Princess zetulah Viridian POV:
The first rule of bargaining with devils?
Never let them smell your fear.
Too bad I reeked of it.
The air's thicker here. Sicker. Every step east into Moriba's territory feels like wading through tar. The forest—my forest, with its decent, honest shadows—shrivels behind me. What's ahead is wrong. Jagged black rocks punch through the sky like broken teeth, their edges gnawed by centuries of bad magic.
And there it is. Zareth's fortress. Less a building, more a clawed fist smashing up from hell itself.
My pulse kicks. Hard. The stench of this place seeps into my lungs—ash, bone dust, something sweet and rotten underneath. Like licking a bloodstained coin. Back home, even the decay smelled alive. Here? It's death, pressed into the very air.
Leaves crunch under my boots—too loud, like the ground itself is whispering about the idiot walking straight to her doom.
Beside me, Oryn smirks. Of course he does. "Nervous?" he drawls, like he's asking if I take my tea with honey.
I don't bite. "Only fools aren't scared of your family."
His grin widens. Bastard
Fog unfurls from the earth, thick and greasy. Moriban guards materialize from the mist, their golden eyes glowing like freshly minted coins. No weapons drawn. They don't need them. Their stares sink into my bones like hooked claws.
I take a step.
Cold.
Not the wind-on-skin kind. The wrong kind. It's inside me, slithering. Like a hundred centipedes tap-dancing on my brainstem. My knees buckle. Vision swims.
A whisper slithers into my skull. Kneel.
Pressure clamps around my throat.
Oryn snaps his fingers.
The weight shatters. A sharp breath cuts through me. The world tilts back into focus.
"She's mine," Oryn says, casual as claiming a barstool. "Try that again, and I'll redecorate these pretty walls with your skull-meal."
The guards bow, smirking. Always godsdamned smirking.
Zareth's citadel is all sharp edges and sharper lies. Gold walls gleam, but not the warm kind—these shimmer wrong, like honey hiding rot. The air tastes metallic, like licking a blade.
Selene's waiting. Tall. Ice-queen perfect. Her lips curve in a knowing smile, but her eyes? Bottomless pits with eyelashes.
"Brother," she purrs. Then those pits land on me. "And the Viridian girl. How… quaint."
I square my shoulders, fingers brushing the cracked Viridian pendant under my shirt—the one thing they didn't burn. "Skip the small talk, Selene."
Her laugh's all wind chimes and arsenic. "Feisty." A tilt of her head. "Let's see how long that lasts."
Small.
That's how the throne room wants you to feel.
And gods, it works.
Zareth lounges like a spider who's already eaten the fly. Gold robes. Wolf eyes. Fingers drumming against the gilded armrest, slow and patient.
"Sanctuary, hm?"
"Yes." My voice holds. Barely.
He leans forward, studying me like something to be dissected. "Price?"
My mouth turns Sahara-dry. Knew this was coming. Still—
Oryn's silent behind me. Selene's quieter.
Zareth's smile could frost hell. "Loyalty. Swear it."
Loyalty.
Not "help." Not "allies."
Ownership.
The word slithers between my ribs, curling around my lungs.
I choke on a dozen replies.
He raises a brow. "No?"
"And if I refuse?"
Zareth exhales, long and slow, as if I've disappointed him. His gaze drops to my clenched fist—to the scar across my knuckles, shaped like a wolf's bite. His lips twitch. "Then you're nothing."
The word hangs.
He's right.
House Viridian is ash. My army is ghosts. My crown is a lost thing buried under someone else's victory.
All I have left is pride, a death wish, and the pendant's jagged edges digging into my palm.
Torches crackle. Shadows dance.
Say yes.
Say no.
Say something—
Zareth's still waiting.
Oryn's silent.
Selene's smiling.
My fists clench.
What the hells do I do?
—------------------
The chamber's too godsdamned quiet.
Golden braziers flicker. Shadows twist across black marble floors like things alive. This silence isn't peace—it's a blade pressed to my throat, waiting to see if I'll flinch.
I stand center-stage, spine straight. Chin high. But my fists? Curled so tight my nails bite my palms. Emperor Zareth Moriba's stare weighs more than the crown he stole.
