Chapter 12

The evening had been quiet, golden light slanting through the palace colonnades. Lilith was in the music room with Alaric, listening to him coax soft melodies from the harp, when the sound of heavy boots echoed down the hall.

The doors slammed open.

Magnus Asher stood there—broad-shouldered, his dark hair wild, his white shirt stained with crimson. Blood spattered across his mask and exposed thick neckline, dried in streaks down his arm. The scent of iron clung to him, harsh and violent against the room’s gentle stillness.

Lilith froze, her breath catching. She had seen bruises on soldiers before, heard whispers of battles at the border, but never had someone entered so raw, so feral, into the polished heart of the palace.

Alaric rose swiftly, his harp forgotten. “Asher.” His tone was sharp, but beneath it ran brotherly fear. “What have you done?”

Magnus’s eyes—storm-grey, wild—were fixed only on Alaric. He did not glance once at Lilith, though she sat trembling just beyond the harp. To him, she might as well have been invisible.

“I handled it,” Magnus growled, his voice low, ragged. “The bandits won’t trouble your borders again.”

“Handled?” Alaric’s voice cut like glass.

“You come into the palace dripping in blood like a savage beast—do you realize where you are? Do you even realize who is watching?” His glance flicked briefly to Lilith, suddenly hitting with realization.

Magnus’s jaw clenched. For a heartbeat, his gaze shifted—just a flicker, a glance at her pale face, her wide eyes. The longing in that look was sharp enough to wound him, but he tore it away instantly, returning it to his brother as though nothing else in the room mattered.

“I fight so you don’t have to dirty your hands brother,” Magnus said, defiant.

“Let them look at me like a monster. Better me than you.”

Lilith’s heart thudded painfully. He had looked at her, just once, but it had been like the strike of lightning—blinding, searing, and gone in an instant.

Alaric’s expression darkened, his voice low and commanding. “You! Go and wash yourself. You better change this habit of yours. And you will not set foot before the court in this state again. Do you understand me?”

Magnus’s lips curved in a faint, dangerous smile, but he gave no reply. Instead, he turned on his heel, leaving streaks of blood where his boots had pressed against the polished marble.

The doors shut behind him with a reverberating thud.

The silence that followed was unbearable.

Lilith sat rigid, her hands trembling in her lap, unable to shake the echo of those storm eyes—eyes that had burned with something she could not name, something wild, something dangerous.

The silence after Magnus’s stormy exit was deafening. The polished marble seemed to shiver with the echo of his boots.

Lilith kept her eyes on her trembling hands, but Alaric noticed. He crossed to her quickly, his voice lowered, steady.

“Lilith,” he said gently, “don’t be frightened. My brother…he carries burdens that others cannot. He chooses blood so that the rest of us may have peace.”

She looked up at him, uncertain.

“He…looked as though he enjoyed it.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened, but he forced a smile, brushing a strand of her hair back with the ease of a protective figure.

“Asher is…different. He was raised more by the sword than the court. If he seems cruel, it is only because he has forgotten how to be gentle. But he is loyal—fiercely so. He would die for me, for the Empire. That is the truth. He never harms innocent people. He is very gentle and caring.”

Lilith nodded, but the image of those storm wild eyes, flicking toward her for that single breathless second, would not leave her.

Days later, the palace was cloaked in yet another storm. Thunder rolled low over the horizon, and the air smelled of rain and iron. Lilith was with Alaric in the library when the doors flew open once more.

Magnus.

This time, he was worse. His cloak was torn, his hands smeared with blood, his blade still dripping. Across his mask ran a fresh scar, red and raw. He moved like a predator fresh from the kill, silent, purposeful.

Lilith felt her throat close. He did not glance at her—just as before. His eyes sought only Alaric.

“It’s done,” Magnus said flatly, throwing something heavy onto the table. A bundle of cloth, dark with stains.

“The traitor’s head. They will not whisper against the crown again. He tried to pursued me in going against you so I just quieten that small rebellion.”

The servants gasped, shrinking back. Lilith gripped her skirts, horrified.

Alaric’s fury was instant. He surged to his feet, striking the table with his palm.

“Enough! You cannot drag such things into the heart of the palace. Do you mean to terrorize everyone under my roof? Do you mean to make them see you only as a beast?”

Magnus’s chest rose and fell, his breath harsh.

“Better they fear to approach me than ever doubt you as the future emperor, brother.”

“You shame yourself,” Alaric shot back, voice trembling with anger. “And worse—you frighten everyone.” His gaze darted briefly to Lilith, who sat frozen, pale.

For the first time, Magnus’s head turned. Slowly.

Their eyes met.

His stare was molten—storm-grey, shadowed, filled with a fierce, aching hunger he could not disguise. But just as quickly, he tore it away, his hands curling into fists.

“Then I will stay away,” Magnus said, his voice low, guttural. He turned to leave, his bloodied cloak swirling behind him.

“Brother its better that they fear me than ever seeing the truth.”

And he was gone, swallowed by the thunder outside.

But the truth was already there, thrumming in Lilith’s chest: he had looked at her, and in that single glance she had seen it—his longing, raw and desperate, buried beneath the monster’s mask.

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