Lilith knew exactly what she was doing when she stepped into the King’s private chambers.
She hadn’t asked for an audience—she didn’t need to.
She wasn’t even supposed to be inside the palace.
Since she came to the Capital, Lilith had been living on the fringes—outside the palace grounds in a borrowed estate near the edge of the capital. Hidden. Unspoken for.
She’d spent days studying the guards' rotations, tracing the forgotten servant routes carved into the stone walls generations ago. Not many remembered the old corridors, but Lilith had a gift for remembering what others overlooked.
Now, her boots made no sound on the velvet-lined floor as she crossed the threshold.
No announcement. No fanfare.
Just her—and the King—alone again.
The dress she wore was blood-red silk, slit to the thigh and molded to her like a second skin. Her lips were stained darker than the wine in his cup. She smelled of amber and stormwood—expensive, alluring, unforgettable.
And when Maeron looked up from his desk, she smiled slowly, tilting her head in a way that had shattered lesser men.
“You’ve had a long day, Your Majesty,” she purred, stepping forward without invitation. “I thought I might… ease it.”
The King didn’t move.
His eyes raked over her—sharp, unbothered, amused.
“Is this what you think I want?” he asked, voice dry.
“I think you’re tired of prophecy and purity,” Lilith said, closing the distance between them. “Tired of the radiant ones who flinch when you get too close.”
Her fingers grazed his collarbone.
“I don’t flinch.” Maeron didn’t stop her. Not at first.
Her hand slid down his chest, slow, deliberate. She leaned in, her voice hot against his ear. “You don’t have to play King with me. You can just be a man.”
He turned to her finally, close enough for his breath to ghost over her lips.
“You want power,” he said.
“I want you,” she whispered.
His lips curved. Then he leaned in, and for one suspended breath, she thought he might kiss her. But instead, he spoke—low and cool.
“You’re not the first to come here like this. You won’t be the last. But you’re the only one who doesn’t understand that desperation isn’t sexy. It’s pitiful.”
Lilith’s smile faltered. Maeron stepped back, brushing her hand from his chest like it was dust on silk. “I don’t reward ambition that reeks of envy.”
Her face darkened. “You’d rather have the girl who doesn’t even want you?”
“I’d rather have the one who doesn’t try to manipulate me with her body the moment things don’t go her way.”
Her pride cracked like porcelain. But her rage? It was molten.
She left without another word, head high, heart pounding.
But the fire that burned behind her eyes wasn’t over lust or rejection.
It was over Celine.
***
Later that night, Lilith sat alone in her chamber, her wine untouched, her nails tapping lightly against the edge of the table.
Not Celine’s fault, they always said. Celine didn’t try. Celine didn’t want. Celine just was.
And still, they gave her everything.
Her gaze drifted to the corner of the room—where her cloak hung, where her letters were scattered, where her last shred of patience lay in pieces.
She didn’t speak aloud.
She didn’t need to.
Because she knew what had to come next. If Celine couldn’t be removed… she could be reduced. Legacy was everything to wolves.
And when Leon realized he’d mated with a she-wolf who couldn’t give him an heir? He’d remember Lilith. And regret everything.