Chapter 4
929words
Every crested noble had answered the summons. The King presided from his ivory throne, face impassive as stone. To his left sat the Archbishop, embodying divine judgment; to his right stood Tristan de Montfort, clad not in his customary armor but in formal dark attire befitting the royal house. Yet the lethal aura he'd cultivated on countless battlefields still chilled the chamber by several degrees.
Seraphina sat beside her father, the Duke of Lunaria. Her deep purple gown, though somber, highlighted her alabaster skin and striking beauty. Like a marble statue come to life, she watched the prisoner in the hall's center, her eyes betraying nothing.
Two armored guards escorted Lucien into the chamber. Gone was his former splendor—his hair hung lank, his prison garb stained and rumpled. Yet his face still wore a shadow of princely arrogance. He clung to the belief that his father would never truly condemn him. Royal blood, after all, ran in his veins.
"Everything I did was for the kingdom's glory! Tristan framed me to seize military control!" Lucien's protest rang hollow, his voice cracking with desperation rather than conviction.
Tristan didn't deign to look at him. "Your Majesty, the evidence speaks for itself. However, perhaps we should hear from one final witness."
A side door creaked open as guards ushered in a figure so gaunt as to be barely recognizable.
Isabel.
She wore rough prison cloth, her celebrated beauty withered away, leaving only terror-widened eyes. When her gaze met Seraphina's across the chamber, she visibly trembled. Seraphina's calm stare pressed against her throat like an invisible dagger.
Those eyes conveyed a silent message: Remember our arrangement.
"Lady Isabel," the Archbishop intoned gravely, "swear by the Almighty that you will reveal all you know."
Isabel collapsed to her knees, shaking violently. Driven by raw survival instinct, she released her first broken sob—the prelude to her carefully crafted "confession."
Her testimony coiled around Lucien like a venomous serpent. Through theatrical sobs, she described how the prince had seduced and manipulated her infatuation. From the initial plots against Seraphina at Lunaria Castle, to the cathedral scheme, to her role as secret courier between Lucien and the barbarian chieftains.
Her narrative masterfully wove truth with Seraphina's deadly fabrications. Each detail aligned perfectly with Tristan's physical evidence. She painted herself as love's tragic victim while casting Lucien as the mastermind pulling every string.
"...He promised that if I helped him, once he took the throne, I alone would be his queen..." Isabel's tearful confession echoed through the hall. "I was blind... so terribly blind..."
Lucien shook his head wildly, jabbing his finger first at Isabel, then at Seraphina. "They're conspiring against me! Father, you must believe me! That venomous witch—Seraphina!"
His protests sounded like the desperate wails of a ruined gambler watching his last coins swept from the table.
The king rose slowly, his face etched with unprecedented disappointment and coldness. He regarded the son in whom he'd once placed such hope, each word seeming to drain his very life force.
"I, as King and Guardian of the Realm, hereby pronounce—"
The hall fell so silent that heartbeats seemed audible.
"Lucien von Edra is stripped of all royal titles, lands, and succession rights. For his treasonous collusion with our enemies—an unforgivable crime—he is sentenced to lifelong imprisonment in the Black Tower, without possibility of pardon for all eternity."
"NO!"
As the verdict fell, Lucien released an inhuman howl. His arrogance, ambition, his very identity—all shattered in that moment. Guards dragged him away like a sack of refuse, his curses against Seraphina echoing down the corridors.
Seraphina finally stirred. Rising gracefully, she faced the throne and executed a perfect curtsy. Her voice, clear as crystal, carried to every corner of the vast chamber.
"Justice always finds its way."
Her words resonated both for the assembled nobility and for the wronged spirits of House Lunaria watching from beyond.
The trial concluded, and the assembly dissolved.
That night, snow blanketed the capital once more. Seraphina stood alone on the castle's highest terrace, watching white flakes shroud the slumbering city. From behind, a heavy cloak still warm from its wearer settled gently around her shoulders.
She didn't turn. In this fortress of ice, only one person would offer such a gesture.
"The winter of vengeance has passed," Tristan said, joining her at the balustrade. His voice carried a warmth that even the blizzard couldn't chill.
Seraphina remained silent, studying his face. This man—from their initial wary circling, to their intricate conspiracies, to this moment of shared triumph. They were accomplices, allies, and the only anchors in each other's darkness.
Tristan met her gaze and slowly dropped to one knee. From within his coat, he produced neither jewels of wealth nor rings of power, but a small griffin carved from white birch—the Lunaria emblem, shaped by his own hands.
"Will you allow me to be your springtime?"
He spoke not of love or passion. Yet his simple question carried more weight than a thousand flowery declarations.
Seraphina gazed at him—at the starlight reflected in his eyes, at the humble wooden carving in his palm. The hatred and frost of two lifetimes seemed to thaw in that moment. She extended her hand, allowing him to place the griffin pendant around her neck.
Then, barely above a whisper:
"Yes."
