4 years earlier...

  The first thing Gael learned about Jesarin was that it did not care for the weak.

  The second was that he was weak.

  He didn't know how long he had wandered the streets before hunger became a living thing inside him—gnawing at his ribs, hollowing him out from the inside. The city was vast, its streets winding like a maze, its towers scraping the sky like jagged spears. He had no memory of where he came from, no name but the one he clung to like a scrap of cloth in a storm.

  Gael.

  That was all he had.

  The upper districts were his first mistake. He had seen the flowing silks, the gleaming jewelry, the trays of food carried by bored servants, and thought—surely, they have enough to spare.

  He begged.

  They ignored him.

  A woman in a high-collared dress pulled her child away when he got too close. A merchant tossed a silver coin on the ground, laughing as Gael scrambled for it, only for an enforcer to kick it away and send him sprawling after it. The bakeries smelled like heaven, but the owners watched him like a rat sniffing at their wares. The first time he tried to steal a loaf of bread, he barely got his fingers around the crust before a heavy boot caught him in the ribs and sent him skidding across the cobblestones.

  "Try that again," the merchant had growled, "and I'll let the enforcers take your hands."

  Gael didn't try again.

  Instead, he learned.

  The lower districts were easier—more desperate. Coins exchanged hands in the dark, knives flashed when debts went unpaid, and people disappeared without so much as a whisper. He kept his head down, watching, listening. He learned to sleep where the enforcers wouldn't find him, to move before the streets emptied, to vanish when trouble came looking.

  And then, when he was on the edge of breaking, Alister found him.

  Gael had been huddled beneath an archway, too tired to run, too weak to care when the figure approached.

  A man. Handsome. Well-dressed, but not ostentatious. He moved like someone used to being watched, his presence commanding without force. His smile was warm, his voice measured, each word placed with the careful precision of a magi casting a spell.

  "You look like you could use a meal."

  Gael had eyed him warily, saying nothing.

  The man crouched, resting his arms on his knees, studying him like one might study a stray dog—not unkindly, but with the quiet consideration of someone deciding if they were worth the trouble.

  "My name is Alister," he said. "And I have an offer for you."

  Gael didn't trust offers.

  But he was starving.

  Alister held out a hand.

  "Food. A bed. A place to belong." His smile widened, the glow of essence flickering at his fingertips—controlled, refined, the mark of a true magi. "You have potential, boy. I can help you find it."

  Gael wanted to say no.

  He wanted to be wary, to question the kindness of a stranger.

  But he was twelve, half-starved, and desperate.

  So he took the hand.

  And that was the beginning of the lie.

  Gael followed Alister through the streets, his feet dragging, his body aching from weeks of hunger. He tried not to look too eager, tried not to seem desperate—but the moment Alister waved down a street vendor and handed him a steaming roll stuffed with spiced meat, he barely remembered to breathe between bites.

  Alister chuckled. "Slow down, boy. You'll make yourself sick."

  Gael didn't care.

  The food was real, solid, and warm in his hands—warmer than anything he'd held in days. He forced himself to slow, chewing carefully as they walked, trying not to seem like some half-feral animal. But even as he ate, his sharp eyes never stopped moving.

  Jesarin's Eldrin District was nothing like the streets he had scoured for scraps. This was where the magi ruled.

  The roads were lined with rune-etched stones that pulsed faintly underfoot, guiding travelers without the need for lamps. Towers of gleaming white stone stretched toward the sky, adorned with banners depicting guild insignias, arcane sigils, and the personal crests of master magi.

  Gael saw mages in flowing robes, their hands flickering with idle spells as they strode through the avenues. He saw magi-knights in shining runeplate, the faint hum of their essence resonating in the air as they sparred in open courtyards.

  He saw power.

  And for the first time, he felt like he might be walking toward it.

  Alister's manor loomed at the heart of the district.

  It wasn't the largest in Eldrin, but it held presence—an estate of dark stone, lined with intricate carvings and enchanted latticework. A high iron gate, adorned with runes of protection, swung open the moment Alister approached.

  The moment Gael stepped inside, he felt the shift in the air.

  The estate was alive with magic—not just in its walls, but in the people within.

