The Devil’s Temptation

Queen Zahara

Cold dragged me awake like icy fingers sliding beneath my ribs.

I winced, rolled onto my side, already reaching for the strength to stand and return to the dining hall—already scripting the apology I would choke out, the smile I would nail to my face. But when my eyes finally focused on the tall arched window, pale silver light poured through the frost-etched glass.

Morning.

A raw, tearing gasp ripped out of me. My legs gave way. I hit the rug hard, palms slapping stone, knees cracking against it.

I had abandoned the banquet.

I had left the Emperor of the known world sitting alone at the high table like some unwanted guest.

I had fled in front of every elder, every courtier, every demon-eyed retainer.

My stomach lurched again—empty now, just sour spasms. I scrambled up anyway, didn't wash my face, didn't even look in the mirror. I ran.

Bare feet slapped freezing corridors. Servants flinched out of my path. I didn't stop until I shoved through the heavy cedar door of Uncle Eirik's private office.

He was already standing—back to the fire, arms crossed, face carved from granite and grief.

"Zahara…" The single word landed heavier than any shout.

I tried to speak. Nothing coherent came out.

"Oh my gods—I—I didn't mean—"

"I'm disappointed."

Four words. Quiet. Final.

My chest caved. I wrapped both arms around myself as though I could hold the pieces together.

"I felt unwell," I whispered. "Truly. I couldn't—"

"All you had to do was pretend." His voice cracked like thin ice finally giving way. "For once in your life, Zahara—just pretend. Do you have any idea what you've risked?"

He took one step forward. The firelight threw long shadows across his face and I saw—for the first time in years—how old the war had made him.

"He rules the entire planet. The stars above it. The hells beneath it. Demons kneel. Werewolves bare throat. Fox-shifters whisper his name in their dens like a prayer. And you walked out on him in the middle of his own welcome feast."

Tears stung. I blinked them back furiously.

"Uncle—he killed them. He killed Mother. He killed Father. He sat on the ashes of our house and smiled while—"

"And he killed my only brother!" The shout exploded out of him—raw, ragged, the first time I'd ever heard Eirik Frostveil raise his voice at me.

He dragged a hand down his face. When he spoke again the volume was lower, but the weight was crushing.

"Do you see me acting on impulse? Do you see me spitting in his face? No. I endure. That is the only weapon we have left. Endurance. Because our starlight is a candle and his power is the night sky itself. One wrong move and he snuffs us out. All of us. Every farmer. Every child. Every soul still breathing in the North."

Silence stretched—thick, suffocating.

I looked at the floor. My voice came out small and broken.

"Yes, Uncle."

He exhaled. Long. Tired.

"Where is he now?"

"North wing. Resting." His eyes narrowed. "Go to him. Before he decides our insult is worth a public example. And for the love of every frozen star—why in all the hells did you refuse to provide even one female attendant? You know the custom. You know what he expects."

I opened my mouth. Closed it. There was nothing left to say that wouldn't sound like childish defiance.

He pointed at the door.

"Go. Plead. Grovel if you must. Pray we don't all die because you couldn't hold your nausea for one more hour."

I turned. Legs shaking.

Rose and Lira were already waiting outside my chambers. They didn't ask questions—just moved. Hot water. Scented oils. A silver crop-top that barely skimmed my ribs, heavy golden chains draped around my waist and dangling at my hips like liquid sunlight. Matching anklets chimed with every step. A long, semi-sheer skirt of frost-white silk fell from my hips, slit high on one thigh. They brushed my golden hair until it gleamed, pinned it half-up with diamond frost-roses.

I reached for my special perfume—the one I'd spent three winters perfecting. Lavender, crushed ice-rose, a single drop of star-anise. It didn't just smell beautiful.

It dulled fear.

It quieted nausea.

It steadied nerves long enough to lie with a straight face.

I sprayed it at my throat, my wrists, behind my ears. Inhaled deeply.

Then I walked.

Rose and Lira trailed behind me like quiet ghosts.

The north wing guards straightened when they saw me. One disappeared inside. Moments later the double doors opened.

"Queen Zahara Frostveil," the herald announced.

I stepped into the vast receiving chamber—high ceiling, black marble veined with molten gold, firelight dancing on obsidian pillars. I stood in the center and waited.

Four minutes.

Maybe five.

Then he appeared.

Long black robe hanging open to the waist—deliberately, carelessly—revealing carved chest, crimson runic tattoos curling like living flame across pale skin, veins faintly glowing beneath. Loose black silk trousers rode dangerously low on sharp hip bones. Bare feet. White hair still sleep-mussed, falling across one golden eye.

I swallowed so hard my throat clicked.

I bowed—low, careful.

"Your Highness…"

"Queen Zahara." His voice was morning-rough, velvet dragged over gravel. "Please. Sit."

I crossed to the cushioned chair he indicated. My anklets chimed softly—too loud in the silence.

He settled opposite me, legs spread, elbows on his knees, studying me like I was a rare mineral he hadn't yet decided whether to crush or keep.

"Are you unwell, my queen?" he asked softly. "Or is it me who irritates you?"

My pulse slammed against the perfume's calm.

"Of course not, Emperor."

A slow smile curled his mouth.

"Do you know what I hate most in all existence?"

I shook my head once.

"Lies." He leaned forward slightly. "I am the Devil. An immortal god. The world has painted me a liar, a deceiver, a cheat—and every time someone dares repeat that slander to my face, I have ended them. Slowly."

Golden eyes pinned me.

"So tell me truthfully, little Northern queen…"

He flicked two fingers.

Truth tore out of me like a blade.

"Yes. You irritate me."

"How much?"

The words kept coming—fast, vicious, unstoppable.

"So much I want to slaughter you. So much I fried myself to sleep crying. So much I vomited in front of the entire court last night. Does that count? Tell me—does it count?!"

He tilted his head, fascinated.

"And if I gave you the grace? If I handed you every weapon and stepped back… what would you do?"

Tears were already rolling. I couldn't stop them.

"Kill you," I choked. "I would make you pay for every single second of the eight years of pain. Every frozen winter without them. Every time I woke up screaming their names. I would make you cry, Lucifer. I would make you beg."

Silence.

Then he laughed—low, delighted, almost tender.

"All this hate… for me?" He rose slowly. "Immaculate. I haven't tasted a feeling this pure in gods know how long."

I clutched the frost-rose pendant at my throat so hard the edges cut my palm.

He stepped closer. Close enough that I could feel the furnace heat radiating from his bare chest.

"Why accept my invitation at all if you were only going to disrespect me?"

The magic still burned in my throat. I couldn't lie.

"Because you used magic to drag the truth out of me—so you will damn well accept my truth now."

He stopped. One heartbeat. Two.

Then he smiled—slow, approving, dangerous.

"Fair."

He closed the last step. Loomed over me. One long finger lifted my chin so our eyes locked.

"Queen Zahara…"

His voice dropped to something soft. Almost intimate.

"…we are going to have so much fun."

The perfume's calm shattered.

And somewhere beneath the terror and the hate, a tiny, treacherous part of me wondered whether "fun" was the word he used when he was already planning how to break me open and keep whatever beautiful, bleeding thing he found inside.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***