By morning, the palace smelled of blood and polish.
The Grand Ballroom had been scrubbed clean, the crimson stains erased from the white marble, the shattered goblets swept away, the broken pillars repaired.
On the surface, everything glittered again.
But no one was fooled.
Not the guards posted double at every doorway.
Not the servants who moved with downcast eyes.
Not the nobles who whispered behind jeweled fans and heavy velvet sleeves.
The wolves had caught the scent of blood, and they were gathering.
Hungrier than ever.
Selene sat at her vanity, allowing her maidservants to drape her in a gown of dark blue trimmed with silver, a cold and somber color.
No bright silks today.
No desperate performance of peace.
Today, the court would dress for war.
She fastened a thin chain around her throat herself, the pendant resting just above her heart.
A simple thing.
A shield.
A promise.
A reminder.
She would need every defense she could muster.
The Council of Veredon convened before noon.
In the Throne Room, beneath the soaring arches and glittering stained-glass windows, the nobility gathered like vultures.
Selene entered at Cassian's side, her steps light, her head high.
Whispers rippled through the crowd at the sight of them.
United.
Unbroken.
Alive.
Cassian ascended the dais and took his throne without ceremony.
Selene settled into the queen's seat beside him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze sweeping the room.
Every smile she met was a lie.
Every bow a blade.
The High Chancellor stepped forward, his scroll trembling slightly in his hands.
"Your Majesties," he began, voice thick with false solemnity. "We grieve the attack upon your persons, and we beg to assure you of our undying loyalty."
Selene arched a delicate brow.
Already the court began their theater.
Already the knives were sharpening again.
Cassian leaned back against his throne, one hand resting lightly on the armrest, fingers drumming a slow, dangerous rhythm.
"Undying loyalty," he repeated softly.
The Chancellor swallowed hard.
Cassian let the silence stretch, taut and merciless, before he spoke again.
"Then let us test it."
He rose slowly, the black of his garments making him seem carved from shadow and iron.
He nodded to the Captain of the Guard.
The Captain stepped forward and threw something onto the marble floor.
It landed with a heavy, wet sound.
The court recoiled.
It was a severed hand, the fingers still curled as if clinging to a final, desperate prayer.
Selene remained still, her face an immaculate mask.
Only her heart pounded violently against her ribs.
Cassian's voice was soft but carried through the hall like a blade sliding free from its scabbard.
"This," he said, "is what happens to those who raise a hand against the Crown."
He let the words hang in the air, heavy and suffocating.
"Now," he continued, his tone sharpening, "we will find the others."
Panic flickered through the assembled lords and ladies, quickly hidden behind bowed heads and murmured affirmations.
But Selene saw it.
The glances.
The tension.
The guilt.
Somewhere among them, the architect of last night's assassination attempt still moved freely.
Watching.
Waiting.
Preparing the next strike.
Selene tilted her head slightly, observing.
Lady Alessa of Rivermount whispered furiously to a minor duke.
The Duchess of Marvane clutched her fan so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
A merchant lord from the eastern provinces wiped sweat from his brow with a trembling hand.
Too many suspects.
Too many enemies.
And not enough time.
Cassian's voice cut through her thoughts.
"Tonight," he said, "there will be another gathering."
He smiled, slow and cold.
"A feast to honor those who survived."
A murmur ran through the court, uneasy and confused.
Selene understood instantly.
It was bait.
Cassian would force their enemies to reveal themselves.
Either by refusing to attend, or by striking again.
Either way, the hunt would continue.
And the wolves would come hungrier.
Later, in the private sanctuary of his war chamber, Cassian poured himself a glass of dark wine.
He offered one to Selene.
She took it without hesitation.
He leaned against the edge of the table, watching her over the rim of his cup.
"You saw it too," he said.
It was not a question.
Selene sipped her wine, letting the burn of it ground her.
"Yes," she said.
Cassian's eyes narrowed.
"They are planning something worse."
Selene nodded.
"The dance was only the beginning."
Cassian set his cup down with a soft clink.
His voice was colder now.
"I will not allow this kingdom to rot from the inside."
Selene lifted her gaze to meet his.
"Then you must be willing to destroy it," she said quietly.
Cassian smiled without warmth.
"I already am."
The fire crackled in the hearth behind him.
The shadows played along the sharp angles of his face, the ruthless line of his jaw, the scars hidden beneath his collar.
For the first time, Selene wondered if Cassian Veredon feared anything at all.
And for the first time, she wondered if she feared him more than she feared herself.
Because somewhere deep inside, she was starting to understand him.
The hunger.
The fury.
The loneliness.
They were the same monsters she carried in her own bones.
They drank in silence for a while, two soldiers waiting for a war that had already begun.
Tomorrow, the court would feast.
Tomorrow, the wolves would bare their teeth.
And Selene would be ready.
With silk and steel.
With lies and blood.
With every shattered, broken piece of herself sharpened into a weapon.