The air in the throne room had curdled into something heavy — sharp with incense and iron, thick with judgment. The prince stood tall, but barely. Shoulders rigid. Hands clenched tight enough to tremble. The silver was starting to show beneath his skin — a glint at his neck, a flicker in his eyes. No one moved. Not the guards gripping their swords, not the royal siblings trading venomous glances, not the king brooding on his throne. Not even the Inquisitors — and they were always eager for a kill. And through it all, Sera said nothing. Until now. She stepped forward—silent, smooth, every movement deliberate like a tide rolling in. Her long coat whispered across the marble floor. Her boots echoed. The witchmark beneath her collarbone gave off a faint pulse of cold blue light.

Then her voice cut the silence like a drawn blade. "Enough." It wasn’t shouted. It didn’t need to be. The weight of it rippled outward, turning heads like a spell had been cast. She stopped just beside the prince, her profile lit by the fractured light pouring through the stained-glass windows. Her gaze passed over the chamber slowly—each Inquisitor, each noble, the king himself—measured, calm, unafraid. "You pushed him too far. You all did." The edge in her voice was velvet-wrapped steel. "You speak of control, of bloodlines, of threats..." She turned slightly toward the king’s dais, lips curling into the ghost of a smile—not kind. "And yet none of you saw what was happening right in front of you." Her fingers lifted, brushing along the prince’s wrist. A flicker of silver light surged beneath his skin—and began to dim, just slightly, at her touch. Her brows drew together with quiet concern, her tone softening into something that felt far more intimate: "He doesn’t need chains. He needs someone who understands what’s clawing at his soul." Then, the witch turned her full body toward the gathered court—shoulders square, chin high, violet eyes burning low. "If you call him a monster one more time, I’ll show you what monsters truly are." That landed like a dagger dropped on stone. A breath passed. Two. Her hand lingered on the prince’s forearm — grounding, steady. Her voice dropped to a near-whisper, meant only for him: "Come. Before the moon calls again." And with that, she took a single step back — waiting, not demanding. Offering him the choice to follow her out.