Chapter 89: A Trail of Destruction

The black-diamond signet ring flickered ominously against Percy’s knuckles as his fingers tightened around the crow cane pressed across his lap. ‘To think Constance would go this far to undermine me.’

The wind rushed against his ears as the turbulent sound of worried voices echoed through the lowered carriage windows. The diamond darkened. A hum of whispers filled the Earl’s ears with a soothing ancient tongue that calmed the storm raging within.

The carriage lurched, and Percy caught himself against the edge of the seat. A quick look out the window showed pedestrians clustered together with panicked white faces standing in the middle of the street. Percy turned, unclasped the small glass window at the back of his seat, and called out to the driver. “What is it? What’s happening?”

“My lord, there appears to be a fire.” Fear resonated in the man’s strained voice even as the scent of smoke floated in on the breeze.

“Stop the carriage,” Percy ordered.

The driver complied willingly, and the footman quickly moved to open the door. Percy stepped down and gazed across the crowd that jostled against each other as they pointed towards the tower of black smoke that filled the horizon with malicious dark clouds.

“That’s the direction of the Sister’s Chapel,” Percy muttered aloud. “Can you get us there?”

The driver looked down at him wordlessly and shook his head.

“With the streets this packed, it will be difficult,” interjected Captain Flint as he moved his horse beside the Earl and dismounted. “If the fire spreads, we could get caught up in the panic.”

“These people are already afraid,” whispered another mercenary as he observed the crowd.

“As well they should be,” Percy muttered. He glanced towards a crow that settled on the street post across the street. The black bird tilted its head as it listened to his whispered command than took flight, its dark shape soon lost in the darkening sky above.

“Is it witches, my Lord?” The footman asked even as his face went pale.

“I aim to find out,” Percy replied as he pulled on his riding gloves. “Captain, I’ll need to borrow a horse.”

“I suppose there’s no stopping you,” Captain Flint grumbled with a sigh. He signaled to one of his men who dismounted and led a white mare towards Percy.

The Earl nodded his head in thanks, mounted, and settled into the saddle as he surveyed the street. “Captain, half of your men with me, send the rest back with the carriage to ensure the Countess is safely escorted to Hawthorne Manor when she leaves the palace.”

The mercenary quickly split up his men, half of which helped block the street so the carriage could turn around.

“Right then,” Percy murmured as he leaned over the mare’s neck and whispered into the beast’s ears. “Let’s see who dares to burn my city.”

The dancing white beast quickly led the way forward as wind channeled through the crowd and a path cleared for the Earl and his men to ride through. Above the capital city, a flock of crows gathered, swarmed, and glided towards the unholy fire that blazed from the chapel.

A line of knights waited before them on the road, which led out of the capital. The senior knight rode towards them quickly and raised his hand. “This road is blocked, my lords. The way ahead is not safe.”

Percy reigned in the mare as he examined the olive-green eyes that peered at him over the purple scarf worn around the knight’s lower face. “You mean to bar my way?”

“By order of Knight Commander Quentin, all roads which lead to the chapel fire are sealed until the safety of civilians can be assured,” the knight replied firmly.

“The Knight Commander thinks he can command the Earl of Hawthorne?” Captain Flint retorted with a hint of sarcasm.

“The Earl?”

Percy smiled as the half-witch hastily dropped from his saddle and knelt.

“I have offended my lord.”

“What is your name?” Percy asked.

“Lieutenant Declan, my lord.”

“I am willing to forgive your ignorance, Lieutenant,” Percy replied with a dismissive wave. “As long as it stops here.”

“The Earl means, as long as you are not foolish enough to continue standing in our way,” Flint added as his hand shifted from the reigns to his sword.

“My lord means to investigate the fire?” Declan inquired as he rose.

“And aid any survivors that might still be trapped near the blaze,” Percy confirmed.

“Then I will not stand in your way,” Declan replied as he turned to the man behind him. “The Earl will go through!” The knights hastily moved aside while Declan offered Percy a salute. “Saints be with you, Earl of Hawthorne.”

“And with you,” Percy replied with one last curious look at the half-witch that had led the church’s dogs to Maura’s scent. “Half-blood.”

Declan stiffened in surprise. Percy tapped the mare’s flank lightly with his cane and she leaped forward eagerly. Flint kept pace beside the Earl while the rest of the mercenaries trailed steadily behind.

Smoke billowed like great whales across the opening countryside and soon obscured their vision and sense of direction. Percy stopped only when he caught the scent of brimstone. “Captain, best if the men covered their faces. This smoke is toxic.”

“Understood,” Flint replied over a muffled cough. “Though we appear to have lost a few of them in this dense mess.”

“I shall press on,” Percy said determinedly. “Keep your men together and don’t get separated. Getting lost in this smoke is dangerous. Follow the road, and you’ll find the chapel.”

“My lord?” Flint protested. “At least one of us should be with you.”

“You are slowing me down,” Percy snapped. “And others are watching over me.”

The mercenary captain nodded reluctantly and bowed his head. “Then please stay safe on your journey, my lord.”

Percy nodded as he tightened a neck scarf around his nose and mouth. With a little more encouragement, the mare raced forward; her white coat quickly shifted to a dark gray as the glowing light of the chapel came steadily into focus.

Crows fluttered in and out of the dark wall of smoke that encircled the burning rubble of the Sister’s Chapel. The wretched howls of the inferno within terrified the mare who bucked, twisted, and refused to get closer. Percy dismounted and covered her eyes with his stain neck scarf. With gentle hands and a calming whisper, he soothed the beast, then held a handkerchief around his nose and mouth before moving closer. The blind mare reluctantly followed as he led her forward on foot.

The chapel’s steeple appeared in the smoke before him, pierced upside down into the road. Percy circled it carefully as he took in the discarded rubble that still flickered with flame scattered half a mile in each direction.

