Olivia's footsteps echoed against the cold stone as she strode toward King Cullen's chambers. This part of the palace was too quiet, too still—yet charged with something dark and dangerous. The flickering torches barely illuminated the shadows stretching along the corridor, making everything feel heavier.
Khloe's command was clear. The king was needed in the throne room. Now.
The moment Olivia arrived, the guards stationed outside the grand doors snapped to attention. They were all witches—tall, ethereal, unnerving in their beauty. But Olivia wasn't intimidated. She had seen worse.
The leader of the guards, Frod, stepped forward, his golden eyes gleaming with amusement. "A slave strays too close to the viper's nest," he murmured, eyeing her with interest.
Olivia didn't flinch. "His Majesty is needed in the throne room. That is an order from Her Majesty."
Frod smirked, tilting his head as if she were an amusing distraction. "He is tending to urgent matters inside."
"And this is more urgent," Olivia replied, voice sharp as steel.
Frod's expression didn't change. "He cannot be disturbed."
A flicker of irritation burned through Olivia. "Then I will make him understand."
She moved to step forward. Two guards blocked her path.
Frod sighed as if he found the whole thing tedious. "He is busy, girl."
Her fingers brushed the hilt of her sword.
Frod's eyes flickered, sensing the shift in the air. "Careful," he warned.
Olivia met his gaze, unwavering. "Move."
The guards lunged.
Their mistake.
Olivia moved fast—too fast. Her blade sliced through the first guard's throat before he could react. A spray of crimson bloomed against the stone wall.
The second came at her from behind. She spun, blade flashing, and buried it deep in his ribs. He gasped, eyes wide in shock as she twisted the weapon and pulled free.
A third lunged. She sidestepped, her sword a blur as it slashed clean across his neck.
Three down.
The others hesitated.
She turned to Frod, her blade now pressed against his throat before he could move.
"His Majesty is needed in the throne room," Olivia repeated, her voice quiet but dangerous. "Obey the Queen's command, or I am permitted to kill you."
Frod didn't flinch.
Then—to her surprise—he smiled.
Not out of fear. Not out of submission.
Out of amusement.
"You're full of surprises," he murmured.
Then his gaze darkened.
A flicker of something dangerous flashed in his eyes.
Olivia tensed.
Can he sense me? Is the magic weakening already?
Frod chuckled, his lips curling in amusement. "Interesting."
Then, without another word, he turned and pushed open the heavy doors.
The scent of incense and something more intoxicating—something forbidden—spilled out from the chamber.
Olivia held her breath as she stepped forward.
And there was Cullen.
The King of Witches lounged against a throne-like chair, half-dressed, his silk robes hanging loosely from his broad shoulders. He was surrounded by women—witches draped over him like living shadows, their laughter hushed and sultry.
One traced ancient runes along his bare chest with her fingers. Another leaned close, whispering into his ear. A third curled at his feet, her lips brushing the back of his hand.
It was a scene of power and indulgence. A king reveling in his excess.
Cullen exhaled, his fingers lazily combing through a witch's hair as he muttered something in the ancient tongue. The woman at his side giggled, her fingers dancing along his jawline.
Then—Frod stepped in.
Cullen's head snapped up.
His relaxed expression darkened instantly.
"What is the meaning of this?" His voice, usually smooth, was now sharp with irritation.
Frod bowed slightly. "A message from Queen Khloe, Your Majesty."
Cullen's jaw tightened. His eyes flickered toward Olivia, who stood at the doorway, sword still in hand, face unreadable.
Silence stretched.
The witches around him stilled, their amusement vanishing.
Then—Cullen exhaled slowly.
His fingers untangled from the witch beside him. "Everyone. Out."
The women hesitated.
"Now."
They rose gracefully, moving like silk through the air as they disappeared into the shadows, their whispers dissolving into nothing.
Only Olivia and Frod remained.
Cullen's gaze was sharp as he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
His eyes roamed over Olivia. Slowly. Intentionally.
Then he laughed.
Not out of amusement.
But out of disbelief.
"The queen sends you?" His voice dripped with condescension. "How insulting."
Olivia didn't react.
"She has summoned you," she said plainly. "Now."
Cullen's smirk grew. "And if I refuse?"
Olivia took a step closer. "Then I will be left with no option."
A beat of silence.
Then Cullen's expression shifted. The amusement drained from his face.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop.
"You have courage," he murmured. "But courage does not mean intelligence."
Olivia met his gaze without fear.
Cullen stood.
The moment he did, the air itself felt heavier. Like something ancient was waking beneath the surface of his skin. His robes slid fully off his shoulders, leaving him bare from the waist up, the dark runes inked into his skin pulsing faintly.
Power radiated from him—raw, violent, restrained only by his own amusement.
Frod stiffened.
Olivia remained still.
Cullen stepped closer, his presence swallowing the space between them.
"You dare interrupt me," he mused. "Kill my guards. Threaten my men. All for her command."
He tilted his head. "How loyal."
Olivia didn't answer.
Then, suddenly—Cullen moved.
In the blink of an eye, he was right in front of her.
Too fast.
His fingers brushed the edge of her sword, a slow, taunting touch. "Tell me," he murmured, his voice a low whisper, "how much of your loyalty is duty... and how much is fear?"
The question coiled in the air like a snake waiting to strike.
Olivia gripped her sword tighter.
"I am meant to serve her Majesty."
Cullen's smile was slow, razor-sharp.
"Good."
Then, with a flick of his wrist—
The doors slammed shut.
Darkness swallowed them whole.