Those gold eyes rake over me. Slow. Like a butcher pricing cuts of meat.
Hunters always stare longest at prey that fights.
My people are ash. My house? A cautionary tale. But I'll be damned if I shrink under some power-drunk tyrant's gaze.
"Your silence speaks volumes, Princess." Zareth's voice is silk over a dagger's edge.
I say nothing. Words here are landmines.
Oryn shifts beside me—just a twitch of his fingers. Even he's rattled.
Zareth leans back, throne swallowing him whole. That smirk? I want to carve it off.
"Swear yourself to House Moriba. Become one of us."
The words don't hit. They slither.
Loyalty? To mind-raping aristocrats who rewrite your soul like it's a misspelled letter?
I once saw a rebel lord gut his own son while thanking Moriba for mercy.
My stomach clenches. They don't conquer. They erase.
Oryn's voice cracks the silence. "This wasn't the deal."
Zareth ignores him. Of course.
Heels click. Selene steps from the shadows.
Her robes aren't fabric—they're liquid gold, the kind that drowns you. "Emberclaw took your family," she purrs. "Don't you want to rot them from the inside?"
The worst part?
It's working.
I lift my chin. "I'm not your pawn."
Zareth's laugh is low, oily. "Pawn? You could be queen."
Queen.
Not of ashes. Not in exile.
Power.
It coils in my gut, hot and shameful.
For half a second, I want it.
Oryn stiffens beside me. He knows me too well.
"Temporary alliance," I snap. "Until Emberclaw burns."
Selene drifts closer, trailing a nail across the table. "You think you're holding the leash. Adorable."
"Debts," Zareth murmurs. "We collect."
Oryn's grip finds my wrist in the corridor. "You just shook hands with the devil, Zetulah."
I yank free. "I made a deal to survive."
"'Survival's the first lie they sell you.'" His voice drops. "Cost comes later."
I walk. Faster.
Then—
The back of my neck prickles.
Someone's watching.
I whirl.
Empty corridor. But the air? Thick. Wrong.
The shadows breathe.
I don't hear footsteps. Just… pressure. Like the walls themselves are leaning in.
Whoever's there—
They're not done with me.
—---------------------
The air is wrong
Something's off.
Not the room—too perfect, too gold, too still. Not the bed—suffocatingly soft, silk that clings like a trap.
It's the air.
It doesn't move. Doesn't breathe. Thick as honey, laced with incense that tries too hard to mask something rotting.
The palace is awake. Watching.
I sit on the bed's edge, ribs throbbing where Emberclaw claws tore through. Skin prickling with phantom burns. Not the worst pain I've had. Not the worst thing I've survived.
But survival isn't the problem.
Neck prickles.
I'm not alone.
Lanterns gutter. Shadows reach.
A whisper crawls into my skull—thick as spoiled honey.
"Little wolf, lost in the den of snakes."
Not from the door. Not the window.
Inside my mind.
My pulse spikes. Not fear—instinct.
Claws slip free. Eyes burn green.
Room's empty.
But the air vibrates.
"Show yourself." My voice is a growl.
The shadows twitch.
He steps from the corner. No sound. No scent.
Wrong.
Cloak shifts—black and gold, rippling like oil on water. His eyes gleam gold—not Oryn's smug glint. Hungrier.
"You don't belong here," he says, voice smooth, careless.
Something about him—it's not human.
"Who are you?" My claws are still out. I don't blink.
He tilts his head. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Then—
He vanishes.
The air slams back into place. My ears pop.
The door crashes.
Oryn fills the frame.
His golden eyes scan the room. Land on me.
"Who were you talking to?"
"No one."
Lie. He knows it. Moribans always know.
He exhales, slow. "Rest. Father has plans for you tomorrow."
A
warning.
A promise.
The door clicks shut.
I don't move.
I'm not alone.
Hours crawl. The incense chokes.
Then—
"Careful, princess."
A breath against my mind.
The mirror fogs.
Like someone's standing behind me.
Watching.
Waiting.
But when I turn—
There's no one there.