  Children—some Gael's age, some younger—moved through the courtyard, dressed in simple training garb, practicing their forms under the watchful eyes of older students. Squires, but not of the knightly kind. These were magi in the making. Young, unpolished, but brimming with potential.

  A group of them stood in a loose circle, watching as two boys—one broad-shouldered with dark curls, the other wiry and quick—traded bursts of elemental energy in a controlled spar.

  The larger boy summoned a pillar of earth with a sharp stomp, forcing the smaller one to leap back. But the wiry one reacted fast, snapping his fingers and sending a gust of wind strong enough to send dust flying into the air.

  Gael's fingers curled around the small cantrip book tucked inside his ragged coat.

  For the first time since arriving in Jesarin, he wasn't looking at magi from afar.

  He was standing among them.

  Alister led him inside, through grand hallways lit by floating lanterns that hovered midair, shifting when they passed.

  The air smelled of old parchment, warm wood, and something else—the sharp, metallic scent of magic.

  As they entered a lavish study, lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling, Alister gestured for Gael to sit.

  "You'll start training tomorrow," he said simply, pouring himself a glass of wine. "I run a small academy of sorts. Nothing like the Alabaster, but still..." He took a sip, watching Gael over the rim of his glass. "It has produced its fair share of champions."

  Gael hesitated. "Champions?"

  Alister smiled, slow and knowing.

  "Tell me, boy. Have you heard of the Grand Tournament?"

  Gael swallowed. Of course he had.

  Alister leaned forward. "I see that you have. Well, let's just say... my students don't just learn magic." He swirled the wine in his glass. "They learn to win."

  Gael sat back, processing his words.

  His fingers brushed the edge of his cantrip book.

  Alister was watching him carefully, as if waiting for something.

  And for the first time in weeks—maybe longer—Gael felt something settle in his chest.

  Not fear.

  Not hunger.

  Hope.

  Gael had never slept in a real bed before.

  Not like this.

  Soft linen sheets, thicker than the cloaks he used to bundle in during cold nights. A pillow that didn't scratch his skin. A sturdy frame that didn't creak under the weight of his breath. The sheer absence of discomfort felt... unnatural.

  He sat on the edge of the mattress, fingers trailing along the stitched embroidery of the quilt. Across the room, a second bed was already occupied.

  His new roommate, Pera, watched him with open curiosity, arms folded behind her head. She looked about his age, maybe a little younger, with dark curls that framed a sharp, expressive face. A single candle flickered on the nightstand between them, casting her features in warm gold and deep shadow.

  "So?" Pera asked, propping herself up on an elbow. "What do you think?"

  Gael blinked, still caught between disbelief and wariness. "It's... nice."

  Pera grinned. "That's the part where you say, 'Thank you, generous Lord Alister, for rescuing me from my tragic fate.'"

  Gael snorted, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "I'll pass."

  Pera huffed in mock offense. "Suit yourself. But you'd better get used to it. He is the reason we're here."

  Gael leaned back, tilting his head against the wall. "Here being?"

  Pera stretched her arms out wide. "The best chance we've got. He finds kids like us—Affinity-touched, wandering the streets, no future to speak of—and gives us one."

  Gael glanced around the room. It wasn't lavish, but compared to the damp alleys of Jesarin, it might as well have been a noble's chamber. The beds were sturdy, the wooden floors clean, and in the corner, a small wash basin gleamed beneath the dim candlelight. A luxury most would kill for.

  Pera noticed his lingering look. "Yeah, yeah, I know. You're wondering where the chains are, right?" She grinned, but there was something too knowing behind her eyes.

  Gael hesitated. "I just... didn't think it'd be like this."

  "Most don't."

  She rolled onto her back, staring at the ceiling as if she could see beyond it. "You're lucky. Some kids come here starving. Running from worse things than the cold. Alister saves them. Gives them a home. A purpose."

  Gael didn't know what to say to that.

  Instead, he shifted on the bed, feeling the rough fabric of his tunic against his skin. "And what's yours?"

  Pera turned her head toward him. "My what?"

  "Your purpose."

  She blinked, then her expression softened. She lifted a hand, palm up, and a soft glow of water and earth Essence swirled together above it—twin affinities, weaving seamlessly.