‘What happened here?’

A crow swooped through the smoke to land on his shoulder. It whispered in his ear, and Percy nodded. He tied the mare to the steeple before he approached the blaze. Past the crumbled stables and burned mounds of dead horses, he saw burning jagged lines that had carved through the earth. Four deep, evenly spaced claw marks of a massive, terrifying existence.

‘Impossible. Unless—’ Percy knelt and held his hand over the charred ruts of earth. His signet ring flashed red. ‘Kritanta.’

A crow fluttered down and danced across the dry gray grass as it observed him silently.

“Survivors?” Percy asked without looking at the bird.

The creature bobbed its head and hopped onto his extended hand before it flew off once more through the smoke. Percy followed, his face and clothes becoming more ashen by the minute as he circled the inferno at a safe distance.

He retrieved the mare and continued across the matted, burned wheat field. ‘A whole year’s harvest gone. And these crops were put aside to feed the homeless. This will place another financial burden on the church and palace.’

A pitiful sight awaited him among the shattered remains of the chapel’s granary. The upper torso of Lafeara’s saint, minus the head, lay burning at its center. Nuns stood by numbly, some holding buckets of water, but most of the buckets were empty. One look at their defeated expressions, and Percy knew they had given up putting out the witch fire.

One of the sisters turned towards him. Her smoke covered face squinted then brightened with recognition. “Lord Percy!” She rushed closer as her sisters stirred from their disheartened state to greet him.

“My Lord!”

They knelt before him with tear-stained faces. The first among them to recognize him took Percy’s hand and kissed his signet ring.

“Where is the Abbess?” Percy asked gently.

“She is tending to the injured,” the nun answered as she and the other sisters rose to their feet. “There were civilians—”

“Who attacked us?”

“The priest of Zarus and his witch hunter came looking for Lady Maura’s family,” Abbess Mercy answered as she appeared through the veil of smoke. Like the sisters before him, her white habit was now ash-gray; and stained with quite a bit of blood.

“The Turnbells?” Percy turned towards her with a raised eyebrow. “Why were they here?”

“Lincoln Turnbell was to be buried this afternoon,” Mercy explained.

Percy sucked in a sharp breath as he stepped towards her. “You were giving that craven rat-spawn a burial—here—at our church?!”

“The sooner Lincoln was put in the ground, the sooner this witch investigation would be forgotten,” Mercy replied patiently.

“Or so you thought,” Percy snapped as he gestured to the fire and smoke around them.

Mercy sighed and looked down at her blood-stained hands. “I confess I did not expect the priest to follow my trail that easily—nor did I anticipate that the bastard pure-blood would choose to interfere.”

“A pure-blood?” Percy’s grip tightened on his cane. “Tristan.”

‘But Tristan shouldn’t be this strong. Not after years of being poisoned by aconitum. And the marks I saw beside the chapel—’

“I got the Turnbells and my sisters out of there as fast as I could,” Mercy continued wearily. “But Lord Josiah’s new wife is unaccounted for.”

Percy blinked at her in confusion. “His new wife?”

“Lord Josiah and Lady Helena were divorced early this morning. This afternoon he showed up at his son’s funeral with a new bride who used to be one of his slaves,” Mercy explained with a shake of her head. “She is either missing or dead.”

“Divorced, married, and widowed within a day?” Percy exhaled sharply. “How the Turnbell fortune has changed.” A sharp wail close by drew his attention, and Percy turned towards the sound. “They’re here, aren’t they?”

“My Lord,” Mercy protested even as she followed him to where two tattered blankets had been propped up and tied to the end of pitchforks to form a small half-tent enclosure. A young man and woman knelt over an older noblewoman laid out upon bloody sackcloth. The dead woman’s brown-hazel eyes stared blankly at the dirty canvas above her.

Percy almost didn’t recognize the scarlet haired young woman, coated from head to foot in soot, who wept as she clutched her mother’s hand.

“Another casualty,” Mercy murmured as she stopped beside Percy. “Lady Helena. A piece of glass pierced her lungs.”

Percy nodded mutely as he surveyed Maura’s dead mother. ‘Your death has finally freed her—for that, I should thank you.’

“It is a pity, I would have preferred to keep her alive,” the Abbess lamented with a weary sigh. Percy frowned but said nothing as Sophya continued to weep.

“Lord Percy?” whispered the young man beside the grieving daughter.

Percy studied the man’s darkened features for a moment, then nodded in recognition. “Lord Asher.”

‘So Sophya still managed to get her claws into you.’

The young lady stiffened when she heard his name and clutched Asher’s arm tightly.

Percy repressed a snicker as he left and moved to study the two bodies laid out beside the tent. “Who are these men?”

“I’m sure you’ll recognize them,” Mercy murmured as she knelt and pulled back the cloth that covered their faces. Steel black masks stared back at him, mangled and warped, but still recognizable.

“The Foxes were here?” Percy muttered in surprise.

“They came looking for the witch hunter.”

“Why?”

Mercy straightened and shrugged. “None left alive to ask, unfortunately.”

Percy exhaled slowly and knelt to examine the dead men’s masks, which had melted against their skin. “Were they all this color?”

“Pardon?”

“Were any of the masks gray?”

Mercy nodded. “Their leader. His mask was gray with red stripes.”

“And he’s dead as well?”

“As far as I know, he never made it out of the church.”

Percy smiled and nodded, satisfied. “Then the Fox Den is finished.”

“There are likely to be a few survivors who weren’t involved in the attack.”

“These black masks belong to their lieutenants. If the Fox Master himself came, you can be sure all his lieutenants did as well.”

“So essentially all your father’s killers have been wiped out,” Mercy murmured thoughtfully.

