Chapter 16 The Zandorian Prince

Chapter 16 The Zandorian Prince

“Zandorian Silk isn’t just fabric, Eris. It is like the skin of a serpent—cold, sleek, and lethal if you don’t know how to wear it.”

Madame Viveca’s voice sliced through the clinical hum of the Grand Suite’s air conditioning. She was draped in a shimmering, emerald-gold fabric that seemed to bleed light. Tonight marked the arrival of Prince Azrael of Zandoria. He wasn’t merely royalty; he was the primary financier behind the Sanctum’s global expansion. And I was the “Welcome Gift” Viveca had handpicked for the occasion.

“Smile, Eris,” Viveca commanded, tightening my corset until my breath hitched. “Princes adore women who appear demure but harbor a hidden fire. Make him feel like the only man in existence, and he will hand over the Zandorian port codes on a silver platter.”

“Yes, Madame,” I replied, my face a mask of practiced indifference. Ever since my return from the White Room, I had become a master of becoming a statue—beautiful, unfeeling, and unbreakable.

The double doors swung open, and Julian entered. His tuxedo was impeccable, but his expression was a fraying tapestry of suppressed rage. He looked at me—the way the emerald silk clung to my curves like a second skin—and immediately averted his eyes.

“The Prince has landed, Mother,” Julian said, his voice strained, as if the words were being clawed out of his throat. “He is waiting in the Diamond Lounge.”

“Excellent,” Viveca smirked, giving my hair one final, proprietary tug. “Julian, escort her. And try not to look like you’re attending a funeral. This is a celebration of profit, not a wake.”

We walked down the long, hollow hallway. The rhythmic click of our heels sounded like a countdown to an explosion.

“Don’t do this,” Julian hissed the moment we were out of Viveca’s earshot. “Azrael isn’t like Silas. He doesn’t just hunt for secrets. He breaks things, Eris. He collects women like porcelain dolls, and the moment he grows bored, he crushes them.”

“Your mother says it’s my job,” I answered, staring straight ahead. “Why the concern, Julian? Are you afraid for my safety, or just worried I won’t secure the codes?”

Julian stopped abruptly, catching my arm and pulling me into a shadowed alcove. His grip was a vice; his eyes burned with a memory he couldn’t outrun.

Suddenly, the expensive perfume of the hallway seemed to vanish, replaced by the phantom scent of ozone and singed hair.

Three years ago. Julian was twenty-one, a fresh recruit to his mother’s dark empire. He remembered the day of the ‘Harden the Heart’ training. Viveca had forced him to sit behind a glass-walled room while a senior protege was being ‘re-educated’ after a failed escape attempt.