  "My mom was a healer," she said. "I want to be one, too."

  Gael watched the shimmering droplets dance above her palm before she closed her fingers, snuffing out the light.

  "And you?" Pera asked, tilting her head. "What's your dream?"

  Gael hesitated. He had never been asked that before.

  Not like this.

  For a moment, he thought of Leo—the way he had moved, the effortless strength in his stance, the glint of his dagger catching the light. He thought of the knights in stories, of the power they wielded, the freedom they carved out for themselves.

  But he also thought of something else.

  A past that had been ripped from him. A future that was still unwritten.

  "I want to be a knight," he said at last. "And maybe—" He exhaled, shifting his gaze toward the window, where the rooftops of Jesarin stretched endlessly into the night.

  "Maybe I just want to find out who I am."

  Time passed in a blur.

  Days turned into weeks.

  Gael fell into the rhythm of Alister's tests, the endless drills, the constant push for improvement.

  Every day, the trainees were measured—how much they could lift, how fast they could move, how long they could hold an Essence technique before exhaustion set in.

  Alister was always watching. Noting. Calculating.

  Some of the older students had been training under him for years, sharpening their magic and bodies into something refined. Others, like Gael, were still raw—still learning how to shape their Affinities into something useful.

  Gael excelled in physical conditioning. He was faster than most, more agile. He had the instincts of a fighter, a survivor. But Essence control?

  That was another story.

  He struggled.

  Affinity had never come naturally to him. The other students could call upon their elements with ease—Pera wove her twin Affinities like a dancer, her magic flowing effortlessly between earth and water. Others had control honed through years of repetition.

  Gael?

  He relied on instinct. A push-and-pull battle between his will and the unruly wind that barely obeyed him.

  At night, when the lessons ended and the halls grew quiet, he would stay awake long after the others had collapsed into exhausted sleep—flipping through his cantrip book, tracing the runes over and over until the ink smudged beneath his fingertips.

  He had to get better.

  He had to be better.

  The breaking point came during a training exercise.

  The students stood in formation, sweat clinging to their backs, bruises blooming across their skin. They were lined up in the courtyard, the evening sun bleeding orange across the marble stones.

  Alister walked between them, hands clasped behind his back, his expression unreadable.

  A boy—Garran, one of the older trainees—stood rigid under his scrutiny. He had failed the last two spell tests.

  A month from now, he would be standing in the Entrance Ceremony, representing Alister's name, his methods, his legacy.

  If he wasn't ready, it would be more than just his failure.

  It would be Alister's.

  Alister stopped in front of him.

  "Again."

  Garran swallowed. His hands trembled as he lifted them, trying to summon the arcane script that would weave his Essence into something solid. The air shimmered. The spell half-formed.

  Then it fizzled out.

  Silence.

  Gael felt the tension coil in the air like a storm about to break.

  Garran clenched his jaw, his shoulders stiff. "I can do it," he insisted. "I just—"

  The crack echoed through the courtyard.

  Gael flinched.

  Alister's palm still hung in the air, the force of the slap leaving a bright red mark on Garran's cheek.

  The older boy staggered, but didn't fall.

  Didn't dare fall.

  Alister's expression remained eerily calm, his voice even. "If you fail a third time, you will not train here any longer."

  The words were spoken so smoothly, so casually, that it took Gael a moment to fully process them.

  Garran's breathing was uneven, his hands clenched at his sides. He nodded stiffly, voice barely above a whisper.

  "Yes, sir."

  Alister stepped away. "Again."

  Gael's stomach twisted.

  Pera was rigid beside him, her hands curled into fists, her face carefully blank.

  For the first time since arriving at the manor, Gael wondered if Alister's kindness had only ever been a mirage.

  And he wondered how long it would take before that mirage shattered completely.

  Pera had been missing for two nights.

  Gael hadn't slept much.

  At first, he told himself it was nothing—maybe she was assigned extra training, maybe Alister was preparing her for something, or maybe she had just slipped out into the city like she talked about, sneaking past the guards for a few hours of real freedom.

  But then the whispers started.

  Not from the other students—they had learned not to whisper. Not to ask questions. But from the walls, from the silence, from the way every servant he asked suddenly found something else to do, something else to look at.

