Night came like a blade sliding into a sheath. In a forgotten watchtower three miles from the academy, five assassins knelt in a circle of black candles. Their leader a woman with a scar across her throat, held a mirror of polished obsidian. In the mirror: Lucien Valmont. Walking the northern forest path. Alone. The scarred woman's lips curled. "Same hour as always," she whispered. "Same path." A younger assassin swallowed. "He killed twenty of us last year." The scarred woman's eyes glittered.
"He killed twenty of us last year." She drew a vial of nightshade the exact poison that had stopped Queen Isolde's heart. She kissed the vial. "Tonight, we finish the job. Just like his mother." She smashed it against the mirror. The glass drank the poison.
The image of Lucien flickered then smiled back at them. The assassins froze. The mirror cracked. Lucien's voice came through the glass, cold as winter steel. "Wrong hour, bastards." The watchtower exploded into ice. Shards of frozen stone punched through flesh. The scarred woman had time for one scream. Then nothing.
The forest. Lucien walked the northern path. He had sent the mirror image himself.
A lure. The first assassin dropped from the pines. Twin daggers. Lucien didn't draw.
He looked up. Ice exploded from the air itself needles sharp as regret. The assassin was shredded mid-leap. He hit the ground in frozen chunks. The second and third came together. Chain of shadow. Spear of black fire. Lucien whispered a word that tasted like death. The chain wrapped his wrist and turned to brittle frost.
He yanked. The assassin flew forward. Lucien caught him by the face. Fingers sank into flesh like it was snow. Frost spread. The man's scream came out as frozen mist.
Lucien crushed his skull like an ice cube. Pop. The black-fire spear stabbed toward his heart. Lucien caught it bare-handed. The fire hissed, then froze. He snapped it in half.
Drove both pieces through the assassin's eyes. Crunch. The fourth tried to run.
Lucien smiled. It was the most beautiful, terrible thing in the world. He lifted one hand.
Roots erupted not gentle. They punched through boots, legs, spine. Pulled. Slowly.
The assassin screamed as his body was torn in five directions at once. Lucien watched. Waited for the scream to stop. Then flicked his wrist. The roots snapped the body apart like a wishbone. The fifth the scarred woman crawled from the watchtower ruins, bleeding, throat bleeding from shattered glass. She looked up at Lucien. He crouched. Green eyes met hers. "You poisoned my mother," he said softly.
She spat blood. "Your mother was weak." Lucien laughed. Low. Delighted.
"Oh, darling." He placed two fingers on her forehead. Frost spread. Skin. Muscle.
Bone. Soul. She froze from the inside out. Her last breath came out as a snowflake.
Lucien stood. Tapped the statue once. It shattered into glittering dust. He wiped his hand. Then looked toward the academy. Because something had called his name.
Footsteps. Seraphina. Sword drawn. Breathing hard. She took one look at the frozen carnage. Then at Lucien. "You're a monster." Lucien sheathed his sword.
"You say that like it's a bad thing." Seraphina's voice cracked. "You didn't call me."
"I didn't want you to see this side." "I'm your cousin," she said. "I already have."
Silence. Then Seraphina sheathed her sword. "Next time," she said, "take me with you." Lucien's mask cracked just a fraction. He nodded once. They walked back together. The forest parted for them. Lucien's voice cut through the cold night air, sharper than the wind. "Seraphina… why did you come looking for me at this hour? You could've hurt yourself." Seraphina stopped a few steps away, breath clouding white, cloak trembling around her ankles like it wanted to run.
"You never answered my question," she said, soft but steady, eyes searching his face for the boy she used to know. "Why are you at the academy, Lucien? You swore you'd never return. Not after what happened to your mother." A shadow crossed his face, the kind that carried old wounds and heavy wounds.
"You think it was one person who killed her?" he asked, voice low, almost a growl. "Seraphina… it wasn't one. It was many. And the assassins tonight? They're connected. All of it is connected." Her throat tightened. "Then why come back? Why now?" He looked away, jaw clenched, moonlight carving harsh lines across his cheekbones.
"My grandmother," he said at last. "She commanded it. Didn't explain. Just said I had to be here. That the North needed me inside these walls." He gave a bitter laugh. "So, I came. Like a good little prince." Seraphina stepped closer, boots crunching frost.
"That's not the whole truth and you know it." Lucien's gaze snapped back to her, green eyes glittering. "No," he admitted. "It's not." Silence stretched, taut as a drawn bow.
Then, quieter, almost embarrassed: "The Volmont Moon Ball is approaching. Tradition demands every Valmont attend at least once." He exhaled, frustrated, almost defeated.
"My mother… the night before she died, she made me promise." His voice cracked just once. "She begged me to bring you. Said you'd be alone one day, and the ball was the only place the family couldn't pretend we weren't broken." Seraphina's breath caught.
Lucien looked down at his blood-flecked gloves. "I hated her for asking. I hated myself for promising. But I gave my word." He finally met her eyes again.
"So that's why I came back. To ask you, in person, like she wanted: Will you go to the ball with me, Seraphina?" The wind howled between them. Snow began to fall soft, slow, deliberate. Seraphina stared at him. Then, very quietly: "You kept a deathbed promise… for me?" Lucien's mouth twisted half smile, half scar.
"I keep all my promises. Even the ones that hurt." He offered his hand, palm up, frost roses blooming across his skin and vanishing just as fast. "So?" he asked, voice barely above the wind. "Will you dance with your monster of a cousin… one last time?"
Seraphina looked at the hand. Then at the blood still frozen on his sleeve. Then at his eyes green like hers but carrying winter inside. She placed her gloved hand in his.
"One dance," she said. Lucien. "One dance." The snow fell harder. But for the first time in ten years, it felt almost warm.