Chapter 114 CHAPTER 114

Chapter 114 CHAPTER 114
The day of departure dawned shrouded in mist. The palace bells tolled low and solemn, echoing across the courtyards as if the stones themselves anticipated the peril of the journey. Seraphina stood at the tall arched window of her chamber, watching the fog curl like ghosts around the marble colonnades. Somewhere below, horses stamped impatiently, their breaths clouding the morning air.

She had risen before the sun, not out of excitement, but necessity. Sleep had been fractured, restless—dreams of serpents coiling in corridors, of hands reaching for Lucien in the dark. When she opened her eyes, her heart had pounded as though she had already been running.

Now, as the first light strained against the mist, she dressed with deliberate care. Layer upon layer of silks and velvet were laid before her, but she chose a darker traveling gown, practical yet regal, its midnight blue catching faint glimmers of silver thread. She wanted to look a future queen—not ostentatious, not fragile, but unyielding.

Behind her, maids worked silently, braiding her hair into a crown interwoven with pearls. Their hands trembled, and she wondered if it was her presence that unnerved them, or the tension that hung like a storm cloud over the entire palace.

When Lucien entered without knocking, his armor gleamed dully in the half-light. He wore no crown, no robe—only steel and a mantle embroidered with the royal crest. Yet there was a weight in his bearing that needed no jewels to proclaim sovereignty.

“You look,” he said, his voice low, “like the night sky before a tempest.”

Seraphina allowed herself the faintest curve of a smile. “And you, like the blade it wields.”

For a moment, they simply stood, studying each other, as though trying to memorize every detail in case the road parted them. Then Lucien offered his arm.

“It’s time.”

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The courtyard seethed with spectacle. The proving journey had been announced not as exile, but as triumph, and the council had orchestrated a procession grand enough to deceive the eye. Banners unfurled from every turret, musicians lined the steps, and nobles pressed in with forced smiles.

But Seraphina saw what lay beneath the pageantry. The false cheer in the eyes of courtiers, the rigid stance of guards who had been handpicked not by Lucien but by Rhodon’s decree, the way Chancellor Rhodon himself stood just behind Duke Varrow, hands clasped as though in prayer, though his lips twitched with satisfaction.

The king, too frail to descend the steps, watched from a balcony above. His hand rested on the railing, trembling, yet his eyes were steady as they fixed upon his son and the woman beside him. There was pride there, but also sorrow—as though he feared this farewell might not find its return.

Lucien bowed deeply to his father. Seraphina followed, lowering her head but keeping her gaze sharp, scanning the crowd. Already she caught the flickers of doubt in the nobles’ eyes, the way some commoners craned their necks to see her, whispering behind hands.

“Let the realm bear witness,” Rhodon’s voice rang out, smooth and poisonous, “to the devotion of the crown prince and his chosen lady. They depart to walk among the people, to prove their worthiness not only to us, but to the kingdom itself.”

The words slid like honey, but Seraphina felt the sting beneath. This was no blessing. It was a proclamation of trial, a gauntlet thrown to every viper and opportunist across the land.

Lucien mounted his horse with practiced ease, then turned to offer his hand to her. She placed her fingers in his, her back straight, her chin high, refusing to betray a hint of hesitation. The murmurs in the crowd swelled as she took her place at his side, dark gown flowing, a raven’s silhouette against his steel.

And with that, the procession began.

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The first leg of the journey wound through the capital. Streets once familiar seemed strange beneath the weight of so many watching eyes. Citizens lined the cobblestones, waving flags or clutching children close, their faces split between awe and suspicion. Some shouted blessings, others spat curses.

“Witch!” one voice cried from the throng. A stone arced through the air, striking the ground near Seraphina’s horse.

The beast startled, hooves clattering, but Seraphina held the reins firm, her jaw tight. She did not flinch, did not glance away. Instead, she fixed her gaze forward, regal as marble.

Lucien’s eyes burned with fury, but she shook her head subtly. Do not give them what they seek.

Still, his voice carried like steel. “The next hand that raises stone against her raises it against me.”

The crowd fell into uneasy silence. Yet Seraphina knew silence did not mean peace—it meant the storm was only biding its time.

\---

By dusk, the city had fallen behind them, its towers swallowed by fog. Their retinue pressed onward toward the first village on their route, a place of modest size but significant unrest. Reports of famine had reached the palace, and rumors blamed royal neglect.

Lucien insisted they stop there first. If they were to prove themselves, it must begin where wounds were deepest.

The village was not welcoming. Shutters banged closed as they entered, and only a few dared approach. Seraphina dismounted, her boots sinking into damp earth, and walked among them without guards at her side.

Children peeked from behind skirts, wide-eyed. A bent old woman spat near her feet.

“You come now?” the crone rasped. “When our fields are barren, our sons conscripted, our dead left unburied? What need have we for trials in marble halls when hunger gnaws our bellies?”

Lucien began to speak, but Seraphina stepped forward first.

“You have need,” she said, her voice steady, “because for the first time, someone has come to listen.”

The old woman’s eyes narrowed. “Words. Always words.”

Seraphina knelt—slowly, deliberately, so every villager could see—and pressed her hand to the cracked earth. “Then take my vow as more than words. I will not leave this village without setting your dead to rest and your fields to seed again.”

A murmur rippled through the crowd. Some scoffed, others looked uncertain.

Lucien’s hand tightened on his sword hilt, not in threat but in shared determination. “What she swears, I swear with her.”

And in that moment, Seraphina felt the faintest shift. Distrust did not vanish, but it cracked, just enough for possibility to seep through.

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That night, as the villagers reluctantly allowed them shelter, Seraphina sat by the fire, her mind restless. The raven’s warning weighed heavy. They are already waiting. Trust no one.

She glanced around the camp. Guards dozed in shifts, but whose loyalty did they truly serve? Rhodon’s, or Lucien’s? Even within their retinue, betrayal could fester unseen.

A flicker of movement caught her eye. Beyond the fire’s glow, in the treeline, a shadow lingered—too still, too silent.

Her breath caught. Slowly, she rose, slipping away from the others under pretense of fetching water.

When she reached the edge of the trees, the figure was gone. Only a scrap of parchment remained, pinned to the bark with a silver-tipped dagger.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled it free.

The first snare is set. Keep him alive.

No signature this time. But Seraphina knew the hand that left it.

Selene.

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The next day would bring the first trap, though they could not yet see its jaws.