  He had seen it before. Something was wrong.

  The night had never felt this empty.

  Gael had scoured the usual places first. Their dormitory, where her bed remained untouched, sheets still half-kicked from the night before she vanished. The dining hall, where the glow of Essence lanterns flickered over empty tables. The training yard, silent except for the distant echo of the city beyond the manor's walls.

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  Each time, his stomach twisted tighter.

  Pera wouldn't just disappear.

  He asked a servant—a girl with wide, darting eyes. The moment he said Pera's name, her hands trembled against the tea tray she carried. "I—I haven't seen her," she stammered before fleeing down the hall.

  Gael stood there, heart pounding, nausea curling in his gut.

  He turned to one of the older trainees next—Garran, the same boy Alister had struck in the yard. He was stronger, bigger, but his face was pale. Gael asked him outright, "Where is she?"

  Garran refused to meet his gaze.

  Gael grabbed his wrist. "Garran."

  A long silence.

  Then, barely above a whisper—"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to."

  Gael let go.

  But it wasn't a warning.

  It was confirmation.

  The cold certainty settled in his chest like stone.

  That was when he knew—Pera wasn't coming back.

  And that was when he went to Alister's study.

  The manor was quiet at night.

  Not truly silent—Gael had long since learned that silence was never real, not even in a place as grand as this. The torches still crackled in their sconces, the floorboards still groaned beneath his careful steps, and somewhere in the lower halls, he could hear the faint, distant echo of a magi knight making their rounds.

  He moved carefully, feet barely skimming the ground, his body naturally adjusting to the shift of shadows as he made his way toward Alister's study.

  If Pera was gone, there would be a record of it.

  Alister kept everything organized—his books, his research, his projects. Even the students were meticulously cataloged.

  And Gael needed to see it.

  The heavy oak door loomed ahead, slightly ajar. A single candle burned inside, flickering against the walls, casting long shadows across the shelves of books, ledgers, and relics.

  Gael's pulse quickened.

  He slipped inside.

  The study smelled like old paper and ink, the sharp bite of Essence still lingering from whatever spell had last been cast here. The massive mahogany desk at the center of the room was covered in neatly arranged documents, each scroll sealed with wax, each ledger stacked in perfect symmetry.

  And there—on the far end of the desk—was the roster.

  Gael moved toward it, flipping it open with careful fingers, scanning the rows of names, ages, affinities, training status.

  And then—

  He found hers.

  Pera Mirren – Status: Removed.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  Next to her name, a small red X was drawn over the text, the ink thick and deliberate.

  Gael's fingers tightened around the edge of the ledger.

  He turned the pages frantically, scanning back over the months, over the years. More names. More red X's. Some he recognized, some he didn't.

  But there were dozens.

  Maybe more.

  A chill curled down his spine.

  The floor creaked.

  Gael spun—

  And Alister was standing in the doorway.

  The magi regarded him with something almost amused, his fine silk robes draped lazily over his frame, his silver-threaded hair catching the candlelight. He wasn't angry.

  He was smiling.

  "You brats always need to check," Alister mused, stepping into the study, shutting the door behind him with an easy flick of his wrist. "Pera did the same thing."

  Gael couldn't breathe.

  His hands curled into fists at his sides, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  "What did you do to her?"

  Alister sighed, as if this were all very tiresome. "She was weak."

  Gael's entire body went rigid.

  "She had potential, yes, but that isn't enough. You of all people should understand that." Alister moved past him, towards his desk, his fingers grazing the edges of the ledger, as if none of this mattered.

  "You—you said you were training us to become knights. To go to the Academy. You said—"

  Alister chuckled. Actually chuckled.

  "Oh, Gael. That's what I tell the ones who will make it." He turned then, leaning casually against his desk, studying Gael with something that might have been pity. "You didn't really think I could afford to send all of you to the Academy, did you?"

  Gael's stomach twisted.

  "Only the best," Alister continued, gesturing vaguely. "Only the ones worth investing in. The rest?" He shrugged. "Well. They get to be part of the process."

  Gael's mouth was dry.

  "Where is she?"

  Alister tilted his head slightly, as if debating whether or not to answer. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion—he pointed to the far window.

  Gael turned.