He had watched as that woman—someone he used to share morning coffee with—was stripped of her dignity and her mind. Every time he tried to intervene, Viveca’s guards shoved him back. “Look at her, Julian,” Viveca had whispered in his ear. “This is what happens when you feel. This is what happens when you let a tool become a human.”
The girl’s screams had haunted his sleep for months. In that cold, clinical room, Julian had made a silent vow: he would never let another woman be broken by the Sanctum, and he would never let his mother see him bleed. But then, he found Margo in the mud. And the ghost of the girl he once loved was now standing before him, draped in the emerald silk of a sacrificial lamb.
“I won’t let her do to you what she did to the others,” Julian whispered harshly, his forehead resting against mine for a fleeting, desperate second.
“It’s too late, Julian,” I said, pushing him back. “I’m already broken. And you’re the one who brought me back to the forge, remember?”
We entered the Diamond Lounge. Prince Azrael stood by the window, swirling a glass of blue wine. He was younger than I expected, with olive skin and eyes that had clearly seen too many wars and far too many women.
“Ah, the legendary Ivy Heights hospitality,” Azrael smiled, his voice a deep, melodic drawl. “Madame Viveca was right. The emerald of Zandoria looks better on a beautiful woman than on a velvet cushion.”
He approached me with the fluid grace of a predator. He reached for my hand, but instead of a handshake, he brought my knuckles to his lips. His eyes never left mine. It wasn’t a gesture of respect; it was a mark of ownership.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Julian’s fist clench.
“Julian Thorne,” Azrael nodded toward him, still holding my hand. “I heard you’re the one who polishes these… gems. You have exquisite taste. How much for this one?”
“She is not for sale, Your Highness,” Julian’s voice was dangerously low, vibrating with a lethal edge. “She is an asset of the Sanctum. A diplomatic envoy.”
“Diplomatic envoy,” Azrael laughed, pulling me closer until I could smell the spice and tobacco on his breath. “I like that. It sounds much classier than the alternatives.”
Viveca entered, her sharp eyes darting between Julian’s fury and the Prince’s hunger. “Azrael, my dear. I see you’ve met Eris. She is our premier student in… linguistic and cultural studies.”
“She’s magnificent, Viveca,” Azrael said. His hand slid from my fingers to the small of my back, resting just above where the silk dipped dangerously low. “I think I’ll require a private tutor for the duration of my stay.”
“Julian, arrange the Prince’s schedule,” Viveca ordered, her tone dripping with mockery. “And Julian… do try to maintain your professional distance. You’re looking rather like a jealous stable boy.”
Julian’s entire frame went rigid. “Mother, we discussed the protocols for high-profile guests. Eris is still recovering from—”
“Eris is fine,” Viveca cut him off, her smile as sharp as a razor. “Unless you’re telling me that after three years of ‘cold training,’ you’re still as soft as the day you cried in the White Room? Your father would be ashamed, Julian. You’re failing the only lesson that matters: control.”
The public humiliation was a physical blow. The surrounding guards averted their eyes. The legendary Thorne composure was being shattered, all because of a Rank 15 girl.
I seized the moment. I leaned into Prince Azrael, my hand resting lightly, provocatively on his chest. I felt Julian’s gaze searing through me, but I didn’t flinch.
“The Prince is our guest, Madame,” I said, my voice sweet and submissive. “It would be an honor to show him the gardens. Julian… Sir… I’m sure you have other duties to attend to.”
I looked at Julian—not with the eyes of Margo, but with the cold, calculating stare of Eris. I wanted him to see that his ‘weakness’ was my weapon. I wanted him to realize that the more he tried to protect me, the more he exposed his throat to his mother’s blade.
“See?” Azrael smirked at Julian. “The girl knows her place better than you do, Thorne.”
Julian went pale. He stood motionless as Azrael led me toward the balcony. As I passed him, I caught the scent of his cologne—sandalwood and rain—but I didn’t falter.
“Goodnight, Julian,” I whispered.
On the balcony, the air was biting, but Azrael’s hand on my shoulder was a brand.
“You’re doing this to provoke him, aren’t you?” Azrael asked, a playful, knowing glint in his eyes. “The way you touched me… it wasn’t for my benefit. It was a performance for the man in the tuxedo.”
“Does it matter, Your Highness?” I asked, gazing out at the dark, oppressive forest of Ivy Heights. “As long as you’re entertained.”
“I value honesty,” Azrael said, turning me to face him. He traced the line of my collarbone with a slow finger. “But be careful, Eris. Using a Prince as a pawn is a dangerous game. In Zandoria, we don’t take kindly to being used.”
“I’m not using you,” I lied, my voice steady as a heartbeat. “I’m just realizing that in this house, the only way to survive is to choose which monster you’d rather stand beside.”
I glanced back into the lounge. Viveca was holding court, but Julian was gone. The spot where he had stood was empty, but the tension he left behind was suffocating.
Good, I thought. Burn, Julian. Burn until there’s nothing left of your cold training.
If I was going to raze the Sanctum to the ground, I needed Julian unstable. I needed him to choose between his mother’s empire and the ghost he couldn’t let go of.
“Dance with me,” Azrael commanded, pulling me into a slow rhythm.
As we moved, my mind wasn’t on the Prince. It was on the keycard I had spotted in Julian’s pocket earlier. He was distracted. He was hurting. And a hurting man is a man who makes mistakes.
“You’re very far away, emerald girl,” Azrael whispered, his lips brushing my ear.
“I’m right here, Your Highness,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Just thinking of how beautiful Zandoria must be.”
I felt the crushing weight of the mission. Prince Azrael was my ticket out of the menial labor of the lower ranks and my way into the heart of the Sanctum’s darkest secrets. But as I felt the Prince’s touch, a traitorous part of my heart was still searching for Julian’s rage.
I am Margo Valderama. And tonight, I realized I’m not just playing with fire. I am the fire.
And before the sun rises, I will make sure the Thorne legacy begins to crumble—one jealous heartbeat at a time.