“Not all,” Percy replied as he stood. “But it looks like I’ll have to thank the Emperor’s bastard the next time we meet.”

Mercy chuckled as she hooked her arm around his. “I can always trust you to look on the bright side.” She sighed as she took in the burning granary before them.

“I’ll see to it your chapel is rebuilt,” Percy said as he followed her gaze. “And your granary and field repaired.”

“The sisters and I are grateful as always,” Mercy replied with a sly smile.

“What of the priest and his witch hunter?”

“Witch hunter,” Mercy spat. “A half-witch with stolen coven powers working for the church. Never thought I’d live to see such an atrocity.”

“So, he does have the North Star?”

Mercy nodded. “He wouldn’t have stood a chance against a pure-blood without it.”

“Did anyone else see it?”

“The priest may have caught a glimpse,” Mercy answered thoughtfully. “He was peeping through the windows up until the pure-blood went out of control. Took off without a word immediately after that.”

“Then the priest is on his way to Zarus.”

“It would be easy enough to stop him before he reached the border,” Mercy replied with a sinister smile.

“Best if he met with some misfortune before he can slip away,” Percy agreed. “Send word to your sisters.” He removed her hand from his arm. “It would be beneficial to our cause to keep whatever secrets the priest witnessed here in Lafeara at present.”

“I shall see to it personally, my Lord.” She smiled benevolently, curtsied, and then vanished into the smoke.

“Lord Percy!” The nun who had greeted him earlier rushed towards him. “Forgive me, but Lord Josiah is attempting to steal your horse.”

Percy let out a strained sigh. ‘Of all the Turnbells to survive.’ He motioned for her to lead the way.

Chapter 88: A Spark of Chaos

Hellfire caressed Tristan’s black leather armor as he stalked through the flames towards the statue of the Saintess. The witch steel blade in his hand sparked and hummed as his magic channeled through it. He caught a glimpse of movement as Nero pulled his scarf up around his face.

Tristan scoffed. His personal expectations of witch hunters and subsequent disappointment aside, it was time to end this fight. The chapel was irreparably damaged. Two of his Shadow Guards had fallen to the ice witch’s blades, though Alex and the Foxes had fared much worse.

Even more concerning was the increased effort it took for Tristan to contain the violent destruction that thrashed within his core. The longer he tapped into this wretched magic, the stronger the beast became. Tristan had not forgotten the carnage of two years ago. The scars of that devastation still marked the craters where the evergreens of Wolfthorn Forest once grew.

From the corner of his eye Tristan saw Alex dance through the flames towards a column at Nero’s right. Tristan bit back a growl as he signaled the Fox Master to stay back, only to be ignored.

‘Damn it, Alex. How many more men do you want to lose? Stay out of this!’

Tristan was still furious he hadn’t realized the Fox Master’s cunning plan. Alex had tracked Tristan while the pure-blood had tracked down the witch hunter. Because none of the Foxes were witches or even half-witches, Tristan had not been able to sense their presence.

His original plan had been to lure the witch hunter away from the chapel and then execute him. That plan had gone out the window the moment Fox Lieutenants had shown up in full force and stormed the chapel.

‘Alex’s stubborn need for revenge is turning him into a reckless fool!’

“It’s too bad,” Nero taunted as he slowly rose and leaned against the statue for support. “To think a pure-blood would be forced to hold back on account of a few mortals.”

The hell beast sauntered between Tristan and the witch hunter. The creature shook its fiendish head; its lion-like mane rippled with flames while its lower body formed four separate limbs that burned and clawed the stone floor.

“Shame,” the witch hunter muttered with a hint of disappointment, “I thought I would at least get a glimpse of your full power.”

“They’re in the way,” Tristan admitted as he twirled the sword in his hand. The taut muscles of his body, charged by the power that coursed through his veins, were ready to spring into action. “But I don’t need to be at full power to defeat you.”

Nero laughed beneath his scarf. “Cocky words from a cocky prince bastard.”

‘There it is again.’ Tristan’s gaze narrowed as his grip on the sword tightened. “You keep calling me prince,” he observed and paused a few feet from the statue. “Do I know you?”

“Well,” Nero grunted as he slid down to sit at Harmonia’s feet. “Not officially. To be honest, I wouldn’t expect you to remember. You were what—five-years-old?”

“What?” Tristan snapped. A Shadow Guard moved to cut off the back exit to his left while the rest dispersed themselves to cover the windows unguarded by flames. Tristan raised his sword and leveled it against Nero’s throat. “What are you babbling on about?”

“Mercy’s Tit.” The witch hunter’s electric-blue eyes danced with fear—and something sinister. “I know it’s been seventeen years, but surely you still remember the night she died.”

Tristan’s throat constricted as the witch hunter cautiously raised his right arm.

Nero turned his hand over slowly to reveal a glowing sapphire gem tinged with red. “Does this jog your memory?”

The deep guttural growl of the hell beast filled the church even as Tristan’s senses went numb. ‘The North Star?’ He stared at the sapphire gem Queen Catalina had worn as a necklace. His sword arm trembled. ‘Why does he have—the North Star?’

The muffled sound of panicked voices roused five-year-old Tristan from his warm silk sheets and fur blankets. He picked up the lantern his mother had left on the bedside table, the metal art of rabbits, wolves, and deer danced like stars across the furniture and walls as he rubbed his heavy eyes and headed towards the door.

A scene of chaos filled his view as he entered the hall. Lafearian knights led his mother’s sobbing ladies-in-waiting down the hall towards the stairwell. The Queen’s chamber door stood half ajar, and the sound of a voice wailing could be heard from within. His father’s voice.

Tristan barely took a step from the room when a Lafearian knight snatched him up.

“Sorry, little prince. You can’t go there.”

Tristan twisted in the man’s firm grasp. “Put me down!” he shouted.

