Princess | Fatale Gallery

Seraphine, draped in silks the color of dried blood, smiled thinly. She snipped a single black hair from Elara’s head and wound it around her brush. “Sit,” she commanded. “And do not move until I am finished.”

Elara rose from the velvet stool and approached the canvas. Her breath caught. The woman in the painting was more than her—more beautiful, more tragic, more lethal. Her gaze seemed to move, to follow Elara around the candlelit room. In the background, barely discernible, was the ghost of a crumbling castle and a man’s shadow falling from a high tower. princess fatale gallery

The artist was a woman named Seraphine Dusk. No one remembered her origins, only that she had once been a princess herself, betrayed and left for dead. Now, she painted with oils rendered from midnight roses and the tears of discarded lovers. Her price was never coin. It was a single strand of hair and the name of the person who had broken you. Seraphine, draped in silks the color of dried