six years later
The fake laughter of the King pierced the ears of his people, a hollow sound laced with poison, seeping into every corner of the grand chamber. Their silent pleas for mercy floated like whispers on the wind, unheard and unacknowledged as His Majesty carried on with practiced ease—brimming with confidence, hiding malice beneath every syllable.
Eyes watched him with a careful mixture of awe and fear, ears perked as if afraid to miss a single word. And yet, none of them could see the venom in his smile until it was far too late to run.
King Vladimir moved between his guests with unsettling charm, offering hollow pleasantries and manipulated warmth as he spoke with the ambassadors, dukes, and duchesses who lined the room. One by one, he greeted them like old friends, easing their hunched shoulders, relaxing their wary expressions—until the guards began shifting.
Their rotation was not casual. Categorized. Timed. Coordinated like pieces on a battlefield.
Behind his father's left shoulder stood Axel—no longer the boy who once trembled under his father's rule. Now seventeen, taller and stronger, he wore his own mask of stoicism. Emotionless. Unreadable. But beneath it, his jaw ached from how tightly he ground his teeth.
His mind wandered, unbidden, to the voice of his mother. He could almost hear it again—soft, silky, powerful. Her voice had always felt like velvet drawn across steel. She could command silence without raising her tone, seduce a confession with nothing more than a smile.
The kingdom had called her the People's Predator.
Her hazel-green eyes had been hypnotic. Her presence—irresistible. Queen Fionna could ensnare a room without moving an inch, and once you were caught in her web, you would kneel willingly, begging to serve. She had never asked for mercy and never gave it. The sharp edge of her tongue could dismantle even the most guarded political adversary.
She had been his father's most prized possession—and the deadliest weapon he never realized he possessed until she was gone.
Now, she was dust beneath the marble of the Crimson crypt.
And Axel, the second son, stood in her place.
No longer a shadow. No longer forgotten. But no longer free.
His father had placed him in view of every camera, every noble gathering, every televised address—as the new heir to the Crimson throne.
Axel's fury simmered beneath the still surface. Not only at the weight now crushing his shoulders—but at yesterday's broadcast. The one where his elder brother, Vance, had surrendered his birthright in front of the world.
He'd done it with a smile.
Six months before coronation. Six months before everything was supposed to shift. And now the Kingdom watched Axel, the second son, with eager eyes. Suspicious. Expectant.
And worse than all of it—he knew Vance hadn't done it out of mercy or freedom.
Their father didn't allow freedom.
No. Vance had been sent into the shadows... as a spy.
And Axel, the one left in the light, was the pawn now left on the board.
Late the night before, Axel had finally cornered his brother. Demanded answers. Demanded truth.
Vance had only chuckled in his face.
The sound of it had slithered beneath Axel's skin like venom. A smirk tugged at Vance's lips—so confident, so knowing—and then he turned his back and walked away. Casually. As if there was nothing more to say. As if he held some secret Axel wasn't yet privileged to know.
That single moment had twisted something sharp inside Axel. His already-tense muscles coiled tighter, as if a serpent had slithered around his spine and now pulled—tighter, and tighter still—waiting for him to snap.
But there was no time to dwell. Not now.
Not when Duchess Lyra and her entourage had arrived.
Lady Kelly, her daughter, trailed just a few steps behind, poised like a swan but hiding the calculating eyes of a vulture. The moment Axel caught sight of her, he forced his expression back into neutrality, locking away any outward sign of disgust.
His father's voice sliced through the chamber like a blade sheathed in velvet. "They're growing so fast, our children," he mused, that ever-false pride bleeding from every word.
Axel barely resisted the urge to snort.
"Yes," Lyra agreed with a silky tone that oozed civility, her dark brown eyes flickering to Axel for a moment before returning to the King. "They all are."
Axel remained motionless behind his father's shoulder, chin high, posture rigid. Unmoved. Unimpressed. He could feel the weight of every silent ambassador behind Lyra, all of them watching—always watching. None spoke. That was intentional. His father liked to keep the pressure thick and the mystery thicker.
Then, as if on cue, King Vladimir turned slightly, resting a heavy hand on Axel's shoulder. "Indeed," he said with the warmth of a bear trap.
Lyra's smile shifted at the edges, blooming with practiced grace as she inclined her head. "And what did you wish to discuss, Your Majesty?" she asked, her voice soft but laced with expectation.
The air shifted.
What had moments ago felt like idle chatter now tasted like steel—sharp, cold, and inevitable.
Axel felt the tightening in his gut. He knew what was coming. He'd felt it brewing since his brother abandoned the throne and left Axel holding the crown's cursed weight. But when his father spoke, it wasn't quite what he anticipated.
The King wore a mask of sympathy, but Axel—who had seen the man behind the mask—saw only strategy.
"Your daughter," Vladimir said.
Lyra blinked once. A pause. Then her eyes gleamed—not with confusion, but with hunger. Axel saw it clearly, as did everyone else who dared to look closely.
"What about her?" she purred, her voice curling like smoke.
Axel's stomach turned.
He knew this play. He had seen it before, time and again—his father aligning the pieces, matching power with power, consolidating control. And Lyra? She was a willing piece. Eager. Greedy.
Lady Kelly was her mirror image—entitled, cunning, and ravenous for attention and status. Axel had endured her presence far more often than he cared to remember. Every encounter left him drained, her obsession with rank and reverence more suffocating than any physical wound.
And yet, here they were.
His father wanted stronger bloodlines. That meant binding the Crimson throne to the Jamison family through arranged union.