Electric-blue eyes stared into his. The knight’s cold smile sent a jolt through Tristan’s chest as the tiny hairs on his arms and neck stood on end. ‘I—don’t know this man.’

“Put his Highness down now!” The commanding voice of Colonel Durante filled the hallway as even more Lafearian knights jogged past the Commander of Lafeara’s Red Wolf Army. The knights took their position at either end of the hall and drew their swords.

Durante continued towards Tristan and the strange knight with one hand on his hilt, and two blood-red war hounds on either side. The wolf-like dogs snarled at the knight who held the young prince. The fear in Tristan’s gut coiled. He knew the hound’s wrath was directed towards the knight who held him. They had never growled at him before.

“Pardon, Colonel Durante,” the knight said tensely as he slowly, almost reluctantly, lowered Tristan to the ground. “I simply didn’t wish for him to wander off unattended or accidentally witness what happened to—”

“That’s enough,” Durante cut off as he scooped up Tristan and turned towards the Queen’s bedroom door. “Be brave, young prince. Your father wishes you to say your goodbyes now.”

The confusion that had clouded Tristan’s mind since waking slid away as the knights opened the doors before them. A woman lay dead on the floor with her throat slit, Lady Vanya, his mother’s trusted maid from Ventrayna. A knight hurriedly placed his cloak over the dead woman as Durante continued towards the curtains that obscured the Queen’s bed from the rest of the room.

Beyond those curtains, King Henri knelt beside the bed, his hands wrapped tightly in the sheet that covered Catalina’s arm.

“Your Majesty, I have brought the First Prince.”

Henri turned his blood-red eyes towards them and focused on Tristan for a moment before he dropped his gaze. “Come to me, son.”

Durante lowered Tristan to the floor. The young prince walked obediently to his father’s side; his gaze focused on the white lace handkerchief that covered his mother’s face. It did not move.

‘Why is her face covered? Why has father been crying?’

He knelt beside Henri on the floor because he didn’t know what else to do. The air smelt somehow foul and tainted. King Henri clasped his shoulder firmly than pulled him in for a tight hug. “I’m sorry, my boy. I promise I will find them—the ones responsible—and make them pay.”

“Father?”

“Say goodbye—sweet Catalina—your mother is dead,” Henri’s voice broke even as he pushed Tristan up to his feet and towards the bed. “We will burn her on the pyre at dawn, as was the custom—for her people.”

Tristan’s throat clenched as his lungs bled dry. He stared once more at the white lace that covered his mother’s face. He willed it to move but not a breath stirred beneath. He wanted his mother to sit up and laugh because this was all just a silly game.

“Say goodbye while her spirit still lingers!” Henri urged gruffly.

But Tristan didn’t want to say goodbye. He wanted to look behind the lace and see those lively, fiery amber eyes of Catalina open once more. Desire and fear channeled through his small limbs as he leaped onto the bed and pulled back the lace.

“Highness!” Durante cried even as Henri grabbed Tristan around the waist and yanked him back—all too late.

The nightgown was his mother’s—but the dry corpse that lay upon her pillow was not the Queen. Pale, withered gray skin and dull, lifeless eyes stared back over a mouth twisted into a silent, horrifying scream. A faint bruise circled her neck, and the sapphire gem, the North Star, his mother always wore was gone.

Henri crushed Tristan’s face against his chest with trembling arms. The world grew dark and cold as the King angrily shouted, “Take it out and burn it.”

But the flames could never erase such a memory that etched itself into Tristan’s mind, heart, and soul—and awoke his thirst for revenge.

“Shameful when you think about it,” Nero continued as Tristan staggered back. Light from the flames flickered against the witch hunter’s aged face, but those electric-blue eyes that stared back at him were as familiar as the cold smile that now twitched at Nero’s lips. “A powerful pure-blood witch like her taken down by a mere half-witch.”

“You—” Tristan grabbed at his own throat as the chaos inside him battled against the strained, snapping threads of his restraint.

“You must have wondered. How the Emperor’s cousin, the third most powerful witch in existence, could become so weak and die so tragically.”

Tristan retreated as the flames swelled around him. The hell beast lunged forward. The witch hunter rolled off the foot of the statue just before the hell fiends fangs ripped a stone foot from the Saintess’s figure.

“Mother—was never—weak,” Tristan wheezed. Sweat poured down his back and chest. The ghoul mask that covered his face seemed to suffocate him. His body was too small, too tight. Kritanta’s magic, fueled by his anger, wanted to break free—even if that meant breaking him.

“Not before Catalina became Lafeara’s Queen. But then they started drugging her with aconitum after she became pregnant with you. It’s a mystery to me how you were able to resist the effects of the drug. Your magic should have been weakened and neutralized the same way Catalina’s was, long before Henri discovered what you were.”

“The Dowager has sent someone to poison you.”

Words from another life echoed through Tristan’s burning skull, and with them, the pain and anger he had smothered for the past two years roared awake as his hands combusted with scarlet flames.

‘I can’t—lose control. Not again.’

Tristan turned his gaze towards Alex, but the Fox Master’s attention was focused on something above the pure-blood. Tristan glanced up towards the dark wisps of gaseous cores that vibrated and sparked as they flickered into view throughout the chapel.

“Come on, Prince Tristan—you know you want to ask,” Nero taunted.

Despite his apparent bravado, Tristan could still hear the fear in the witch hunter’s voice. The hell beast leaned against the pure-blood, and Tristan gripped its shoulder for support as he drew in a strained breath and snickered.

‘How many years did I question their excuses? How many times did their stories change? I always thought the Dowager could have been behind it—or even the Marquess—and yet the real killer’s face stood before me the very night she died.’

