Lucian materialized from the shadows like he’d been carved from them, silent and brooding, the scars on his face stark in the moonlight filtering through the windows.
Raphael was the last, standing slightly apart from the others, violet eyes haunted, hands clasped in front of him as if in prayer—or as if he didn’t trust what he might do with them otherwise.
Heena looked at each of them in turn, then shook her head slowly.
"An ambush," she said. "How wonderfully dramatic. Did you rehearse this, or was it spontaneous? Because if it was spontaneous, I’m almost impressed by the coordination."
"This isn’t a joke," Kieran snapped, taking a step forward.
Heena’s expression didn’t change. "Then by all ans, enlighten . What ergency requires all five of you to corner your Empress in a hallway in the middle of the night?"
"What are you ’doing’?" Kieran demanded.
Heena tilted her head. "You’ll have to be more specific. I do quite a lot of things. Running an empire, for example. Attending banquets. Hosting foreign dignitaries. Dancing—"
"Don’t," Kieran interrupted, voice tight. "Don’t play gas with us right now."
"Gas?" Heena’s voice went soft, dangerous. "You think ’I’m’ playing gas?"
Adrian stepped forward, removing his glasses and pinching the bridge of his nose as if fighting off a headache. "The dance. The first dance of the evening. You know what that ans in this empire. You ’know’ what ssage that sends."
"Oh, I know exactly what it ans," Heena said, eyes cold. "Do ’you’?"
The question hung in the air between them.
"You danced with a foreign prince," Adrian continued, voice carefully controlled. "You gave him the first dance—the one that, by tradition, should have gone to—"
"To whom?" Heena interrupted. "To one of my loving, devoted husbands? The ones who have shown such care and respect over the past three years?"
She looked at each of them again, expression sharp enough to cut.
"Tell , which one of you ’earned’ that dance? Was it you, Kieran? The one who can’t even look at without disgust? Or perhaps you, Adrian? The scholar who spent three years making it abundantly clear that I’m an unfortunate political burden?"
Adrian flinched.
"Maybe Lucian?" Heena continued relentlessly. "The war hero who treats every mont in my presence like a punishnt detail? Or Raphael? The holy man who prays for my soul but couldn’t be bothered to acknowledge my existence?"
She turned her gaze to Damien.
"Or maybe you," she said softly. "The spymaster who knows everything about everyone—except, apparently, how to treat his own wife like a human being."
Damien’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
The silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
"You’re making a statent," Damien finally said, voice low. "We understand that. You’re angry. You have ’every right’ to be angry. But this—publicly humiliating us in front of foreign dignitaries, in front of the entire court—"
"Humiliating ’you’?" Heena’s voice dropped to sothing dangerously quiet. "Tell , Damien, when you all decided to ’poison’ at that dinner, was that humiliating? When you spent three years treating like furniture, mocking behind my back, letting that ’girl’ waltz into my palace whenever she pleased as if she had more right to be here than I did—was ’that’ humiliating?"
No one answered.
"You don’t get to be offended now," Heena said. "You don’t get to feel disrespected. You lost that right the mont you decided I was disposable."
"We didn’t—" Raphael started, stepping forward, hands still clasped.
"Don’t," Heena said sharply, cutting him off. "Don’t try to apologize now. Don’t try to explain, or justify, or make excuses. You had ’three years’ to treat with even the bare minimum of respect. Three years to acknowledge that I was a person, not just an obstacle between you and your precious Seraphina."
Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. The cold fury in it was enough.
"And you chose not to," she continued. "Every single day, you chose not to. So now?" She smiled, sharp and humorless. "Now you get to watch while I do whatever I want. With whover I want. And you don’t get to complain about it."
Lucian finally spoke, his rough voice cutting through the tension. "And the prince? Prince Larus? Is he part of your revenge? Part of this plan to make us suffer?"
Heena looked at him for a long, considering mont.
"Maybe," she said quietly. "Maybe I’m just enjoying the company of soone who doesn’t look at like I’m a burden. Maybe I appreciate talking to soone who didn’t spend the entire evening wishing I was soone else. Maybe—" she paused, "—I simply liked dancing with a man who smiled at like I was worth smiling at."
The words landed like stones in water, sinking deep.
Kieran’s hands curled into fists. "He’s a stranger. You don’t even ’know’ him."
"And whose fault is that?" Heena shot back. "If you’d given even a fraction of the attention you gave Seraphina, maybe I wouldn’t be so starved for basic human decency that a stranger’s kindness feels revolutionary."
She took a step forward, and despite everything—despite the fact that they were trained warriors, scholars, and spies—they all tensed.
"You don’t own ," Heena said softly. "You never did. You had the ’chance’ to be my partners, my allies, maybe even my friends. You chose poison instead. So congratulations—you succeeded. The Celeste you knew? The one who cried over you, who begged for your attention, who destroyed herself trying to earn your love?"
She smiled, cold and final.
"She’s dead. You killed her. And what’s standing in front of you now is the Empress you created. So if you don’t like her choices?" Heena shrugged. "You should have thought of that three years ago."
She turned away.
"Good night, gentlen," she said without looking back. "Don’t follow ."
Her footsteps echoed down the corridor as she walked away, spine straight, head high, leaving the five of them standing in the darkness.
For a long mont, no one moved.
Then Damien let out a slow breath and leaned back against the pillar, running a hand through his hair.
"Bitch"
Lucian said nothing. He just stared down the empty corridor where Heena had disappeared, expression unreadable.
.
.
.
System 427, invisible to everyone but Heena, floated down from the ceiling once she’d turned the corner and was safely alone.
"Host," he whispered nervously, "you just poured gasoline on a very large fire."
Heena didn’t slow her pace. "Good. Let it burn."
"But what if they—"
"What if they ’what’?" Heena interrupted. "Realize I’m serious? Learn to respect ? Actually try to fix what they broke?" She smiled faintly. "Any of those outcos would be an improvent."
The system had no answer to that.
.
.
.
Three days later, the palace gardens were transford into sothing out of a painting.
Long tables draped in pristine white linen stretched beneath flowering trellises heavy with jasmine and climbing roses. Tiered stands displayed delicate pastries dusted with sugar, miniature sandwiches with their crusts carefully removed, glazed fruits that glead like jewels, and porcelain teapots painted with intricate patterns. Crystal glasses caught the afternoon sunlight and threw rainbow prisms across the tablecloths.
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