The dining hall was too quiet.
Candles flickered in heavy sconces, casting soft golden light over the polished obsidian table. A meal had been prepared—lavish, elegant, utterly untouched.
Seraphina sat at the far end, dressed in charcoal silk that shimmered like smoke, her hair pinned with silver thorns. She didn't eat.
She waited.
And right on time, the doors opened.
Lucien stepped in without a sound, cloak draped over one arm, gloves already removed. He was always precise, always controlled—like a man who measured every moment down to the breath.
"Lady Ashwyn," he greeted. No smile. No warmth.
She gestured to the seat across from her. "Duke Thorne."
Lucien's eyes flicked over the scene. Two glasses of wine. Two untouched plates. One woman cloaked in shadows.
He took his seat, movements clean, efficient. "A private dinner. Your idea?"
"I thought it best," she said, lifting her glass, "to reacquaint ourselves. Without the noise."
He studied her. "You've changed."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it's true." He leaned back. "Last time we met, you stammered in my presence and wouldn't look me in the eye."
She met his gaze evenly. "And you wore kindness like a mask."
The silence thickened.
Lucien didn't flinch. He reached for his wine. "Then let's drop our masks."
They sipped in silence. The food remained untouched.
"I heard you've taken up sword training," he said suddenly.
Seraphina arched a brow. "Who told you that?"
"I have my ways."
"Of course you do." She tilted her head. "Are you spying on your bride-to-be, Lucien?"
"I'm assessing an alliance," he said. "And you are no longer predictable."
She laughed—low, cold, almost amused. "That's what scares you, isn't it?"
He didn't reply.
Instead, he studied her fingers—steady, graceful, resting on the rim of her glass. Not shaking. Not weak.
"Why did you agree to this engagement again?" he asked at last.
"You think I'm here for love?"
"I know you're not."
She smiled, and this time it reached her eyes—but not in the way it used to.
"I'm here for justice," she said. "For memory. For everything the fire took."
Lucien's jaw flexed. He said nothing.
"Do you remember," she said softly, "what you said to me the night before the trial?"
He froze.
Of course he remembered. It was the only night he looked away.
"You said," she continued, voice sharpening, "that I needed to trust you. That everything was under control. That I would be protected."
She leaned in slightly, her words like knives wrapped in silk.
"Then you disappeared. And the next time I saw you… you were standing with the priests."
Lucien stared at the glass in front of him, the wine reflecting candlelight like blood.
"I was trying to protect something larger than you," he said finally.
"Not good enough," she whispered.
"I know."
He stood slowly, walking to the window, posture rigid.
Outside, the wind rustled the ash trees. The night felt too quiet.
"You burned," he said without turning. "And I still hear the sound."
That surprised her. For a moment, her breath caught.
"You didn't look like it hurt you then," she said.
"I was taught not to show pain."
"Even when you caused it?"
He turned. For the first time, his eyes looked… haunted.
"I didn't want to watch you die, Seraphina."
"But you let me."
He came closer, every step slow, deliberate. She didn't flinch.
"Why come back to me?" he asked, voice low. "You could have chosen anyone."
"I didn't come back for you," she said, her heart thudding like a warning drum. "I came back because of you."
"Vengeance?"
She stood too now, head raised. "Understanding."
He looked down at her, inches between them now.
"And what do you understand?"
"That you're not the man I thought you were," she said. "But you're not the man the Empire believes either."
He didn't deny it.
"You've always had a shadow following you," she said. "And now I see it."
A pause.
"You're cursed, Lucien," she whispered.
He inhaled slowly, but didn't ask how she knew.
She already knew he wouldn't.
"You've changed," he said again, voice quieter this time.
"And you haven't," she replied.
Their eyes met, and something old and sharp passed between them. A memory that hadn't faded. A feeling that hadn't burned out.
He lifted his hand—hesitated.
Then brushed his knuckles along her jaw.
Her breath hitched.
"You're not afraid of me," he murmured.
"I used to be," she whispered.
"And now?"
She leaned just a little closer.
"Now I'm the one you should fear."
He let his hand fall.
"You want answers," he said.
"I want the truth."
"You'll get it. But it won't come cheap."
"Nothing worthwhile ever does."
He turned to leave, cloak sweeping over his arm, but paused at the door.
"One last thing," he said. "Don't make the mistake of thinking I regret everything."
Her eyes narrowed. "You don't regret killing me?"
His voice was barely audible.
"I regret letting you love me."
And then he was gone.
Seraphina stood alone, the wine untouched, the fire inside her reigniting.
She had seen something behind Lucien's mask tonight—not remorse, not guilt… but war.
And she would win it.
Even if it destroyed them both.