“Your Highness!” the Shadow Guard by the back exit interjected. “Forgive me, but the North Star has another name. It is also called the Witch Star, and it can be used to drain a witch, even a pure-blood, of their powers.”

“Yes, that’s right,” Nero confirmed with an almost casual grin. “And if Catalina had only given it to me willingly—I wouldn’t have been forced to use it on her first.”

Tristan exhaled sharply. The witch steel blade sparked and curled beneath his grip as his destructive magic eroded the weapon’s enchants. His grip went slack, and the twisted sword clanged against the chapel stone floor.

A match snapped in the back of his mind. A lace handkerchief ripped from Catalina’s face, and she smiled at him once more; before she withered and crumbled into ash and smoke. Tristan raised a shaking hand towards the blue ghoul’s mask. The flames at his fingertips burned through the metal even as he tore it from his face. The chapel before him was washed in red that matched the witch hunter’s scarlet armor. As the infernal devil in Tristan’s core ripped free, his mind, vision, and senses filled with the taste of brimstone and rage.

❆❆❆❆❆

Above the sweltering fire that surrounded the pure-blood and his hell beast, witch sparks filled the air with high-pitched screams and then, one by one erupted.

Nero dodged the deadly acidic flames that rained down upon the Foxes and Shadow Guards and engulfed them with a single spark. The burning specters of men danced, screamed, and fell like charred timber within seconds. The red blaze consumed everything it touched as it spread over the choir loft and filled the pews below with rivers of flame.

“There you are, devil,” Nero crowed, even as the ice enchantments protecting his skin and armor evaporated. He sucked in a sharp breath and clutched his chest as the Witch Star drained away more life from him. Between the rising smoke and dancing inferno, he saw the Hell Beast in the center of the room melt into a liquid pool, then slide beneath the cracks in the floor.

‘An opening?’ Nero was doubtful, but there was only one way forward. He summoned an ice sword; the effort alone made him cough up blood.

A bullet smacked against his breastplate. Nero ignored the Fox Master as he moved behind the statue and cut through Harmonia’s remaining foot. The stone figure toppled forward towards the pure-blood and fell just short of the unmoving burning witch that no longer resembled anything human.

The devil growled as his burning eyes turned blood-red. “I will fucking kill you!” The inhuman voice echoed throughout the chapel as every flicker of flame hissed and writhed violently, then crawled back across the floor like serpents before they wove themselves in a protective barrier around the pure-blood.

‘That’s it. Lose Control.’ Nero ignored the scorching heat that burned down his throat and lungs as he extended the Witch Star in Tristan’s direction. ‘The faster your magic burns—the faster I’ll drain it from you.’

“Tristan, run you fool!” the Fox Master’s strained voice called out before the man doubled over choking beneath the toxic smoke and air.

The cursed jewel in Nero’s hand ignited with blue flames as it hovered at the end of his fingertips, desperate to feed. ‘Drink your fill. Drain him of every single drop of magic.’

A blade spun across the flames. Nero barely ducked in time. He turned just as the Shadow Guard screamed amidst the scarlet flames that devoured him from view.

The witch hunter refocused on Tristan and chanted, “Mortem in deos.”

The Witch Star’s pale blue tendrils spread like a web as it propelled towards the pure-blood.

A muffled gunshot whipped through the roaring flames and pinged against the menacing jewel, that flew off course, past the pure-blood’s protective barrier, and disappeared beneath the shattered burning pews.

“No!” Nero snarled in terror as he followed the path of the sapphire. He sprang after it, heedless of the flames that crawled their way up his torso. The scarlet armor cracked and splintered as Nero kicked aside the burning pews that stood in his way and scrambled towards where the Witch Star had fallen. ‘I can’t lose it now!’

A glint of blue caught his gaze, and Nero threw aside another burning pew. The unbearable pain of the flames against his skin faded as soon as his eyes fell upon the sapphire star that rested against the bloody remains of a woman’s burnt dress. Nero barely registered the dead woman’s scorched face as he snatched up the jewel.

“Pathetic.”

Cold sweat filled the witch hunter’s gaze as he turned slowly to face the burning calamity that stood in the center of the church. Its massive body, formed of magma and fire, rippled with glowing red scales that spread across its wingless back, tail, and neck. The burning eyes that gazed at him from the devil’s terrifying visage were familiar, and yet Nero was unable to believe what his eyes now witnessed.

“Im-possible,” he choked as the dragon, only ever witnessed in the painted archives of the church, spread its vicious long fangs.

“Time to die—witch killer.”

Nero sprinted towards the nearest broken window. No Shadow Guards blocked his path—if any were indeed still living. Nero spared them not a second thought as he dove through the broken glass frame with blinded desperation.

The air resisted his fall as the dragon inhaled. Then the devil’s blast shattered the chapel’s stone walls behind Nero. Fire, melted glass, and mortar debris impaled the witch hunter’s back as the force flung him forward. The chapel’s stable rushed out to meet him, and his body slammed against the dense wooden barrier.

The Witch Star bounced from his numb fingers as Nero ricocheted against the ground and spun. The wind howled and whipped against his scarlet armor that fell away like dried, cracked clay. His ears bled with the shrill cries of hell as the world tilted and went dark beneath a bleeding sky.

Grim spectators of smoke slid across the smothered grass of the chapel’s back yard. The sapphire flickered just beyond the witch hunter’s reach. Its glowing blue tendrils rippled across the matted grass and dust as it taunted him with its alluring power.

The spinning world resettled, and Nero spit up blood and vomit. He crawled towards the cursed gem. Every inch of his body awakened with pain that drowned out any thought but the glowing sapphire before him. The last of his armor fell away as Nero collapsed, and with the remnants of his fading strength—reached out and clutched the Witch Star.

Magic burned through his skin, blood, and bones. The pure-blood’s power submerged him in unholy ecstasy as Nero’s drained core recharged, and his strength and stamina returned.