  And his blood ran cold.

  Through the open pane, the rooftops of Jesarin stretched beyond the manor walls—and beyond that, just barely visible against the moonlit skyline, was the faint outline of the Iron Ward.

  The execution grounds.

  His hands were shaking.

  Alister sighed again, pushing off the desk. "She didn't make the cut, Gael. That's all there is to it. But you..."

  He stepped closer, resting a hand on Gael's shoulder, his grip firm.

  "You're different," he murmured. "You're strong. Smart. Clever. If you just listen—if you stop chasing weakness—you'll survive. You'll thrive."

  Gael didn't move.

  He couldn't.

  Pera was gone.

  She had been gone for two days.

  And he hadn't done anything.

  "You have potential," Alister murmured. "Don't waste it on ghosts."

  Gael's pulse roared in his ears.

  Everything blurred—the candlelight, the smell of ink and old parchment, the distant hum of the city beyond the windows.

  And then, like something breaking—something cracked open inside him.

  Alister's hand was still on his shoulder, warm and steady, but it wasn't comforting.

  It was control.

  And Gael had had enough of being controlled.

  His breath was sharp, shallow.

  Gael's hands clenched into fists. His pulse was a roar in his ears, drowning out everything but the sickening weight of understanding.

  "She wasn't even a threat to you," he said, voice hoarse. "Why?"

  Alister blinked, as if the question genuinely surprised him.

  Then—he smiled.

  "Because she was a reminder of failure," he said simply. "And I do not tolerate failure."

  Gael moved.

  Not with thought. Not with precision. But with instinct.

  A single, furious updraft erupted beneath him—a raw, unrestrained burst of Essence unlike anything he had ever conjured before. The force of it sent both of them soaring backward—Gael barely managing to control his own landing, while Alister was thrown off balance, stumbling—

  Right into the open window.

  There was a flicker of disbelief in Alister's eyes.

  Just for a moment.

  Then—

  He was gone.

  The night swallowed him.

  Gael staggered forward, breath ragged, his chest tight.

  He braced himself against the desk, his entire body trembling as he peered out over the balcony—the city stretching below him, the alleyways dark and endless.

  No body.

  No movement.

  Nothing.

  For a long moment, Gael just stood there, staring at the empty window.

  His breath was shallow. The air still pulsed with the remnants of his uncontrolled Essence. The ledgers on the desk rustled from the updraft, the candle flame wavered, and his hands—his hands wouldn't stop shaking.

  The weight of it should have crushed him.

  He had just killed a man. No, he had just killed his savior.

  And yet—

  Gael felt nothing at all.

  A faint sound broke through the haze. A distant, rhythmic pounding.

  The guards.

  Shit.

  His body moved before his mind did.

  Gael grabbed one of the satchels tucked beside Alister's desk, sweeping the ledger inside without thinking. His pulse was hammering now, no longer from shock but from cold, calculating instinct.

  He moved to the door, gripping the handle—then hesitated.

  The rooms.

  The other students.

  Gael let out a slow breath and made his choice.

  Gael sprinted down the corridor, his feet light, his mind already working through the escape routes. He knew the halls. He knew the guard rotations. He knew exactly how much time he had before they reached Alister's study and realized what had happened.

  Not enough.

  He skidded to a stop outside the dormitories. The first door he threw open revealed three younger students—barely ten years old—jerking awake, startled by the sudden noise.

  "Get up," Gael hissed. "Run. Now."

  The children hesitated.

  Gael grabbed a chair and smashed it against the nearby mana lantern, shattering the glass. The room plunged into darkness, but the **blue veins of the emergency wards along the walls flickered to life—**a sign the alarms would follow soon.

  "NOW!"

  The kids bolted.

  Gael didn't wait to see where they went. He moved to the next room, kicking the door open, shoving past stunned trainees, throwing drawers open, breaking wards, making noise.

  Making chaos.

  If the guards were coming, let them come.

  Let them find a flood of escaping students instead of just him.

  One final door—Garran's.

  Gael yanked it open, chest heaving.

  The older boy sat on the edge of his bed, hands clenched, unmoving. He had heard the commotion, heard the shouts—but had done nothing.

  Gael glared at him. "You staying?"

