Onicent was thrilled when Dauntice arrived with the three girls in tow. He saw it as a clear sign—a blessing from their mother. Three girls, three possibilities. Surely, she had sent him wives to choose from.

  At first, his attention settled on Serse. She was quiet, enigmatic, and carried an air of detachment that made Onicent feel comfortably superior. He believed she would never challenge his authority, and that made her appealing. But Serse was kind without being warm. She kept her distance in a way that soon dulled his interest. There was no spark, no chase—just a quiet withdrawal that frustrated him.

  Within a week, her skin deepened into a rich flame-orange hue, but she declared no dominion, made no bold claims. She moved like a shadow, fading into the corners of his growing castle. Whenever he sought her out, she was simply gone. Eventually, he gave up on her and turned his attention to her sisters.

  Airabella, bold and brilliant, drew his gaze next. She was striking—and elusive. Always a step ahead of him, always with something sharp to say. Onicent found himself in pursuit, constantly trying to outwit her, but she deflected every advance with skill. Her resistance only fueled his obsession. She was a challenge, and he hated to lose.

  Then there was Alora, the quiet middle sister. Not as fierce as Airabella, not as ghostlike as Serse. Sweet, serene—she seemed, to Onicent, the most pliable. Her beauty was more subtle, her demeanor gentler. But even she, he soon discovered, remained untouched by his efforts.

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  One evening, he approached her with a bouquet of flowers plucked from his favorite field.

  “Alora,” he said, “I have something for you.”

  She knelt in the grass, tracing circles in the dirt with her fingers, a puzzled expression on her face. When she looked up, he caught the light in her eyes—eyes framed by long lashes, skin now glowing a buttery yellow, like soft sunlight. She didn’t say a word, just stared at him.

  He held out the flowers. “For you.”

  “Thank you,” she said simply, placing them in her lap and stroking the petals absently. There was no delight in her voice, no spark of affection. Onicent felt a pang of disappointment.

  “Tonight, come sit with me at dinner,” he said boldly.

  Alora always sat between her sisters, far from his throne. When he made his offer, she blushed—just slightly—but shook her head.

  “No, lord. I belong with my sisters.”

  The word no struck him like a blade. He felt anger rise in his chest, hot and blinding. He was their leader. He had given them shelter. He chose what they belonged to.

  “I insist you sit with me,” he said, his voice edged with fury.

  Alora looked up at him again, unmoving. Her calm only enraged him further.

  And then he snapped.

  His rage, quick and thoughtless, overtook him. He lunged at her in a storm of fury. She screamed—but neither of her sisters stirred, as if they had not heard at all. The forest stood still around them, indifferent.

  Then, just as suddenly as it began, he let her go.

  Alora fled into the night, her pale yellow form vanishing between the trees. Onicent chased for a short distance, but she was swift and determined, and eventually he stopped. Alone in the dark, surrounded by silence, he did not feel remorse—only the sting of loss. Not of love, but of control.

  Still, he turned back toward the castle, already crafting a new plan.

  If Alora would not be his, then so be it.

  Airabella would have his full attention now.

  And next time, he would be cleverer.