‘This much in a split second the gem could drain him.’ Nero laughed as he crawled to his knees then up to his feet. He turned warily towards the chapel. The decimated wall revealed only a torrent of dancing flames. “Fucking inbred devil,” Nero muttered as he clutched his throbbing head. “I should have killed you along with that pure-blood bitch.”

The air rippled with the devil’s snarl. Nero raised his gaze towards the dragon’s jaws that loomed towards him. The witch hunter thrust out the Witch Star instinctively and screamed as the monster’s fangs ripped through his biceps and tore away his arm and the Witch Star.

Fire crawled up the witch hunter’s sleeve as the dragon’s bloody fangs withdrew. Nero staggered back and fell. He smothered his blistered stump in ice magic and howled in agony as the burning pain crashed through his body in waves.

The dragon convulsed. It’s glowing red eyes momentarily flickered blue before it wretched up flame, black blood, and the Witch Star. The gem flashed as it skipped along the ground. The hellish monster shuddered as its body rippled and quivered violently. Scales gave way to flame that dripped and poured upon the earth as the beast roared.

The inferno inside the chapel reached towards the stumbling dragon and dragged the creature back into its fiery womb.

Nero saw his opportunity and ran towards the Witch Star. The moment his fingers touched the burning red gem, he screamed again as pain shot up his left arm. Yanking what remained of the enchanted scarf from his neck, Nero wrapped it around the gem and twisted it into a secure knot before he turned and fled.

He vaulted over the chapel yard wall then staggered as the wind sucked past him once more. An inhuman screamed ripped free from the depths of the burning chapel as it exploded and morphed into a portal to hell.

Nero wasted no time as he sprinted away, determined to put as much ground between him and Catalina’s son as possible. He wasn’t strong enough to take on a pure-blood that could transform into a living, fire breathing dragon, but he would be—as soon as he had that ice witch’s heart.

 

Chapter 86: A Baptism of Fire

Nero had traded blows with death on more than one occasion and crawled his way back from the grave. No matter what public visage a witch hid behind, the dominating scent of their magic was like a drug the church’s hounds had been bred to sniff out and track down.

Powerful and dangerous, chosen and gifted, each witch was born fully capable of twisting the world to their will.

And yet all witches paled in terror and anger when faced with the witch hunter’s scarlet armor—the color of the church’s conscripted warriors, each trained by legacies of witch killers. They might have been born as half-witches, as failures, but the Pope had forged them into the witch coven’s worst nightmare.

If normal humans were mortals, then a witch hunter was half-mortal. By the Pope’s decree, they existed to quell the unholy magic that had brought them into this world. The same magic that rejected them at birth now bent to their will through magical tools crafted by the Second Saint. Gems and enchantments forged into rings, armor, weapons, and even their cloaks. All to ensure a witch hunter lived long enough to accomplish his mission and slay the church’s nemesis.

The priests were but a leash meant to keep the hounds in check, but Nero was used to fighting alone. He preferred it that way. Priests who stuck around to watch him defeat powerful witches tended to end up in coffins. Most knew better than to risk their lives when faced with a coven witch, even if they were confident in their witch hunter’s abilities.

But this was no coven witch. This pure-blood’s aura was stronger than any Nero had ever witnessed. It was even comparable to that devil he had hunted decades ago with his mentor.

But there was something wrong with the magic that enveloped this witch. Instead of flowing like a tide or stream, it crashed and writhed against itself as if two wills were at war within the pure-blood’s body.

It could only mean one thing, something that just might give Nero an edge. This witch had a weakness—this pure-blood lacked control and training.

Almost all pure-bloods were raised within the protective confines of their coven. The more powerful a pure-blood, the more ferociously the coven would fight to protect them. After all, a pure-blood was the only weapon the coven could wield against the church or other covens.

But this pure-blood had grown up without a coven and that weakness was a flaw Nero was determined to exploit.

A cross-bolt smacked into the front of his chest armor. Nero hissed with irritation as he glanced towards the pesky foxes that slinked behind whatever cover they could find. He would deal with them later.

“Never take your eye off a witch, pure-blood or not,” his mentor’s training reverberated through him as Nero ripped the arrow free, and barely noticed the small chink it left in his armor.

The pure-blood levitated over the casket, and the cowering woman beneath it, down to the church floor. Flames hissed awake beneath his black leather boots the moment the witch touched holy ground.

Nero was not surprised to see the pure-blood unphased by this. ‘His magic would have weakened the moment he crossed the threshold if this were an ordinary coven witch.’

“We have a score to settle with you, witch hunter,” the pure-blood whispered. His words, laced with a dangerous tension, awakened the flames at his feet, which writhed and spiraled across the floor like disembodied hellspawn scorpions. They surged across the carpet towards the witch hunter, leaving a trail of flame behind them.

Nero yanked off his glove and whispered against the pearl ring on his right hand. ‘Fustibus saxisque.’ With a sharp movement of his hand through the air, the enchantment ripped the chapel aisle carpet into shreds as a protective wind barrier spun around him and lifted the witch hunter off the floor, out of the scorpions’ reach.

The hellspawn hissed and circled below. Their fiendish shapes morphed back into flame as they climbed each other and piled above the floor towards him. Soon enough, they formed a mound that reached the edge of the barrier beneath the witch hunter’s feet.

Nero didn’t want to know what would happen if they broke through the wind barrier and reached his body. He had seen a hunter eaten by earth bugs before—It was not a fate he envied.

“Is that the best you can do, witch hunter?” the pure-blood called out mockingly as he strode through the flames towards Nero. The twin serpents, coiled around his arms, snapped out and ate the hellspawn scorpions. The flame serpents appeared to grow larger with every gulp.

