Her breathing steadies, just enough to allow her a single, deliberate step away from me. She puts distance between us, even though the corridor is narrow, the walls too close for either of us to run.
I don’t follow. I can’t. The urge to explain claws at me, but there is no defense to offer, no way to soften what she’s witnessed. My actions need no apology, but in her presence, I feel the urge all the same.
“Sera—” I begin, voice rougher than I intend.
She shakes her head, already turning away. Her voice, if she has one, is swallowed by the echo of her steps receding down the hollow corridor. Her back is rigid, each stride determined, but I see the tremor in her shoulders, the stiffness in her neck. She disappears around the corner, swallowed by shadow.
I stand alone, the scent of blood thick on my hands, the memory of her shock burning in my mind. For the first time in years, regret stirs in my chest—an old, unwelcome ache. I built this world on the understanding that sentiment was weakness, that those I cared for could be used against me or would one day turn. But as I watch the space she left behind, I am forced to admit how much I hate the look she gave me. How much it matters that she saw.
I linger in the hall, staring at the closed door. Inside, the guards finish their work in silence. The floor will be scrubbed, the body removed, the tools wiped clean and hidden away. The rest of the house will move on, pretending nothing has changed.
Everything has changed.
I should be angry. I should be thinking of the message I sent to my men, of the lesson carved into flesh and stone. Instead, all I can see is the fear in her eyes, the way her skin blanched at the sight of what I am willing to do, what I have always done. All I can hear is the soft sound of her breath catching—sharp, horrified—as she saw the truth for herself.
I want to follow her, to force her to listen, to make her understand. That this is the only way to survive. That in this world, power is everything, and power is never clean. I want to take her anger, her disgust, and turn it into something I can use. But I know better. The walls she’s raised now are taller than any I could build.
Tomorrow, the game resumes. Tomorrow, I will be the man she fears, the man my men respect. But tonight, I remember her eyes—how they looked at me not with terror, but with understanding, and how that truth hurts more than any blade ever could.
The absence of accusation is worse than fury. It carves its own wound, deep and private. I would rather face her rage than the quiet, final verdict of her understanding.
I move through the halls on autopilot, dismissing my men with a glance. Their eyes track me, uncertain for the first time in years. Wordlessly, they clear a path. I am still the center of gravity here, but something has shifted; they feel it too.
Alone in my room, I strip away the bloodstained shirt, tossing it in a heap. Water scalds my hands as I scrub, but nothing lifts the shadow her gaze left behind. I stare at my reflection—hard, controlled, untouchable. Yet the echo of her trembling lingers in my grip, the memory of her breath hitching under my command.
The empire I built demands brutality, demands that I be both shield and sword. Still, I cannot help but wonder—if I have become the monster she now sees, what else have I lost along the way?
Chapter Seventeen - Seraphina
I spend the next day a ghost, locked behind my own door. I drag the covers over my head and press my knees tight to my chest, the world shrank down to the steady thud of my heart.
I see it again and again: the man on his knees, the flicker of fear in his eyes, the sharp, soft sound of violence—the spray of blood, the red spattered on marble and flesh. The memory won’t fade. It runs on a loop every time I blink.
It is not the first time I have seen death, but never like this. Never so close, never so final, never with a man who had smiled at me only hours before now lying still and silent on the cold floor. And Miron, his face carved from stone, eyes empty of anything but necessity. There was no anger, no pleasure. Only that vast, chilling emptiness.
I cannot eat. I cannot sleep. My body shivers, trapped somewhere between nausea and rage. Every time a knock sounds at my door, I ignore it, burrowing deeper into the bed. The maids call my name in gentle voices, offer soup, bread, tea.
I keep my head buried beneath the pillow until their voices fade to a distant blur. All I hear is the echo of metal cracking against… flesh and bone. The echo of Miron’s cruelty.
The hours drag. Sunlight creeps across the floor in slow, shifting lines. My throat aches with hunger, my mouth dry, but I refuse to move. If I leave this room, if I face the world outside, it will mean accepting what I saw. Accepting that there’s no going back.
I want to hate him. I want to wish him dead. I want to pound my fists against the walls until the whole house comes down around me.
Yet underneath the tangle of horror and revulsion, something else festers, a question I cannot kill. Why did he shield me? Why not let me drown in the horror, force me to see every moment of the punishment he deemed necessary? Why, at the very last moment, did he pull me away and say,“Don’t look”?
The thought makes my skin prickle. It unsettles me more than the violence itself, the possibility that he might care what I see—what I think of him. That he’s not just a monster, but a man wrestling with his own darkness.
By evening, the hunger is a sharp ache. I ignore it, curling tighter, willing myself to disappear. When another knock comes, heavier than before, I almost answer. A deep voice—Pavel, not a maid—filters through the wood.
“Sera,” he calls softly, patience and weariness tangled together. “You should eat. The boss is… busy. He won’t bother you, but you must eat.”
I say nothing. My stomach growls, traitorous, but I press my lips tight. Tears sting the corners of my eyes. I don’t want their food, their kindness. I don’t want to accept comfort from people who watched the same horror I did and went on with their day.
Pavel waits, footsteps quiet. “I know what you saw. No one here forgets. He does what he must. You can’t change that, not now. At least let yourself live, da?”
His voice is gentle, the Russian endearment almost softening the blow. I stare at the wall, refusing to let him in. I don’t answer. Eventually, he sighs and moves away.
Alone again, I let myself shake, arms wrapped around my knees. I want to cry, but the tears catch in my throat, turning to anger. I hate myself for feeling even a flicker of curiosity about Miron’s motives, about the complicated calculus of violence andmercy that governs this house. I hate that I am not numb enough to stop wondering what drives him, what he feels… if he feels at all.