  Garran lifted his head. For the first time, there was something uncertain in his gaze.

  Gael turned away. "Then rot with him."

  And then he was gone. The alarms rang through the manor as Gael ran. He didn't know where he was going—only that he had to keep moving.

  The gates of the estate loomed ahead, pulsing with defensive wards, the distant shouts of enforcers ringing out from the city streets.

  Gael's hands were still shaking.

  Not from fear.

  Not from grief.

  He should have felt something—guilt, terror, regret.

  But as he sprinted into the night, disappearing into the labyrinth of Jesarin's lower districts, there was only one thought circling in his mind, steady as a heartbeat.

  Monsters don't deserve mercy.

  Vess stretched her arms over her head, forcing an easy breath. "I'm going to bed," she said, voice deliberately lazy, as if the conversation had drained from her bones. "You should too."

  Gael studied her a moment longer. She hated when he did that—like he was searching for something under the surface, something she hadn't meant to show.

  Then he huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Sure."

  "Just... don't get reckless, Vess."

  She gave him a crooked smile, stepping past him toward the sheet-covered entrance. "I'll try."

  It wasn't a lie. Not really.

  She slipped inside, the dim glow of lantern light casting long shadows across the cramped hideout. Lukas was already sprawled on his bedroll, arm thrown over his face, while Lander sat cross-legged by the table, idly flipping a dagger between his fingers.

  Vess stepped over a loose floorboard, making for her corner of the room. The moment she sat, she began unlacing her boots—slow, measured, the way someone does when they're winding down for the night.

  But her heart was steady. Her mind sharp.

  Because the moment the others were asleep, she wasn't staying.

  Not with the weight of a choice still pressing against her ribs.

  She would find out the truth. Tonight.

  Vess cast a glance toward the sliver of moonlight cutting through the hideout's torn curtains.

  Then, just as quietly as she had settled in, she began preparing to leave.

  Vess worked quickly, keeping her movements measured. She peeled off the fine layers of fabric, casting them aside for the worn familiarity of her usual attire—her jumper, her leather bracers, the darkened boots that softened her steps. The silk dress pooled at her feet like a discarded lie.

  She could still hear Gael shifting on the rooftop above, his presence a faint weight against the beams. Lander and Soren were already half-asleep, murmuring drowsily in their corners. Lukas, she knew, had barely laid down, but exhaustion would take him soon enough.

  It had to.

  Her fingers brushed the blade at her hip. Her fire remained dampened, quiet inside her, but she could still feel it there—coiled, waiting.

  This is the last night you haunt me, Ores.

  Vess exhaled, slow and steady, and pushed aside the sheet covering the hideout's entrance.

  Jesarin stretched before her, a maze of flickering lanterns and slumbering streets.

  She kept to the back routes, weaving through alleyways that reeked of stale beer and rain-damp wood, where only the gutter rats scurried at this hour.

  Rakan belonged to the sleepless.

  Even at night, the lower district stirred. The harbor was never silent, the distant clang of metal on metal from dockworkers loading crates punctuated the wind. The deeper she moved, the less it smelled of salt and sea—more damp stone, mud-brick, the oil of street lamps burning low.

  Ores’ manor stood like any other building in the heart of Rakan. No towering gates, no crest on the door—a perfect illusion of mediocrity.

  But Vess had walked these halls before.

  She knew better.

  She slowed her approach, keeping to the blind spots between narrow buildings. There was no need to sneak past guards in polished armor. Ores did not need knights to protect her.

  She had Lurras.

  Vess scanned the darkened windows. No sign of movement—yet.

  She doubted Lurras would be asleep. The man barely rested during the day, let alone at night. He prowled the halls like a restless storm waiting to break. If he was awake, she had only one way inside unseen—Lukas’ route.

  The window.

  She circled the back of the building, checking the alley. Jesarin’s narrow architecture meant most buildings leaned too close together for comfort, leaving the upper floors almost touching. A few steps, a strong jump, and she could make it.

  Her fingers brushed against the rough brick as she scaled the first wall, boots catching in the crevices. The climb was slow—not difficult, but deliberate. One wrong noise, one misplaced step, and someone inside might stir.