In the pews to the right of Nero, Josiah squealed in terror and backed away from the crawling flames as the hellspawn climbed hungrily over the wood and cushion. The nobleman scrambled over Judith, ignoring the pale young woman’s feeble protests as she clutched her stomach and struggled to rise.

“Excuse me!” Mercy called out with shrill authority behind the pure-blood. “But could you please take all this chaos and destruction outside?”

“Take the living and go, Abbess,” replied one of the foxes. The man moved confidently towards the chapel doors, his gray mask streaked with red, distinguished him for the rest of his skulk. “We’ve come for the witch hunter, but if you stay, you’re welcome to die with him.” The Fox Master yanked the doors closed and turned to face the Abbess. “Best if you went out through the back entrance—quickly now.”

“Nero,” Alden called out anxiously from the edge of the pews.

“Leave, Father,” Nero ordered coldly. “You’re a hindrance to me here.”

‘I can’t fight a devil with an arm tied behind my back.’ Unleashing his ice-magic in front of the priest guaranteed the runt’s death—not that Nero had a problem with that.

“We weren’t supposed to engage with this witch!” Alden hissed with a nervous glance at the pure-blood.

‘So you guessed his identity as well?’ Nero grunted. ‘Then again, rumors of the Emperor’s pure-blood bastard lurking about Lafeara had been circling for about a year now.’

“Well, the brat came looking for me, didn’t he?” the witch hunter replied as he rolled his neck from side to side.

‘The question was—why did the pure-blood come looking for me? Does this have something to do with the ice-witch hiding in Lafeara?’

In most cases, several units of witch hunters were required to take down a pure-blood. Even then—Nero’s last experience with a pure-blood had ended with most of his comrades skewered on ice spears like pigs or torn apart by wolves.

Even if this pure-blood was untrained, the moment the bastard lost control of his magic, the fight would be over for Nero and everyone else in this church.

The odds were not in his favor—and yet Nero could barely restrain the hungry grin that twitched at the corners of his mouth, impatient for the gallery to clear and the real performance to begin. ‘Let’s see if you’re half the witch the Emperor is, brat.’

“Going up against a pure-blood on your own is suicide,” Alden hissed, with what might have been a hint of worry. When Nero gave no reply, the priest shook his head and headed to where the Abbess stood, guiding the nuns that had escaped the choir loft above, and the nobles, who had abandoned their hiding spots, towards the back exit. “Saint’s blessing on you then, Nero.”

‘Fuck the Saints.’ Nero grinned as he touched the jewel at his chest hidden beneath his scarlet armor. ‘I have the Witch Star.’

The red-head and her fiancé, followed by Father Alden, quickly scurried after the nuns towards the exit. Josiah bolted after them just as Helena came out from her hiding spot beneath her dead son’s coffin and dashed around the front pew. The pair collided, and Helena slipped and fell on her side against the fallen glass scattered across the floor. Even from a distance, Nero heard the noblewoman whimper in pain.

“Stupid bitch!” Josiah hissed before he continued towards the exit.

“Josiah!” Helena sobbed angrily after him.

“Take my hand, Lady Helena,” Mercy said patiently as she knelt beside the fallen noblewoman and helped her to her feet.

Helena struggled to stand and clutched her side, where a small stream of blood flowed from her waist and blended into her dark mourning dress.

“No, don’t-don’t touch it!” Mercy pushed the noblewoman’s hand away from the glass protruding through her ribs. “Let us—leave first.” The Abbess supported Helena on her uninjured side, and the two women made their way slowly towards the back door. Two Foxes slid over to guard the exit behind them.

“They’re gone now!” a Fox in the choir loft above called out impatiently. “Let’s roast this cocksucker!”

Nero chuckled at their optimism but kept his gaze focused on the Emperor’s bastard.

“Keep your distance from him,” the pure-blood growled in warning. “And stay out of my way!”

‘Interesting, so you’re an ally of the Fox Den?’

“Fuck this witch! And fuck you too, Ghost, you witch-bastard!”

Nero followed the sound of the voice and spotted the Fox as he emerged over the rail of the choir loft, with the witch hunter in the crosshairs of his mahogany steel crossbow.

Nero flicked his wrist in the pest’s direction. A blade of ice hissed through the air as the bolt launched free of its string. The cold weapon penetrated the thug’s throat just below his mask while the cross-bolt screeched to a halt and shattered as it hit the wind barrier around the witch hunter. The Fox gargled incoherently as he dropped his weapon, then collapsed and toppled over the loft rails where he landed with a thud between the pews below.

“Pulchritudo dolore.” The witch hunter spun in a dance as a thousand ice daggers splintered from his fingertips and spiraled out through the wind barrier across the church, piercing stone, wood, flesh, and bone. Two more foxes fell as their comrades hastily sought cover.

The pure-blood’s flame serpents crisscrossed over the witch’s body, deflecting and swallowing any attack that came within range as the pure-blood drew his sword. The witch steel ignited with flame at a single touch.

‘Three down, six to—no wait.’ Through the frozen mist that obscured his vision, Nero watched one Fox rise sluggishly from the floor with his left hand pressed to the side of his bleeding neck, his right gripped a gun aimed at the witch hunter.

The flint spark ignited, but the bullet’s path glowed like a torch as it sluggishly crossed the wind barrier. The witch hunter dodged it effortlessly. “Children shouldn’t speak when the adults are talking,” Nero snickered and finished the Fox off with an ice dagger through his right eye. “So the Emperor’s bastard goes by Gho—”

Nero realized his mistake just as the pure-blood’s flaming sword crashed against the wind barrier four inches from his face. Glowing veins of power spread across the screeching wall of wind and barely gave Nero a chance to dodge the attack as the barrier shattered, and he dropped towards the waiting hellspawn below.

