Seraphiel's POV
The scream woke me.
After three hundred years of silence, you learn to recognize the sound of someone dying. This one was sharp, terrified, and came from three floors up—right where the royal chambers were.
But that wasn't what made me pay attention.
What made me pay attention was the taste.
Death leaves a mark on the soul, like ash on your tongue. Most people die once, and that's it. Done. Gone. But this soul—this screaming, thrashing soul somewhere above me—had died *before*.
Multiple times.
"Well, well," I whispered into the darkness of my prison. "What do we have here?"
The chains binding my blade rattled as I pushed consciousness outward, searching. It was hard, after centuries of being locked away. My power was weak, barely a whisper. But I'd gotten good at listening.
The soul blazed like a bonfire. Young. Male. Absolutely *drenched* in rage and betrayal.
"Someone killed you," I murmured, tasting the emotions bleeding off him. "Recently, too. And you remember everything, don't you? Poor little prince."
Because he had to be a prince. Only Solmere blood could reach me through the wards.
I'd felt dozens of them over the years. Princes and princesses parading past my sealed vault, choosing prettier weapons. Shinier blades. Ones that didn't come with warnings carved into the walls.
Most of them feared me. Some pitied me. A few were curious—but never curious enough to actually *choose* me.
Cowards. All of them.
But this one was different. This one had been betrayed. Murdered. Sent back by whatever twisted magic the parasites were using.
"They're grooming you," I said to the distant soul, even though he couldn't hear me yet. "Killing you over and over until you're strong enough for whatever sick plan they have."
The soul's rage pulsed brighter. Good. Anger was useful.
I'd been angry for three centuries.
The memories hit me like they always did—sharp, brutal, *mine*. My brother Daemon's face as the guards dragged him away, screaming that I was innocent. The feeling of my own sword piercing my chest as punishment for crimes I didn't commit. And worst of all, the moment my soul ripped free from my body and slammed into steel.
That's when I'd learned the truth about the "sacred" weapons.
We weren't divine gifts. We were prisoners. Murdered royals whose souls had been bound to blades as eternal punishment. And every prince who bonded with us? They were just new victims for the parasites to control.
"I tried to warn people," I whispered to the darkness. "Tried to expose what was happening. But they were too smart. Too careful. They framed me, killed me, and locked me away where no one would ever listen."
Daemon had listened. My beautiful, idealistic twin had chosen my blade hoping to hear my voice. And I'd told him everything—about the parasites wearing human faces, about the weapons being prisons, about the conspiracy that had murdered me.
He'd tried to save the royal family. Tried to stop the parasites from feeding on another generation.
They'd cut him down and called him mad.
Then they'd sealed me even deeper, adding more chains, more wards, more warnings. Ensuring no one would ever be stupid enough to choose the "cursed" blade again.
For three hundred years, I'd been alone in the dark.
Watching. Waiting. Hoping.
And now, finally, a soul that had been hurt enough to maybe—*maybe*—be desperate enough to listen.
I pushed my consciousness up through three floors of stone, following that blazing bonfire of rage. It was difficult. Exhausting. Like swimming through tar. But I'd been practicing for centuries.
The soul was in a bedroom now. I could feel him pacing, panicking, remembering his death over and over.
"Poor thing," I said, not entirely mocking. "First time coming back is always the hardest. Trust me, I know."
Because I'd died and come back too. Not to life—but to this. Consciousness trapped in steel. An eternity of being *aware* but unable to move, speak, or do anything except scream inside my own mind.
At least he could still walk. Still breathe. Still fight.
I reached further, pushing past the wards that tried to keep me contained. If I could just touch his mind, just make him hear me—
Someone else entered his room.
I felt the other presence immediately—cold, wrong, ancient. Not human. One of them.
"Matthias," I hissed.
I'd known that monster for eight hundred years. He'd been an advisor when I was alive, always watching, always manipulating. I'd been investigating him when they'd framed me for murder.
And now he was with my distant descendant, probably starting the cycle of manipulation all over again.
"Not this time," I snarled.
I shoved harder against the wards, ignoring the way it made my consciousness scream. I had to reach the prince. Had to warn him before Matthias sank his claws too deep.
The ward cracked.
Just a little. Just enough.