  At the ledge, she crouched, steadying her breath before swinging herself onto the narrow sill. Lukas hadn’t latched it fully.

  She pressed a hand against the glass and eased it open.

  The room inside was dim, the only light a flickering lantern across the hall.

  She slipped inside, boots landing without a sound.

  Soren was awake.

  Or rather, he jolted upright the moment her boots hit the floor, his eyes wide in the dim light. His arm twitched toward his side—toward the knife he always kept tucked beneath his cot.

  “Relax,” Vess whispered, raising a hand before he did something reckless.

  Soren’s gaze flicked to hers, recognition settling behind his haze of fatigue. His expression twisted. “Vess?” His voice was hoarse, rough from sleep and injury.

  She took a step forward, kneeling beside his bed. “I need you to keep quiet.”

  Soren groaned, running a hand over his face. “You’re insane, you know that?”

  “Probably,” she muttered, glancing toward the door. “But I need to know. She’s hiding something—I just need to find it.”

  Soren watched her for a long moment. She could see it in his eyes—the argument already forming, the protest that she shouldn’t be doing this alone.

  But she was already standing.

  And he didn’t stop her.

  He only let out a slow breath. “You won’t find what you’re looking for.”

  She hesitated.

  Then, quieter, he added, “Not like this.”

  Vess’ jaw tightened.

  Then she slipped into the hall.

  The manor was different at night.

  She had only ever seen it when it was alive—when servants moved like silent phantoms, when Lurras’ presence lingered at every threshold, when Ores sat in the heart of it all like a spider in her web.

  But now?

  Now, it was too quiet.

  Even the air felt different.

  As if it knew she was here.

  Vess moved carefully, pressing close to the walls. No servants in sight, but that meant nothing. The house never truly slept, not while Ores breathed within it.

  She turned toward the study.

  The door was closed.

  Vess' fingers hovered over the handle, pulse steady. If there was anything to find, it would be here.

  She exhaled once.

  Then slipped inside.

  Vess exhaled slowly, her fingers barely grazing the surface of the desk.

  She had expected locks, traps—something between her and whatever secrets Ores kept tucked away. Instead, the study was… ordinary.

  Or at least, it pretended to be.

  The drawers slid open without resistance. The ledgers were stacked neatly, undisturbed. A candle flickered low in the corner, its wax melted unevenly—a sign it had been burning for hours.

  But beneath the surface of its careful arrangement, the room was anything but simple.

  Vess moved silently along the polished wooden floor, her steps muffled by the steady murmur of flowing water. The koi pond wound lazily through the room, its glass-like surface reflecting flickering lantern light. Every few feet, a narrow wooden bridge arched over the stream, connecting different sections of the space. The scent of damp stone and something faintly green—bamboo?—hung in the air, mixing with the ever-present trace of jasmine incense.

  Ores’ study was not just a place of work. It was a place of control.

  The bookshelves lining the walls were meticulously arranged, their deep mahogany frames housing scrolls bound in crimson ribbon and tomes embossed with gold-leaf lettering. Rich blue and gold tapestries softened the walls, displaying serene Luenese landscapes—rolling misty mountains, delicate cranes in flight, storm-kissed seas.

  A manufactured kind of peace.

  Beyond the silk-draped archway, the upper deck lay shrouded in shadow. The last time Vess had stood there, Ores had loomed above the city like a queen, her expression unreadable as she watched Jesarin’s streets below.

  She was still here.

  Or at least, her presence clung to the space, heavy in the air.

  Vess let her fingers drift across the edge of the desk, tracing the interlocking crane carvings along its polished surface. Too delicate a design for a woman who wielded power like a weapon.

  This place was meant to lull. To disarm.

  And yet, nothing here was ever unguarded.

  Her gaze flicked to the untouched ledgers, the open drawers, the unnatural stillness.

  Too easy.

  Then—

  A creak.

  The air shifted.

  A presence—behind her.

  She barely had time to process before—

  "Oh, good. It’s just you."

  A voice like rolling thunder, spoken so casually it nearly sent her heart through her ribs.

  Vess whipped around, fire flickering to life at her fingertips—

  Only to find Lurras leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, gaze unreadable.

  How the fuck had a six-foot-three knight just snuck up on her?

