Chapter 17: The Price of Power
Seraphina strode through the dimly lit corridor, the scent of blood still clinging to the air. Behind her, the muffled sounds of bodies being dragged away faded into the distance.
She did not look back.
The empire was shifting, and she had forced its first crack.
A soft click of heels echoed behind her. Mirella's handmaid.
"A message from the palace treasury, Your Majesty." The woman's voice trembled slightly as she handed over a sealed parchment. Seraphina took it without a word, tearing the wax seal with a flick of her finger.
Her gaze scanned the contents.
Excessive withdrawals. Sudden shifts in assets.
Seraphina's lips curled. So they had been preparing to run.
Cowards.
She crushed the parchment in her fist and tossed it aside. "Send word to the treasurer. Freeze the accounts of every noble who was in attendance tonight."
The handmaid hesitated. "Even those who swore loyalty?"
"Especially those who swore loyalty."
There was no such thing as blind trust. Those who bent the knee had done so out of fear—not loyalty. She would test them, one by one.
If they remained useful, they would be spared. If not…
Her fingers brushed against the hilt of the dagger at her waist.
"Yes, Your Majesty." The handmaid bowed and hurried off, relief evident in her steps.
Seraphina resumed walking, her mind already moving toward the next phase of her rule.
Power had been seized. Now, it had to be maintained.
—
She arrived at her chambers well past midnight. The candles were already lit, casting long shadows across the walls.
And she was not alone.
A figure stood near the window, half-hidden in the darkness.
Seraphina tensed, her fingers grazing her dagger. "You are either incredibly bold or incredibly foolish."
A deep chuckle. "Perhaps a little of both."
The man stepped into the flickering light.
Ronan Valerius.
He had been one of her father's most trusted generals. A man of war, of blood and strategy. And yet, he had not interfered in her coup.
Which meant only one thing—he was waiting. Watching.
"Your methods were…" He paused, tilting his head as he considered the word. "Efficient."
Seraphina arched a brow. "Is that approval I hear, General?"
"Observation," he corrected. His sharp green eyes studied her, assessing. Testing.
She let him look.
She was no longer the naive empress who had once begged for alliances. She was the storm.
And he knew it.
"Tell me, General," she said, stepping closer. "What brings you here tonight?"
A shadow of a smirk crossed his lips. "A warning."
Seraphina's gaze darkened. "From whom?"
"Not whom," he said, his voice lower now. "What."
She stilled.
He took another step forward. "You have removed the first of many threats. But the nobility is not the only force you must contend with."
A chill crawled up her spine, though she kept her expression carefully neutral.
"The prophecy," she realized.
The one that had been whispered in hushed tones since her birth.
"The cursed empress will rise from the ashes, and the empire will burn."
Ronan nodded, his smirk fading. "Many believe your reign is the beginning of its fulfillment."
Seraphina let out a slow breath.
She had never believed in fate. Never trusted the words of oracles and whispers of destiny.
But the world did.
And perception was sometimes more dangerous than truth.
"Let them believe what they wish," she said finally. "A prophecy is only as powerful as those who fear it."
Ronan watched her carefully. Then, after a long pause, he inclined his head.
"As you say, Your Majesty."
But something in his voice told her this was far from over.