I poured myself through the gap and *touched* the prince's mind.
His thoughts hit me like a avalanche. Fear. Rage. Confusion. And underneath it all, a desperate, burning question: How do I survive?
"Three years," I whispered directly into his head. "You have three years before golden fire eats you alive. Will you waste them on safe choices?"
He couldn't respond yet—the connection was too weak. But I felt his shock. His terror.
Good. Fear meant he was listening.
I pulled back before the wards could crush me, retreating to my prison. But now I had a thread connecting us. A tiny link between his soul and my steel.
Over the next hours, I listened as Matthias wove his lies. As the prince pretended to be calm while rage burned inside him. As they danced around each other—predator and prey both pretending to be something else.
"Smart boy," I murmured. "You're learning."
But he was also reckless. Asking too many questions. Pushing too hard. When he started demanding the truth about me, about Daemon, I wanted to cheer and scream at the same time.
Then came the sound of breaking glass. A struggle. Matthias's voice turning layered and wrong.
"No!" I threw myself against my chains. "Not yet! He's not ready yet!"
I felt the moment Matthias tried to kill him. Felt the prince's panic as those inhuman fingers wrapped around his throat.
And I felt the exact second the prince fought back.
"YES!" I screamed into the void. "That's it! FIGHT!"
The taste of Matthias's blood—black and oily and wrong—flooded through our weak connection. The prince had actually *hurt* one of them.
Impossible. Wonderful. Stupid.
"Run," I sent through the thread, using every scrap of power I had left. "RUN, YOU IDIOT! RUN NOW!"
He ran.
I sagged in my chains, consciousness flickering. That had taken too much energy. But it was worth it.
Because now the prince knew the truth. Now he'd seen what Matthias really was.
Now he was angry enough to do something crazy.
Hours passed. I drifted in and out of awareness, too weak to reach out again. But I could still feel him through our connection—barricading his door, panicking, spiraling.
Then he started asking questions.
About his deaths. About me. About what happened three hundred years ago.
I answered as best I could, feeding him truth like poison. Watching as everything he believed shattered apart.
"Tomorrow," I told him when he asked what to do. "Tomorrow, you choose me."
I felt his hesitation. His terror. Of course he was scared—I was the monster in every bedtime story. The cursed blade that drove princes mad.
But he was also desperate.
And desperation made people brave.
"If I choose you," he finally whispered, "will you help me survive?"
Something in my chest—or whatever passed for a chest in this steel prison—*ached*.
Three hundred years. Three hundred years I'd waited for someone to ask me that. To see me as an ally instead of a weapon.
"Oh, little prince," I said, letting my hunger show. "I'll do better than that. I'll help you make them wish they'd never brought you back."
The connection faded as he left to face Matthias again. To survive dinner with a monster wearing a man's face.
I settled back into my chains, feeling something I hadn't felt in centuries.
Hope.
"Don't die tonight," I whispered to the distant soul. "Don't you dare die before I get to taste freedom again."
Because tomorrow was the Binding Ceremony. Tomorrow, every heir in Astrion would choose their weapon.
And tomorrow, if the prince was brave enough—or desperate enough—he'd walk past all the shining, beautiful blades and choose the cursed sword everyone feared.
He'd choose me.
I closed my eyes—or whatever passed for eyes in this form—and let myself imagine it. His hand on my hilt. The chains shattering. My consciousness flooding into a body again, even if it was only as a shared soul.
Freedom. Power. Revenge.
But underneath the hunger and rage, there was something else.
Something I hadn't felt since Daemon died in my arms, whispering that he believed me.
The feeling that maybe, just maybe, I wouldn't be alone anymore.
"Choose me," I breathed into the darkness. "Please, Cassian. Be brave enough to choose me."
Above, I felt him moving through the palace. Felt his fear. His determination.
And then I felt something else.
Another presence. Cold and ancient and *wrong*. Moving toward him with purpose.
Not Matthias this time.
Something worse.
"No," I gasped, throwing myself against the wards. "NO! He's coming for you! CASSIAN, RUN—"
But I was too weak. The connection had frayed to almost nothing.
All I could do was scream into the void as something hunting and hungry closed in on my only chance at freedom.
And hope that somehow, the prince I'd waited three centuries for would survive until morning.