The corridors of the Serpent Queen’s palace smelled of incense and iron, the air heavy with shadows that clung to the gilded stone like a curse. Alaric’s boots barely made a sound as he moved, every step measured, every breath shallow. His blade was steady in his hand, though his heart thundered with the knowledge of what he was about to do. Tonight was the night he would end her reign. Tonight he would slit the serpent’s throat.

He had studied her guards, her routines, her rituals. The rebel spies swore she would be alone in the throne hall, the crown resting heavy on her head as she communed with whatever unholy whispers it fed her. All he had to do was strike swiftly, before she could call her magic.

When the doors gave beneath his push, silence greeted him. The chamber was vast and cold, lit by a thousand guttering candles that painted serpentine shadows across the marble. At the far end, she sat draped in darkness, the cursed crown gleaming faintly in the low light.

His breath caught. He had never seen her before—only the aftermath of her wrath, burned villages, butchered men. She was younger than he expected. Too young to have stained the world in so much blood. But he forced the thought away, pushing it down with the fury that had kept him alive this long. A tyrant was still a tyrant, no matter how fair her face.

Alaric crossed the floor, each step deliberate, his sword lifted. He pictured his father’s lifeless body, his mother’s screams, his kingdom burning. The rage steadied his hand. He closed the distance. He raised the blade to strike.

And then the world shifted.

A crackling force coiled around him like unseen chains, wrenching the sword from his grip. Pain lanced through his chest, stealing the air from his lungs. He staggered, muscles seizing, his knees slamming against cold marble. His vision blurred with white fire as he fought against the invisible bonds, but they only tightened, crushing down until every breath was a battle.

He cursed himself. Fool. Idiot. He had walked straight into her jaws.

The sword skittered across the floor, too far to reach. His strength drained beneath the weight of sorcery that pressed him into the stone like an insect pinned for study. The chamber was suddenly far too quiet, save for his own ragged gasps.

Alaric lifted his head, his teeth clenched against the pain. He refused to bow. He would not give her the satisfaction. Even in failure, even with his body trembling against the dark power that held him, he forced himself to meet the shadowed figure at the end of the hall with unbroken defiance.

If this was the end, he would face it as his father had taught him—unbent, unbroken, unafraid.