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Chapter 12
Lucien slammed his palm down, knocking over the desk.
Flames licked the carpet, casting a red glow in his eyes.
Vivienne had never seen him like this before and stepped back in fear.
“Get out.”
Once the door closed behind her, Lucien bent down to pick up the scorched corner of a headband. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he traced the dark brown
bloodstains on it.
Three months of searching.
Three months of nightmares.
Now she suddenly appears as the assassin of the Shadow Court, with the blood of the Iron Veil still on her hands…
What on earth are you going to do?
He asked questions into the air, wiping the dark brown blood on the hairband with his fingertips. It was the blood from Seraphine’s first kill.
The Shadow Court’s Training Grounds.
Seraphine flicked her sword, sending her sebutan M Mittatila
ent’s weapon flying. The disciples watching fell silent.
In just three months, her progress had been astonishing.
had now perfected to the seventh level.
“Master is amazing!”
Alistair her teacher, had personally taught her the “Falling Plum Sword Technique,” which she
“I heard the leader even stayed up all night rewriting the sword manual for her…”
“They were alone together, late into the night!”
The whispers stopped abruptly.
Alistair had appeared at the corridor entrance, his dark cloak billowing in the wind.
“Whoever spoke just now, go to the post at Twenty.”
Seraphine sheathed her sword and smiled, “Uncle, why the anger?”
Alistair’s face remained cold. “Today, you’re training for an extra two hours.”
As he turned to leave, his cloak brushed against Seraphine’s wrist, leaving a faint trace of the deep water fragrance he wore.
The sound of a whip echoed from afar, but before Seraphine could react, she called out to him.
“What’s wrong? Is the leader afraid that people might misunderstand our relationship?”
Alistair stopped in his tracks.
“I have misunderstood,” he said, without looking back, “I should have let you die at Valmont Keep.”
Seraphine lowered her head, her lips curling into a slight smile.
She understood why Alistair was angry.
Last night, in a fever, she had rambled incoherently, calling out “Lucien” seventeen times.
Lucien had woken in the study, sweat covering his forehead.
He had dreamed of the winter when he was seven.
His father had pointed at the portrait of a little girl and said, “Find her, House Frost’s blood can cure all poisons.”
But when he had found the frozen beggar girl in the snow, he had mysteriously hidden her identity.
“Prince Valmont, urgent report from the Marshalcy!”
Lucien massaged his temple as he unfolded the letter, his gaze sharp.
The Septem Spire had been attacked last night, its lord killed by a single sword strike.
Chapter 12
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At the scene, black feathers were found.
“Prepare the horses.”
He was going to the Septem Spire.
If it really was Seraphine…
Lucien tightened his grip around the pendant at his waist. It was the one Seraphine had dropped on his bed after being injured, engraved with the word “Frost.”
Seraphine crouched on the roof of the Septem Spire, watching the chaos below.
Her right arm was wounded by a hidden weapon, and the poison clouded her vision.
“The lord is dead.” She whispered to the night, “Another one gone.”
When she jumped from the eaves, she staggered.
Suddenly, a pair of hands steadied her shoulders, and the scent of deep water surrounded her.
“Showing off?”
Alistair’s voice was near her ear.
Seraphine relaxed into his embrace.
“Uncle, you smell so good.”
“Stand still.” Alistair immediately released her but had to steady her again when she wavered.
“Where’s the antidote?”
“I’ve taken it.” Seraphine looked up at his tense jawline, “Did you follow
Alistair suddenly grasped her chin, forcing her mouth open to insert a pill.
“The Septem Spire’s Widow’s Kiss. Just the antidote won’t suffice.”
The bitter taste of the pill made Seraphine grimace.
Alistair asked suddenly, “Why go alone?”
“Afraid you’d stop me.”
“Swouldn’t stop you from avenging ” Alistair said, his tone unusually gentle. “But next time, take me with
“Alright.” She answered softly.
Under the moonlight, his profile was sharp, his high nose bridge seemed to glow with a golden light.
Seraphine suddenly asked, “Uncle, how old are you?”
“Thirty–three.”
Seraphine froze.
How could he be thirty–three? He looked younger than most young masters in their twenties,
“Uncle, you’re so old, you should be marrying and having children by now,”
Seraphine moved a little closer, “Is there anyone you fancy?”
Alistair suddenly took a step back, his cloak fluttering.
“Remember your place.”
“What place?” Seraphine sneered, “The orphan of House Frost? The young master of the Shadow Court? Or…”
“My niece.” Alistair interrupted her, his voice cold, “Always will be.”
He turned and walked away, his figure colder than the night.
Seraphine stood still, a smile tugging at her lips.
