The summons came before dawn.
A quiet knock at Selene's door, deliberate and insistent.
She opened it to find one of Cassian's personal guards standing there, a towering man in simple black armor, his face as impassive as the statues lining the palace corridors.
"His Majesty requests your presence," the guard said simply.
Not an invitation.
An order.
Selene stepped back to allow her maidservants to hurriedly dress her, a gown of dark sapphire trimmed in silver, severe but elegant, a queen's uniform for a battlefield that did not need swords.
She braided her hair tightly, wove no jewels into it.
Armor of a different kind.
The guard waited in silence as she prepared, then led her through the labyrinthine halls of the inner palace, past corridors most courtiers never glimpsed.
It was too early for the court to be awake.
Too early for alliances to be forged or broken.
Whatever Cassian intended for her to see, it was not meant for public eyes.
And that alone made Selene wary.
They stopped before a door carved from black oak, its surface etched with a crest she didn't recognize, a serpent coiled around a broken crown.
The guard knocked once.
Twice.
The door opened inward without a sound.
Cassian stood inside.
He wore no crown today, no cloak, no ceremonial armor.
Only a simple black tunic and dark trousers, his sword belted low at his hip.
He looked every inch the warlord he had once been.
The warlord, might still be.
Selene entered without waiting to be bid, the door closing behind her with a click that sounded too much like the locking of a cell.
Cassian didn't speak.
He simply turned and gestured for her to follow.
The chamber beyond was stark and windowless, lit only by guttering torches along the stone walls.
A low platform dominated the center of the room.
And on that platform, shackled to an iron chair, knelt a man.
His clothes were rich but torn, his face bruised and bloodied, his hair matted with sweat.
Selene recognized him instantly.
Lord Verin.
The same man who had offered her poisoned wine at court only yesterday.
Her stomach twisted, but she forced her face to remain still.
Emotionless.
Cassian approached the bound man slowly, his boots echoing sharply against the stone.
He didn't draw his sword.
He didn't raise his voice.
He simply stood there, silent and patient, until Lord Verin raised his swollen head and met his gaze.
"You thought yourself clever," Cassian said at last, his voice low and even.
"You thought," he continued, pacing slowly around the platform, "that a single cup of poisoned wine could bring down my reign."
Lord Verin spat blood onto the floor at Cassian's feet.
Cassian didn't even glance down.
"Your mistake," he said, almost gently, "was not in underestimating me."
He stopped directly behind the kneeling man, his hand resting lightly on the pommel of his sword.
"Your mistake," he repeated, voice dropping into something cold and deadly, "was underestimating her."
He nodded once to Selene.
The room spun for a moment.
Selene fought to keep her expression neutral.
Cassian had not protected her yesterday to shield himself.
He had used her as bait.
He had allowed Verin to believe she was vulnerable.
Had waited for him to move.
And now, he would make an example of him.
Cassian turned back to Verin.
"You insulted my queen," he said, louder now, voice reverberating against the stone."You insulted the crown.You insulted Veredon itself."
He drew his sword in a single, fluid motion, the sound of steel sliding free cutting through the heavy air.
Lord Verin's eyes widened in terror.
He struggled against his bonds, pulling at the iron shackles until blood bloomed across his wrists.
Cassian lifted the sword and laid it gently across Verin's shoulder.
Not striking.
Not yet.
"Confess," Cassian said.
"Beg," he said.
"Maybe then, the gods will take pity on your soul."
Lord Verin trembled.
He opened his mouth, whether to plead or curse, Selene would never know.
Because Cassian moved before he could speak.
One clean, brutal stroke.
The sword sang through the air.
Blood splattered across the stone floor.
And Lord Verin's head rolled from his shoulders, coming to a rest at the foot of the platform.
Selene did not flinch.
She could not afford to.
She had seen death before.
She had caused death before.
But something about this, the coldness of it, the precision, the ruthlessness, curled a slow, sick heat in her gut.
Cassian wiped his blade clean with a cloth tossed to him by a waiting soldier.
He turned to her then, eyes like frozen storms.
"This," he said quietly, "is how you survive in Veredon."
Selene met his gaze steadily.
Unblinking.
Unbroken.
"I understand," she said.
Cassian studied her for a long moment.
Then, with a tilt of his head, he beckoned her forward.
Selene approached the platform, the hem of her gown whispering across the blood-slick stones.
Cassian extended the sword to her.
A silent offering.
A challenge.
Selene hesitated only for a heartbeat.
Then she took it.
The hilt was still warm from his hand.
The blade was heavy and sharp and terribly real.
Cassian stepped closer, his voice low enough that only she could hear.
"You will be tested," he said. "Every day. Every hour."
He reached up, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek, not with tenderness, but with the detached care one might show a prized dagger.
"They will come for you," he murmured. "Because you are new.Because you are strong.Because you are mine."
Selene's pulse thundered in her ears.
"You will stand or you will fall," Cassian said, stepping back.
"And if you fall," he finished, "no one will catch you."
Not even him.
The lesson was over.
The judgment passed.
Selene stood there alone, sword in hand, blood pooling at her feet, the dead weight of the crown invisible but crushing all the same.
And she understood.
Finally, fully, terrifyingly understood:
Cassian Veredon had not married a queen.
He had forged a weapon.
And he expected her to be as merciless as the kingdom he ruled.
That night, alone in her chambers, Selene washed the blood from her hands in scalding water until her skin was raw.
She stared at her reflection in the basin, watching the water swirl red, then pink, then clear again.
No tears.
No regrets.
Only the cold, steady pulse of purpose beating beneath her skin.
She would survive.
She would endure.
She would conquer.
Or she would burn Veredon to the ground trying.