A Vow of Vengeance and Silk

Pip's coin came to rest at Seraphine's feet, tails-up. A stupid thing to notice while death danced around them, but there it was, the chipped edge where Pip had once tried to bite it to test its authenticity, the faint stain of raspberry jam from breakfast three days past, when the world had still made sense. When Kaelan had teased her for stealing tarts from the kitchen, when Tristan had still been a brother rather than a traitor, when the weight of a crown hadn't yet threatened to crush her.

The sight of that coin, so ordinary amidst the carnage, made her throat tighten. Then a blade flashed. She barely dodged, feeling steel kiss her ribs as she rolled behind the war table. Splinters of oak sprayed her face as an axe bit deep into the wood where her head had been a second before. The scent of blood and sweat and burning oil filled the cavern, thick enough to choke on. "Seraphine!" Kaelan's voice, raw with something she'd never heard from him before, panic. She turned just in time to see him take a dagger to the gut. Not a clean strike. A butcher's cut, the kind that spilled a man's secrets along with his blood.

Tristan's favorite. Her vision tunneled. The cavern air turned thick as syrup, every sound muffled except the wet *shuck* of steel leaving flesh. Kaelan didn't cry out. Just looked down at the ruin of his abdomen with detached curiosity, like a scholar presented with an interesting equation. Then his knees buckled. Something inside Seraphine tore loose. She didn't remember crossing the distance. Didn't remember seizing the fallen axe or howling like a gutted animal. There was only the meaty thunk of steel meeting flesh, the spray of warmth across her cheeks, the way Tristan's pretty blue eyes widened in surprise, as if he hadn't expected her to fight back. Oh, she thought. This is what vengeance tastes like. Metal. Bile. And the faintest hint of rosewater. Behind her, someone clapped. "Bravo," drawled a voice like honeyed arsenic. The Queen of Thorns stepped over Pip's still form, her boots leaving perfect bloody prints on the stone. She was dressed in black silk, her dark hair coiled like a nest of vipers, her lips painted the color of a fresh wound. "I do love a passionate performance." She nudged Kaelan's shoulder with her toe. "Pity about this one, though." Seraphine's fingers ached around the axe handle. "He's not dead." "He will be." The queen sighed, examining her nails as if discussing the weather rather than a man's life. "Unless..." A vial appeared between her fingers, filled with liquid the color of a fresh bruise. Seraphine lunged. And froze as cold steel pressed against her nape. "Ah-ah," murmured her mother, the knife in her hand steady as a surgeon's. "We don't take from queens, darling. We bargain." The coin at their feet gleamed in the torchlight. Heads this time. The Queen of Thorns smiled, slow and deliberate, as if savoring the moment. "You always did have a flair for the dramatic, Seraphine. But violence without purpose is just noise." Seraphine's breath came in ragged bursts, her ribs burning where the blade had grazed her. She could feel Kaelan's blood seeping into the stone beneath her knees, warm and sticky. "You set this up," she accused, her voice hoarse. The queen's laughter was a soft, dangerous thing. "I do so love a good test. And you, my dear, have passed, mostly." Seraphine's mother tightened her grip on the knife. "Enough theatrics. The boy is dying." Kaelan groaned, his fingers twitching toward the wound in his stomach. His skin had gone ashen, his lips tinged blue. He didn't have much time. "Give me the antidote," Seraphine demanded. The queen twirled the vial between her fingers. "And what will you give me in return?" Seraphine knew how this game was played. The Queen of Thorns never gave without taking. "Name your price," she said through gritted teeth. The queen's gaze flicked to the coin on the ground. "A simple wager. You call it in the air. If it lands as you say, I give you the antidote. If not..." Her smile sharpened. "You come with me. Willingly." Seraphine's stomach twisted. To go with the queen meant entering a world of knives and poison, of schemes that left corpses in their wake. It meant leaving behind everything, Kaelan, Pip, the rebellion. But Kaelan didn't have time. "Fine." The queen flipped the coin. Seraphine's breath caught as it spun, Heads.

It landed. Tails. The queen's laugh was soft, victorious. "Oh, my dear. You should have known better than to gamble with me." Kaelan's breathing grew shallower. Seraphine dropped to her knees beside him, pressing her hands against the wound as if she could will him to live. "You don't have to do this," he whispered, his voice barely audible.

She shook her head. "Yes, I do." The queen extended the vial. "A gesture of goodwill. But our deal stands." Seraphine took it, forcing the liquid past Kaelan's lips. His body convulsed once before stilling, alive, but barely. Her mother's hand closed around her wrist. "Time to go." As she was pulled away, Seraphine cast one last look at the cavern, at the blood, the bodies, the coin still gleaming on the stone. Heads or tails, it didn't matter.

She had already lost. The journey to the Queen of Thorns' stronghold was a blur of pain and exhaustion. Seraphine's wounds throbbed, her mind replaying the fight over and over, Tristan's betrayal, Kaelan's blood, Pip's lifeless body. The queen's carriage was opulent, lined with black velvet and scented with something cloying, jasmine and something darker, like rotting fruit. "You're wondering why I wanted you," the queen said, watching her with those unnerving golden eyes. Seraphine remained silent. "You have potential," the queen continued. "Raw, untamed, but potential nonetheless. Your mother taught you the knife, but I can teach you the game." Seraphine's fingers curled into fists. "I don't want your games." The queen laughed. "Everyone plays, darling. The only choice is whether you win or not. The stronghold was a fortress of shadows, its halls lined with mirrors that reflected nothing but darkness. The queen led her to a chamber where a single candle burned, its flame unnaturally still. "Power," the queen said, "is not in the blade, but in the hand that holds it." She pressed a dagger into Seraphine's palm. "Tonight, you learn the difference." Seraphine tightened her grip. "And if I refuse?" The queen's smile was a razor's edge. "Then your friends die screaming." The lesson began. Weeks passed in a haze of blood and whispers. Seraphine learned the art of poison, the dance of deception, the weight of a well-placed word. But every night, she dreamed of Kaelan, of his laughter, his warmth, the way he had looked at her before the dagger found his gut. She wondered if he was still alive.

She wondered if he hated her. And as the queen's grip on her tightened, Seraphine realized the true cost of her bargain. She had traded her freedom for his life. And now, she belonged to the Queen of Thorns. One night, the queen placed a familiar coin in her hand.

"Call it," she commanded. Seraphine hesitated. Then she flipped it. And let it fall.

The queen's laughter echoed through the chamber. And Seraphine knew, with cold certainty, that the game was far from over.