So? What did you find?"
Mikhail gave a slow nod. "He's alive, Roselle. More than that—he's thriving."
My fingers tightened on the stem of my glass. I didn't need to ask who.
"Samuel."
"He's no longer the man you knew. He's something... more. A force. Word from the Southern Beastlands say he tore through a group of corrupted titans alone. People are calling him 'The Harbinger.'"
I felt the breath catch in my chest. So the whispers weren't just rumors.
"And?" I pressed.
Mikhail's eyes gleamed beneath the brim of his hat. "He's searching."
"Searching?" I repeated, my voice almost breathless.
"For someone stronger than him," Mikhail said. "He wants to fight… not to win, but to evolve. He said it himself—he wants to break his own limits. There's no one else pushing him hard enough."
A soft laugh escaped my lips before I could stop it. It wasn't mockery—it was awe. Pride. Maybe a trace of longing.
"That madman…" I whispered. "He's becoming what the world never dared imagine."
Mikhail stepped closer. "He's looking for Owen Yates next."
That name.
Even my shadows paused for a heartbeat.
I walked to the window and looked up at the stars, their cold beauty doing little to calm the storm building in my chest.
"Then the world will see a clash between the King of Beasts… and the King without a crown."
Mikhail tilted his head. "And what about you?"
I smirked, shadows curling around my fingertips once more. "I'll be watching. And waiting. If Samuel survives Owen…"
I turned, my eyes gleaming like an eclipse.
"Then maybe it'll be my turn to challenge him. After all—no one breaks destiny like him."