And Axel—standing like a pawn in the court of kings—was to be the offering.
The King's smile returned—painted on with all the authenticity of a wax figure—as he clasped his hands together and dropped one onto Axel's shoulder. It was heavy, a reminder. A show. A claim of possession.
"As you know," Vladimir began with mock warmth, "Vladimir here has the same six-month timeline until he's crowned King." His voice dropped lower, as if confiding in her. "He still has much to learn."
Axel didn't move. He didn't blink. But his teeth pressed hard together behind the practiced calm of his expression.
"But the one thing he needs most," the King went on, releasing Axel and stepping toward Duchess Lyra, "is a Queen."
There it was. The game piece laid on the board.
Axel watched as Lyra's chin lifted ever so slightly, her lashes fluttering. She knew something was coming—everyone in the room could feel it—but she didn't yet know how far her greed would be indulged. Or mocked.
The King allowed himself a pause. Theatrical. Calculated. He always enjoyed letting people hang from his words like baited hooks. Axel could practically hear the saliva pooling behind Lyra's teeth as she leaned in, waiting.
Then, Vladimir spoke again. "I want your daughter to..."
There it is. The dramatic pause. The slow pour of honeyed words into a hungry mouth.
Axel nearly rolled his eyes but stopped himself. He could hear his father's voice in his head: Your face is your armor. Crack it, and they'll feast on the pieces.
The King's voice cut through the air like a blade. "...participate as one of the thirteen women competing in the King's Trial—for my son's hand in marriage... and for the Queen's throne."
Silence followed.
Axel's shoulders locked as the weight of those words settled in the air.
Lyra's lips parted in astonishment, a gasp caught between disbelief and delight. Even Axel hadn't expected that—he'd assumed an outright betrothal, not a spectacle. But of course his father wanted a trial. A performance. A power play draped in ceremony and chaos.
Across from them, Duchess Lyra's mouth opened, then closed again. And again. Axel stared at her, half-expecting to hear a mechanical whirring sound like those old animatronic fish mounted on hunter's walls—gaping, glassy-eyed, and utterly ridiculous.
He almost laughed.
Almost.
Instead, he swallowed the impulse with a sharp cough, using the moment to mask the twitch of amusement on his lips.
His father's head turned like a hawk's, snapping toward him with a single, warning glance.
Axel stiffened, nodded dutifully, and forced the neutral, unreadable mask back onto his face. His father wanted a statue. So he became one.
Beneath the surface, though, his blood churned.
A trial? Thirteen women? A public spectacle of suitors?
And Kelly Jamison would be one of them?
Perfect. Just perfect.
The King's voice droned on in the background, speaking at length about the structure and spectacle of the upcoming competition. Axel heard none of it. Not truly. His father's words filtered through like wind against stone—present, persistent, and entirely ignorable. His thoughts were far more consuming.
Thirteen women.
Thirteen strangers vying for his hand like a prize to be won.
It was absurd.
No, it was cruel. Par for the course when it came to King Vladimir.
Axel had never been allowed to choose anything for himself. Not his hobbies. Not his friends. Not even the way he smiled in public. Every decision had been preordained and packaged by his father's ambitions. His future carved by hands that weren't his own. He was the son of a tyrant—what more could be expected?
Except... for one thing.
Scarlett.
His secret. His rebellion. His choice.
The only piece of his life that belonged solely to him.
He felt the weight of that truth settle into his chest like a burning coal—fierce, smoldering, and alive. He'd been quiet for too long. It wouldn't be long now before that secret turned into a storm.
Once the King had wrapped up his little monologue, Axel dragged his attention back to the room. Duchess Lyra still wore that strained, feline smile—lips stretched just enough to look civil, but her eyes betrayed the hunger lurking just beneath the surface. The silence that followed the King's announcement pressed against the walls like a held breath. Tension coiled tighter with every second that passed, a string pulled to its limit.
Still, Axel kept his expression cool, giving no sign of surprise. His face had long since become a canvas of deception. He couldn't afford to crack—not here, not now.
He'd reserve his fury for Scarlett. Not at her—never at her—but he needed to talk to her. To breathe with her. Because the thoughts in his own head were too loud, too chaotic. Only she quieted the noise.
Lyra finally cleared her throat, her smile sharpening as she addressed the King. "And when," she asked, voice poised and silky, "do you plan to host this... event, Your Majesty?"
Axel noted the faint tremor at the edge of her words. She was eager—desperate, even—but trying to veil it under regal poise. She had no leverage, not really. Not with men like Vladimir and Axel standing across from her. Her family line paled in comparison—unless, of course, her daughter wore the crown Duchess Lyra so obviously feigned for.
Axel studied his father from the corner of his eye, watching the way the old man's mouth curled, just barely. That subtle tick of triumph. The exact moment the pieces aligned in his head, something clicked in Axel's own.
He doesn't want a Queen for me. He wants a weapon.
A stronger heir. A ruthless successor. One he could mold, shackle, and dominate as he had with his sons. A new generation of obedient brutality to preserve his legacy. It wasn't a trial for love—it was a test of survival. Of blood. Of control.
The King's eyes glinted like coals beneath winter frost as he smiled wider, as if proud of the brilliance only he could see. One massive hand landed on Axel's shoulder again, squeezing it in mock affection—though to the Duchess, it likely appeared as fatherly pride.
"Simple," the King said, his voice thick with satisfaction. "Vladimir's eighteenth birthday."
Axel didn't flinch.
But inwardly?
He was already screaming.