CHAPTER 548: INTO THE LION’S DEN 3

When the last toast faded and the music died, the nobles withdrew like the tide, leaving the banquet hall scattered with empty goblets and the sweet rot of spilled wine. Lara was about to retreat with the servants when a voice, low and deliberate, stopped her.

"Take her to the side chamber in my quarters." King Roman instructed the servants. "I could not wait for tomorrow to claim her."

Lara pursed her lips and clenched her fists.

"I will make sure she is ready for you, Your Majesty." Queen Miranda’s words slid over the hall like sugar. The sweetness in her tone made the hairs along Lara’s forearms rise.

"You always know what I want, my queen," Roman replied, indulgence curling around his words. "I will come after I discuss important matters with the generals."

Queen Miranda stood near the columns, her gown whispering against the marble. The guards who flanked the doors pretended not to hear.

Lara turned slowly. "Your Majesty."

Miranda smiled — a thin, elegant curve that never reached her eyes. "You seem to have impressed my husband. Congratulations. It’s not easy to hold the Emperor’s attention these days."

"I didn’t seek it," Lara said quietly,

Miranda’s fan snapped open with a soft click. "Oh, of course you didn’t. Men always imagine their conquests are accidental." She walked closer, the scent of jasmine and wine following her. "Still, I wonder what he sees in you. You’re too stiff, too proud to plead, too calm to charm. Perhaps that’s the trick — you’ve made him curious."

Lara held her ground and remained silent.

Miranda circled her like a cat might a cornered bird. "Not saying anything?" she murmured. "You think this court has room for women who make the Emperor curious? Do you know what happens to the last one who did?"

Lara didn’t answer.

Miranda leaned in, voice almost tender. "Her name has been erased. Her portrait burned. Her family... forgotten. That’s what power does, Lady Norse — it doesn’t just crush you. It deletes you."

The Queen’s eyes glittered behind the veil. "And now, you’ve made me remember her."

For a heartbeat, neither moved. The torches hissed softly.

Then Lara said, evenly, "You speak of power as though you don’t fear losing it."

Miranda’s smile wavered and sharpened. "Fear is what keeps power honed. You will learn that — if you live long enough." She drew back, her expression suddenly serene again, as if the venom had never touched her tongue. "Take her to that chamber. Dress her in that gown. It pleases the king the most."

"Queen Miranda. Know this." Lara’s fist closed where it hung at her side. "The Emperor of Azurverda and the Norse family will not accept this insult lying down. The end of Zura has come."

Miranda’s fan paused mid-air, then a crackle of laughter filled the hallways.

"Crazy! Go now. Take her there!"

With that, the queen turned and glided toward the exit. The guards opened the doors, and for an instant, her voice drifted back like perfume:

"Pretty things are easy to break, Lara. Be careful not to crack too soon."

The doors shut.

When the massive double doors sighed shut, Lara walked toward them with deliberate slowness. Before she crossed the threshold, her fingers moved — a tiny, precise motion that would have been meaningless to most, but not to the few knightly eyes that lingered

...

Later that night, the corridors outside the banquet hall had long since gone silent. From the window slit in the side chamber at the king’s quarter, Lara could see only a sliver of moonlight and the endless shadows of the palace walls. The air smelled faintly of smoke and the heavy sweetness of roses—Miranda’s flowers.

Lara sat before the mirror, the jewels the queen had insisted upon catching candlelight and fracturing it into sharp, ugly stars. The dress Miranda had chosen was a breath-thin white gauze that clung to every line of her body — a garment meant to display, to expose.

"She is so beautiful. Her figure is the best I have seen." One of the servants commented openly as she tied the thin string that held the flimsy dress.

"What a pity. Such an expensive cloth will be torn into shreds by the king," another maid said.

Lara’s mind was elsewhere. As the maids fussed, as satin whispered and pins clicked, she checked the room with quiet, methodical glances: the placement of the latch, the angle of the bed, the three narrow windows high on the wall — small, yes, but wide enough for a desperate person to slip through. Each fact filed away.

The door creaked.

Lara rose with the speed of someone who has practiced remaining composed under threat. "Who’s there?"

King Roman filled the doorway like a blot of gold, his robe dragging on the glossy floor. The candles flared, and the king’s gaze drank in the arranged scene with an animal eagerness. When the maids retreated, Lara let her hair fall strategically over her chest, a thin shield.

"You are so shy," Roman purred, as if gentleness were the same thing as mastery. He opened a small drawer and poured the contents of a wooden chest onto the bed — a rope, a blindfold, trinkets of ritual and possession.

Lara has heard from the maids that the king had a fetish when spending the night with his concubines. She had guessed his intentions.

Her hands were a blur: the rope on the bed disappeared, leather straps tightened, and with a practiced, fluid efficiency, she bound him to the four bedposts. Roman’s surprise was an immediate, stupid thing; his face flushed with the shock of losing command.

"How audacious," he began, breath hitching. He tried to pull free, to shout, to summon the guards. Lara silenced him with a piece of cloth pressed to his mouth, a cold, deliberate action.

"Haven’t your generals advised you to be wary of me?" Lara said in a calm and icy voice.

Roman’s drunken complacency peeled away into a raw, ragged fury. He thrashed against his bonds and tried to shout, but the gag marred his commands. His face was the color of a man who watched his world tilt and found no footing.

A muffled shout might have broken the quiet if the guards outside were anything but faithful to routine — and the guards had been taught, long ago, never to disturb the king when he was indulging in debauchery.

"Didn’t they tell you what happened to Tryon?" Lara said, ice threaded through memory. "He grew arrogant. He underestimated me."

The door creaked.

A figure clad in black stepped through the half-light, his hood lifted just enough to reveal a pair of obsidian eyes behind a mask.

Roman’s body went still. Relief softened the lines of his face for a flash — the sign of a man saved by someone he believed loyal.

This audacious woman, he thought, would soon be made to pay in a way worse than death.