  She forced herself to stay still, fists clenching, shoving the fire back down before it gave her away.

  Lurras rolled his shoulders, looking utterly unbothered. "I Thought I was going to have to kill someone tonight."

  Vess swallowed the sharp curse burning at her tongue. She stepped away from the desk, shifting into something loose, casual, dismissive. “What are you doing up?”

  Lurras arched a brow. "Could ask you the same thing."

  Silence stretched between them.

  A quiet standoff.

  Vess didn’t move. Neither did he.

  But there was something about the way Lurras watched her—not suspiciously, not with outright hostility. Something calculating.

  Like he already knew why she was here.

  Like he had been waiting for this.

  His gaze flicked to the open drawer behind her. "Find what you were looking for?"

  Vess exhaled through her nose. “Not yet.”

  Lurras hummed, tilting his head slightly, eyes sharp in the dim candlelight.

  Then, in that same flat, almost bored tone, he said—

  "Don’t look for what you aren’t ready to find."

  The words settled like stone in her chest.

  Not a threat.

  A warning.

  Vess’ jaw tightened. "I can handle the truth."

  "That’s what they all say."

  With that, he pulled something from his coat—a folded parchment, edges worn with age.

  He tossed it at her without ceremony.

  The letter landed at her feet.

  "Whatever you think you want, girl, you’ll find none of it in that letter."

  And just like that, he turned—walking out, as if she wasn’t even worth stopping.

  Vess stood there, fire still simmering in her veins, hands clenched into fists.

  She hated that.

  Hated how easily he had dismissed her.

  Hated how calm he had been.

  Hated that, for all her determination, she still hadn’t found anything.

  But most of all—

  She hated that he might be right.

  The truth she had been chasing for four years had already been waiting for her.

  Not in Ores’ schemes. Not in revenge. But here, in ink and regret, in the words of a father she could never speak to again.

  And she had never thought to look in the right place.

  To Madam Ores,

  It seems the years have made you sentimental. Or have you simply grown tired of the game?

  I should scold you for this letter—for the risks you take in writing at all—but you were always the reckless one, weren’t you? Perhaps that’s why we got along.

  Vanessa asks after you. She still remembers that story you told her about the fox and the fisherman, though she’s far too old to admit it now. Kino has outgrown everything but his stubbornness. I suppose that runs in the family. Business thrives, as it always has. The docks never rest, and neither do I.

  But enough pleasantries.

  I hear you. I understand.

  Ores, we cannot leave Jesarin. You know that.

  We have built too much here, and no merchant worth his salt flees at the first sign of a wind storm.

  You must know this. I built my name in these streets, wove my livelihood into the marrow of this city. You ask me to abandon all of it—to start over, to run, as if I haven’t spent my whole life standing firm.

  No.

  If they come, so be it. We knew this day would arrive. You warned me years ago, and I was foolish enough to think time had dulled their reach. That is my failure to bear, not yours.

  But I will not run.

  If there is anything left of you that still understands me, you won’t ask again.

  We will see each other soon, one way or another.

  

  
1. Emberlin


  

  The parchment crinkled in her grip.

  Vess stared at the ink, at the familiar scrawl of her father’s handwriting, her mind stumbling over every word.

  Vanessa. Kino. her name.

  The words blurred together, the ink swimming as she read them again.

  This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be right.

  But the truth sat plainly before her. Her parents had known Ores. They had trusted her. They had spoken like… friends.

  And the lead she had now was some vague mention of an ‘enemy’

  Her breath came shallow, chest tight with something she couldn’t name.

  She had spent four years clawing toward this moment. Chasing shadows, sharpening her anger into something lethal. And yet, the truth unraveled all of it in a handful of lines.

  Her father hadn’t feared Ores. He hadn’t hated her. He had ignored her warnings.

  Vess’ fingers trembled as she folded the letter. She hated that. Hated that she couldn’t stop shaking, couldn’t decide if she was furious or hollow or just—

  Lost.

  Her whole life, she had been waiting for the moment she could look Ores in the eyes and see a murderer.

  But now—

  Now she wasn’t sure what she would see at all.

  No. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t possible.

  Ores was supposed to be the one to blame..

  And if she wasn’t?

  Then what the fuck had she been fighting for?