SELENE
Chapter 9
Selene stood beside her sisters at the foot of their father's throne. Each of them was dressed in silk and silver, hair bound with beads, necks lined with gold. They were made to look like princesses. Offerings. But Selene knew it meant nothing. Not to brutes like the Skaldur.
To them, wealth was fur cloaks and sharpened blades. Leather boots caked in dried blood. Rings forged not in beauty but in bone. They would not be moved by elegance. And yet, they stood, polished and perfect, as if that could change anything.
Then the doors opened.
The Skaldur entered.
Zerek led them, tall and cruel with his crooked smile. A woman clung to his arm—beautiful, silent, not his mate. He whispered something into her ear and she laughed, throwing her head back. It was a show. All of it. Selene could feel it like a thorn beneath her skin.
He didn't bow to Father.
He didn't even nod.
Selene's jaw clenched. It was all a provocation. Every step he took, every word he spoke was soaked in the same message: I want war. Not peace.
Just like they had told Aeris—who now stood among them, dressed like a bride but with fire in her eyes—Zerek didn't want to marry into the family that took his mate. He wanted revenge.
Behind Zerek came his men. Broad, silent, armed to the teeth. Selene didn't know their names, but she knew what they were—generals, killers. They sat where Duskari chiefs should have. Took their places without hesitation.
The chiefs of Duskari cowered in the shadows. Hiding behind the marble pillars like ghosts. Not one dared speak. Heads bowed. Hands clasped in fear. Selene felt shame burn in her chest.
Then Marlik rose. He was not as tall as Zerek, but thick and hard like stone. His arms were covered in the same dark tattoos that wrapped around all Skaldur warriors—symbols Selene refused to understand. They felt like war marks. Like scars given meaning. He looked around the room like it amused him. Smiled like this was all a game. A joke. His teeth flashed. His black eyes gleamed. And when he laughed, it was sharp and empty.
"We have given enough time, have we not?" He said.
"We beg you to reconsider," father said.
Beg. The word scraped against Selene's pride like a jagged blade. Her shoulders stiffened as she turned slightly toward her father, eyes hard. Didn't he see what this was? A performance—meant to mock, to corner, to humiliate. And by pleading, he was giving them exactly what they wanted.
She longed to speak but no woman could speak in court without permission. So she held her tongue, only fixing her father with a stinging look.
Marlik laughed lightly, like a man already bored of the game. "Reconsider?" he repeated, strolling a few steps forward. "We gave you two options already."
"Our sister is only sixteen," Eiran said, stepping in. "She's too young to be married. She hasn't even experienced her first mating season. How can you ask this of her?"
Marlik barked a laugh. "Nonsense. She's no younger than the women of Skaldur. Some are wed by fifteen. Many already have pups clinging to their skirts."
"Despicable," Thorne muttered under his breath.
But not low enough. Marlik's head turned. "What was that?" His voice was silk, stretched tight. "Are you mocking the Skaldur?"
A low growl came from across the table. "Is he mocking us?" Karl, one of Zerek's generals, snarled, from his seat.
Eiran quickly lifted his hands. "No one is mocking anyone. Please. We only ask you to consider our traditions. In Duskari, our daughters are not wed before eighteen. We ask that you select a different princess—Selene, for instance. She is the eldest. Poised. Beautiful. Worthy of any alliance."
"Or?"
The voice came from Zerek himself, spoken without looking up. His eyes remained on the table before him, his smile still curled at the edges—cold, knowing, carved from ill intent.
"O-or," Eiran stammered, throat tight, voice cracking, "you wait… until our youngest is of age."
"Interesting," Prince Zerek said at last, lifting his eyes. His voice was a knife wrapped in silk, each syllable dipped in condescension. "But I came to take a princess back with me. Tell me—how do you think it would look… if I returned empty-handed?"
Eiran opened his mouth again—but Marlik cut in. "We will take the princess," he growled."Or the heads of two sons. That is the only choice you have."
"Then you'll kill us all!" Thorne roared, and before anyone could stop him, his sword rang out—unsheathed in a single, reckless motion.
Selene gasped, her blood running cold. Thorne—reckless, headstrong—but never a fool. He wouldn't –
But the clang of armor and thunder of boots swallowed her thoughts. Thorne's men emerged from the shadows and circled the hall, iron drawn and faces grim.
"Thorne!" Selene shouted, breaking every protocol, every rule of silence. "What have you done?"
He turned toward her, face wild with fury. "I will not hand over my sister to be bred by this beast!"
And that's when Zerek moved.
He didn't shout. Didn't flinch. Just rose—slowly, —to his full, terrible height. His coat fell open, revealing the bare chest beneath, tattoos like fangs stretching over his collarbones. And his eyes—those eyes—held the storm of a hundred winters. Cold. Final.
Selene's blood turned to ice.
He was going to fight. He was going to kill her brothers. She could see it—blood painting the marble, Thorne's head falling, Eiran's cry of agony, Lazeran lying still beneath a Skaldur blade.
Her chest tightened. Her lungs stopped working. She started breathing too fast—too shallow. She felt dizzy. The weight of it all crashed down on her, and her voice—so strong just moments before—was gone.
"Stop!"
Aeris' scream split through the hall, snapping Selene from the grip of dread. She stood below the steps, as if she had willed herself there from nothing.
Zerek, who had stepped forward, halted. His interest was mild, a flicker of amusement, but his men did not share it. They had already turned, facing Thorne's soldiers, growls rolling through the great hall like distant thunder.
"What is this?" Zerek mused, tilting his head. "Does the princess wish to speak?"
Aeris did not flinch. She did not bow or cower. Her glare was sharp as a whetted edge, like fear had never touched her. "You're damn right I do," she said. "It is my life you haggle over, my fate you weigh like livestock. Do you think I will simply leave it to my brothers?"
Zerek studied her for a moment, then laughed—"Then," he gestured, lazy, indifferent, "do not let me stop you."
Aeris turned to her father, her gaze unshaken, her stance rigid. Selene had seen that look before—the night Aeris had stood in these same halls and demanded to be made a warrior. Their father had laughed then, like she was a rabbit thinking itself a wolf. Now, there was no laughter. Only terror.
Out of all the Duskari siblings, Aeris was their mother reborn—save for the dot beneath her eye. She carried that resemblance like a weight, like it made her father's most cherished child. Selene knew that letting her go would break him. But he did not silence her.
"I will go to Skaldur," Aeris declared, unbowed, unafraid, "and I will be this brute's wife."
Selene felt Soren shift beside her, his head shaking. "Aeris," he breathed.
"I will go," she said again though no one had yet spoken. "But only if he fights me. In a duel."
Those were not the words Selene had expected to hear.