Seraphina's POV
The cell door slammed shut behind me with a sound like a coffin closing.
I stumbled forward, hands still bound, and hit the stone floor hard enough to taste blood. Around me, darkness pressed in from all sides. The only light came from a torch in the corridor, casting dancing shadows through the iron bars.
Fresh meat, a raspy voice croaked from the corner.
My eyes adjusted slowly. Three other women huddled in the cell—all noblewomen by their torn, once-fine dresses. One looked close to death, her breathing shallow and wet. Another rocked back and forth, muttering to herself. The third, the one who'd spoken, watched me with hollow eyes.
Lady Ashmont, she said. It wasn't a question. We heard about your family. I'm sorry.
I said nothing. Sorry didn't bring them back.
I'm Countess Marlowe. That's Baroness Helt, and the sick one is Lady Wren. The Countess gestured weakly. Welcome to hell.
Over the next weeks, I learned she was right.
The cell was barely big enough for four people. We had one bucket for waste, one thin blanket to share, and food that came once a day—if we were lucky. Sometimes the guards forgot our meal. Sometimes they brought spoiled scraps even rats wouldn't touch.
Lady Wren died on my fifth day.
We woke to find her cold and still, her breathing finally stopped. Guards dragged her body away without ceremony. They threw a new prisoner in her place within an hour—a merchant's wife who sobbed constantly.
Don't cry, Baroness Helt warned her. Tears make them enjoy it more.
I learned that lesson fast. The guards liked to watch us suffer. They'd stand outside our cell, making comments about what they'd do to us once we weren't politically useful anymore. The younger guards laughed. The older ones just stared with dead eyes.
I stopped crying after the first week.
The gentle girl who'd loved poetry and piano lessons died somewhere between the second and third week. Someone harder took her place. Someone who fought the merchant's wife for the extra crust of bread. Someone who memorized guard schedules and learned which ones could be distracted with a smile.
You're changing, Countess Marlowe observed one night.
Good, I replied. The old me died with my family.
But one guard was different.
He was older than the others, maybe thirty-five, with a scar across his jaw and eyes that held something almost like kindness. His name was Marcus, I learned from listening. Captain Marcus Thorne.
He never taunted us. Never leered. And sometimes, when the other guards weren't watching, he'd slip an extra piece of bread through the bars.
Why? I asked him once, grabbing his wrist before he could pull away. Why help me?
His dark eyes met mine. Because someone ordered me to make sure you survive.
Who?
But he'd already walked away.
I started exercising in secret. Counting steps around the cell—twenty-three paces exactly. Doing push-ups in the darkest hours when guards changed shifts. My arms shook with weakness at first, but slowly, painfully, I grew stronger.
I listened to everything.
The guards talked freely, thinking we were too broken to care. I learned about fortress layouts, about tensions between generals, about the Emperor's plans. Every piece of information was a weapon I stored away for later.
The merchant's wife died in the third month. Interrogation, they said. She never came back.
Baroness Helt followed in the fourth. Fever took her, burning through her body until she was delirious, calling for children who were probably already dead.
Then it was just me and Countess Marlowe.
You're going to survive this, she told me one night, her voice weak. She'd been coughing blood for days. Promise me.
I promise.
Good. She smiled, showing bloody teeth. Someone needs to make them pay.
She died in her sleep that night.
I sat beside her body until morning, feeling nothing. I'd cried all my tears already. Now there was only emptiness. And underneath that emptiness, a rage that burned cold and patient.
Captain Marcus came for her body. His expression showed something like grief.
She was a good woman, he said quietly.
They're all good women, I replied. And they're all dead.
Not you.
Not yet.
He studied my face for a long moment. The general gave specific orders about your treatment. You're to receive adequate food and water. Medical attention if needed.
How generous. Bitterness dripped from every word. The man who murdered my family wants me healthy. Should I be grateful?
No. Marcus's jaw tightened. You should be smart. He's not what you think
He's exactly what I think. A killer. A monster. The Butcher of Rothaven.
Marcus opened his mouth to respond, but footsteps echoed down the corridor. He straightened quickly, his expression going blank.
Two guards appeared, one carrying something dark and elaborate.
Stand up, prisoner, the first guard ordered.
I rose slowly, my muscles protesting. Six months of captivity had left me thinner but harder. Sharper.
The Emperor has decreed your marriage to General Valorent, the guard announced with a cruel smile. Today.
The world tilted.
Marriage? Today?
The second guard thrust the dark bundle at me. It unfurled—a dress. Black as mourning, with crimson edges like dried blood. A wedding dress designed to insult, to humiliate.
You have one hour to prepare, the guard said. Behave, and you'll be treated well. Cause trouble... He let the threat hang.
They left, the dress pooling in my arms like a living thing.
I stared at it, and something between a laugh and a sob escaped my throat. They were going to make me marry him. General Cassian Valorent. The man who'd killed my father, whose soldiers had murdered my mother and brother. The Butcher himself.
I pressed the fabric to my face and laughed.
The sound echoed off the stone walls, slightly unhinged. Maybe I was going crazy. Maybe prison had finally broken something inside me.
But no—I wasn't broken. I was transforming.
Good, I whispered to the empty cell, touching the black silk. This is perfect.
They thought they were punishing me by forcing this marriage. They thought putting me beside the general was torture.
They were fools.
You couldn't kill an enemy from across a battlefield. You couldn't slip poison into a cup from a prison cell. You couldn't watch the life drain from someone's eyes when you were locked away in darkness.
But a wife? A wife had access. Opportunity. Time.
I'll be close enough to put a knife in his heart, I breathed.
Footsteps approached again. This time, several sets. Female servants by the lighter tread.
The cell door opened. Women filed in, proper ladies' maids with clean dresses and judging eyes. They looked at me like I was something dirty they'd been ordered to polish.
Come along, the head maid said crisply. We have much work to do, and little time. The ceremony begins at noon.
They reached for me, and I let them. Let them pull me from the cell that had been my prison. Let them lead me down corridors I'd memorized by sound alone.
But as we walked, I caught Captain Marcus watching from a doorway. His expression was troubled, almost warning.
I smiled at him—the same cold smile I'd given the general that terrible night six months ago.
Marcus's face went pale. He knew. Somehow, he understood exactly what I was planning.
Good.
Let him tell his general. Let Cassian Valorent know his bride was coming with murder in her heart.
The maids pulled me into a bathing room, already talking about curling my hair and hiding my prison pallor with powder.
I barely heard them.
All I could think about was walking down an aisle toward the man who'd destroyed everything I loved. Saying vows that would taste like poison. Smiling while I planned exactly how I'd watch him die.
My lady? One maid touched my shoulder nervously. Are you well? You're smiling.
Was I?
I caught my reflection in a mirror, gaunt, hard-eyed, lips curved in something that resembled a smile but wasn't.
I looked like a woman who'd survived hell and come out the other side as something dangerous.
I'm perfect, I told her.
And for the first time in six months, I meant it.
They dressed me in that black gown. Painted my face until I looked almost alive. Crowned me with dark flowers that smelled like funerals.
And when they finally led me toward the cathedral, I walked with my head high.
I was going to my wedding.
And my husband-to-be had no idea he was marrying his own death.