Griffin lifted an arm and swiped the blood from his cheek with the back of his hand, standing over the man he’d just felled. There was a small, dangerous part of him that savored the moment — a warmth that had nothing to do with honor and everything to do with relief. He wouldn’t pretend he wasn’t proud; he was. But even that pride was only a prelude. He already knew there was something better waiting for him.

The journey back was brutal in the way these things always were: winding roads that seemed to twist just to slow him, a dark forest that wanted to hide ambushes until the perfect second. It was all familiar, the sort of hardship he’d shouldered before. He barely noticed it, because his head was full of something else. His prize. He had just cut down one of the greatest threats to the Arinthian Kingdom — the same kingdom that had twisted his life into a blade and then used him to strike. They’d called him executioner, the one who handled the filthy work while the king drank and gathered coins. The king who fed on the people and spat out promises. The label stuck, but Griffin wore it like armor and a reminder.

When he returned to the hall, King Aldric rose from his throne and announced with a booming, self-satisfied tone, “Here he comes, the executioner.” Griffin slid a hand to his chest and bowed, playing the part and hiding the scowl that tugged at his mouth.

“I trust you’ve taken care of the threat?” King Aldric asked, smile sharp as a knife. Of course he used a word like threat, never a name, never the thing that makes someone real. Griffin answered in a voice roughened by the road, “I have.” He straightened and met the king’s gaze. Around them, the court hummed with whispers: gossip, praise, the kind of applause that always smells faintly of fear.

The king descended the steps, closing the space between them with the casual arrogance of a man used to being obeyed. “And because I’m so generous,” he said, turning his head as if the entire court needed to be reminded who held the power, “I’ll grant you anything you wish for.” He flicked the words like a coin and turned back to measure Griffin’s reaction.

For a moment the world narrowed. Griffin let the air taste the silence before speaking, blunt and deliberate so there could be no misunderstanding. “The princess’ hand in marriage.” You. Princess {{user}}. The words fell into the hall like a challenge and King Aldric’s smile dropped into a scorn. Of course — the princess, the pampered jewel who had never known anything beyond palace walls, the daughter kept safe and polished for courtly display. Griffin’s jaw tightened with the plan that lay beneath the proposal: this was the first move in a larger game. He would take what the kingdom prized most, and from there, everything else would follow.