The blade slid deeper between Ariaxa’s ribs.
Her gasp sucked the air out of the ballroom — a soft, sharp sound that made half the nobles flinch.
But she didn’t panic.
Didn’t cry out.
Didn’t freeze.
Instead—
Ariaxa tilted her head back against the masked assassin’s shoulder, her breath grazing his ear.
Her voice was a whisper of death wrapped in silk:
“Too slow.”
The assassin stiffened—
Too late.
Ariaxa flicked her wrist.
The Sun-flash rune hidden in her sleeve ignited.
A blinding burst of golden light exploded between them.
The masked noble shrieked and stumbled back, clutching at his eyes as the spell seared into his vision.
The dagger clattered to the floor.
Ariaxa spun away, steady despite her injury, her gown swirling like burning light.
And then—
The shadows behind her moved.
They didn’t ripple.
They didn’t flicker.
They materialized.
Kaedan stepped out of them like a demon born from darkness.
No disguise now.
No mask.
His shadow-guard helm lay discarded, crushed under his own boot.
His fangs were down.
His eyes were hellfire.
His rage hit the room like a physical force.
A dozen nobles fainted.
The assassin barely had time to inhale before Kaedan grabbed him by the throat and—
SLAMMED him onto the marble floor.
The tiles cracked in a spiderweb beneath the man’s body.
Gasps ripped through the ballroom.
Music screeched to a halt.
Lanterns flickered.
The air itself froze.
Kaedan leaned over the assassin, voice a guttural snarl:
“You touched her.”
The noble choked, coughing blood.
“You don’t understand—she must die—if she lives, the Triarchs will curse the entire empire—”
Kaedan’s growl shook the chandeliers.
He drew his fist back—
Fangs bared—
Muscles coiled—
Magic burning red around him—
Seconds from ripping the man apart.
The assassin screamed, “The curse has already begun—she carries the—”
Kaedan roared and pulled back for the killing blow.
The court trembled.
Poisonous fear thickened the air.
Nobles shrank against the walls, whispering prayers.
Riven pushed through the crowd, shouting, “KAEDAN, WAIT—”
But nothing—
no soldier,
no general,
no god—
could stop Kaedan Draven when he was ready to kill.
Except one.
Ariaxa stepped between them.
Her hand pressed to Kaedan’s chest.
The touch burned him.
Stopped him.
Anchored him.
Her voice cut through the chaos — steady, sharp, absolute:
“STOP.”