The private throne hall was nothing like the grand Blood Court.
No nobles.
No harem.
No guards.
Just vast, echoing stone and a single strip of torchlight stretching toward the obsidian dais where Kaedan waited.
Ariaxa hesitated in the doorway.
She had been summoned without explanation. That alone was unusual. But being summoned alone—with no Seren draped at his side, no Riven shadowing his throne—that was something else entirely.
“Come here,” Kaedan said.
His voice traveled easily across the chamber, low and sharp enough to pull her forward like a hook.
Ariaxa approached the dais slowly, aware of every soft step of her bare feet, every echo bouncing back at her from the high walls. She kept her eyes low but not fully down—she had learned by now that Kaedan hated cowardice almost as much as he hated defiance.
When she reached the foot of the dais, he leaned back in his throne, studying her.
“Do you know where Seren is?” he asked.
Ariaxa’s pulse stumbled.
“I… heard she was being sent north. To Lord Vaelen.”
Kaedan’s mouth curved—one of those almost-smiles that never reached his eyes.
“I asked what you think happened to her.”
Ariaxa swallowed. Her fingers tightened at her sides.
“I think,” she said carefully, “she was afraid.”
A single, heavy beat of silence followed.
Kaedan tilted his head. “Afraid,” he repeated, tasting the word. “You believe Seren Veran—my most decorated harem weapon—felt fear?”
“She attacked me,” Ariaxa whispered. “People lash out when they think they’re losing everything.”
His gaze sharpened.
“And what did she lose?”
Ariaxa’s breath caught. “…You.”
The air shifted.
Kaedan rose from the throne with the slow deliberation of a predator. “Fear,” he said as he descended the dais, “is necessary.”
His boots touched the floor. He walked toward her, each step steady, silent, coiled.
“Even for favorites.”
Ariaxa stiffened. “I’m not—”
“You are,” he said simply.
And somehow, that was worse than denial.
He stopped in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat of him, smell steel and smoke and cold night air in his clothes. His hand lifted—not to touch her, but to offer something.
A glint of silver.
A small knife rested across his palm. The blade narrow. Curved. Beautiful in a cruel, intimate way. A weapon meant not for battle, but for close skin, close ribs, close throats.
Ariaxa stared.
“Take it,” Kaedan said.
Her fingers shook as she accepted it. The metal was cold enough to sting her palm, but light. Perfectly balanced.
“A gift,” he murmured.
Suspicion warred with confusion. “Why would you give a slave a knife?”
“Slaves don’t get knives,” Kaedan replied. “Favorites do.”
Her stomach dropped.
She lifted the blade a little. “This won’t protect me from you.”
“No,” he agreed. “It won’t.”
His voice was silk and threat wrapped together.
“It will not save you from my collar. It will not stop my hand. It will not soften my punishments.” He leaned in slightly. “It is for one purpose only.”
Her heart thudded painfully. “Which is?”
Kaedan stepped behind her, his hand brushing her hip as he guided her forward, up the dais stairs, toward the throne. Every step felt heavier than the last.
“For me to see what you will do with it.”
The words poured down her spine like molten metal.
He pressed her lightly but firmly until she stood with her back against the throne, both hands gripping the silver knife as if it might fall through her fingers.
“Will you run?” Kaedan asked quietly. “Will you hide it under your pillow and sleep with it against your throat?”
His fingers slid up her arm, slow and deliberate.
“Will you use it on the other slaves?”
Ariaxa tensed. “Never.”
“Will you wait until the palace sleeps,” he continued, ignoring her answer, “and creep into my chamber with that blade in your shaking hand?”
Her breath hitched.
“I wouldn’t—”
“Do you want to?” he murmured.
She froze.
Because she didn’t know how to answer.
Because sometimes, when his cruelty sharpened too far, when his control felt like a cage around her ribs, when grief and rage and exhaustion bubbled too close to the surface…
yes.
She wanted to stab him.
She wanted to stab herself.
She wanted to stab the world.
He saw it in her silence.
His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her lower lip, not gently. “There it is,” he whispered. “Your truth.”
Ariaxa forced her voice to work. “Why me?”
“Because you are not Seren,” he said simply. “Because fear shapes her. Rage shapes you.”
His thumb pressed harder, forcing her chin up.
“And because I want to know which will win.”
The knife trembled in her hand.
“Kaedan…” Her voice cracked. “Why give this to me? Why now?”
He leaned closer, his lips brushing her ear.
“Because if you intend to disappoint me,” he murmured, “I want you to have every opportunity to choose how.”
Her entire body went tense.
He stepped even closer, pinning her fully against the throne, one hand on her waist, the other still holding her jaw. His breath hit her cheek—hot, controlled, almost hungry.
She couldn’t move.
Couldn’t breathe.
“Listen carefully,” Kaedan said. “This gift is not mercy. It is not trust.”
His hand slid down her throat, fingers stroking the collar, feeling her pulse jump under the metal. She shivered despite herself.
“It is a test,” he finished.
Ariaxa’s grip on the knife tightened until her knuckles ached.
“What if I use it to survive?” she whispered.
“Then survive well,” Kaedan answered. “I prefer my favorites sharp.”
His hand left her throat only to brace on the throne beside her head, caging her in. His body pressed along hers, deliberate, unmistakable, his presence drowning her senses.
“And if,” she whispered, “I use it to fight?”
His lips brushed her cheek, ghost-soft but searing hot.
“Then fight well.”
She closed her eyes, breath shuddering.
“And if…” Her voice barely formed the last question. “If I use it to kill?”
He exhaled once, a soft laugh that wasn’t a laugh at all, just a dark, dangerous shiver of breath.
Then Kaedan angled her chin up and whispered against her mouth:
“If you ever raise it against me…”
His hand slid to her hip, holding her still.
“…make sure you don’t miss.”
Her breath caught.
Because from the way he said it—the hunger in the words, the razor-thread of anticipation tangled with threat—
she realized something terrifying.
He didn’t fear the knife.
He wanted to see if she would dare to use it.
And that was the most dangerous gift of all.