Chapter 85: An Unholy Reckoning

The small group of shocked nobles turned towards Nero and his priest in silent confusion. Nero offered them a sinister grin that made the gentlemen recoil while the women cowered behind their pews.

‘Pathetic mortals. They were a far cry from the Earl of Hawthorne.’

Nero hadn’t forgotten the curious prickle of power he had felt just looking into the young Earl’s intimidating winter-grey eyes.

The nobleman who stood before him now, a man of about forty years, stank to high heaven of spirits and appeared to be nursing a broken wrist. The young woman who cowered behind the nobleman could have walked out of a brothel with her gaudy dress, dense perfume, heavy makeup, and that all too visible bruise.

“I’ll ask again,” Father Alden said with evident impatience. “Is this Lincoln Turnbell’s funeral?”

Nero glared at the nobles and refrained from rolling his eyes. ‘You know it is, runt. The knight I paid to keep track of the body told us the Abbess brought it here for a family funeral.’

The Abbess circled past the frozen nobles and marched towards the priest. “This is a private affair,” she declared briskly. “You and your witch hunter are not welcome here.”

‘Ah, so this is the Abbess who controls the churches of Lafeara.’ Nero smirked as he watched the young priest bristle beneath the older woman’s disapproving glare. ‘Come on, runt, put her in her place.’

“Abbess,” Alden greeted her with the faintest of nods. “How strange that we should meet now after a week spent hunting for a witch in your diocese*. To think, Nero, if the Abbess had only been available during our numerous visits to the cathedral, or even responded to any of my messages, we might have found the Turnbell family sooner.”

“Indeed.” Nero leaned over the priest’s shoulder as he studied the woman before him. “How curious.”

A strange sense of déjà vu washed over the witch hunter as the woman’s dusk-blue eyes turned in his direction. Even more irritating was the surprising lack of fear in the Abbess’s steady gaze as she stared back at him defiantly. ‘Strange—and yet familiar.’ The flicker of a memory, so similar to this moment, he could almost taste it, teased at Nero’s brain with distracting uncertainty.

The Abbess refocused on Father Alden. “Since you are aware that I am the Abbess, you should also know I have a lot of responsibilities which keep me busy. I also command full authority over all church property within Lefeara’s borders.” She took a step towards the priest as she crossed her arms and stared down at him imperiously. “Therefore, priest, remove yourself and your filthy hound from this chapel, at once.”

‘Okay, even if the runt was a bit annoying, wasn’t the Abbess reacting a bit aggressively?’ Nero chuckled as the priest crossed his arms and mimicked her stance. ‘Let’s see what you’ve got, priest.’

“You forget, Abbess,” Alden snapped back, “that I have come to Lafeara invested with the authority of Pope Jericho.”

Nero noticed with interest the look of distaste the rippled across Mercy’s face when the priest dropped the Pope’s name. ‘Interesting.’

With a gratified smirk, Alden brushed past the Abbess towards the elusive Turnbell family. “By that authority,” the priest continued haughtily, “I am allowed entrance to even the King’s bed-chamber if necessary, to say nothing of your quaint little chapel.”

Nero grimaced and closed his eyes. ‘Never trust a noble runt to know when to keep their trap shut.’

Mercy laughed cynically, and even the noblemen scowled at the priest’s daring claim.

Alden cleared his throat loudly and focused on the trembling young woman with the bruised cheek and fearful brown eyes. “Tsk,” the priest muttered as he continued on his way. “Apparently, even prostitutes are welcome within this church.”

“Excuse me!” the older nobleman growled. “That is my wife you are insulting!”

Nero stepped around the Abbess, careful to keep a close distance behind the priest. As with any witch hunt, he was expected to ensure his handler made it back to Zarus alive, preferably in one piece. Not the easiest of tasks. Nero had lost a few priests along the way that couldn’t be helped, but it was a responsibility he couldn’t easily shake—especially if the priest lived to complain about it.

Judging from the glassy glare the offended nobleman was giving the priest right now, Alden was one hot poker away from earning himself a well-earned punch to the face.

The priest studied the nobleman’s injured arm then raised his gaze curiously. “You are—the father of Lincoln Turnbell?”

“I am Lord Josiah Turnbell,” the annoyed nobleman snapped as he puffed out his chest. “And yes, Lincoln was my son. What business do you have with my family?”

Alden glanced towards the younger noble. “And you are?”

“Lord Asher Winslet, fiancé to Lady Sophya, whose brother lies just there,” Asher replied grimly as he pointed towards the casket.

Nero ignored the noblemen and focused on the two women seated in the pews behind them. The pretty maiden with eye-catching scarlet-red hair—the same red color as the corpse Alden had shown him in the morgue of the Knight’s Compound—stared back at Nero with timid but confused glossy green eyes.

His attention shifted to the older woman beside her. Another strange tug of déjà vu pierced his gut as he registered the noblewoman’s ash-blonde hair and pale cheeks. Her hazel-brown eyes raised hesitantly to meet his gaze, and Nero recognized the fear he saw there—no, more importantly, he recognized her.

“So, you are Lincoln’s sister?” Alden said with a note of victory as he turned to face the women.

“I—” the red-head rose cautiously from the pew, “Yes, I am—was.”

“Nero.” Alden turned towards him expectantly.

Ripping his gaze from the trembling mother, Nero strode past Lord Asher and grabbed the younger woman’s arm.

“Sophya!” Helena gasped but quickly shrank away from Nero’s silent glare.

“Wh-what do you want?” Sophya babbled. She cringed as Nero leaned over the pew and pressed his face into her scarlet hair. “Asher!”

“Let her go!” The young nobleman appeared behind him and seized the witch hunter’s shoulder.

With an annoyed sigh, Nero released the girl, who scampered behind her mother with a frightened whimper. “It’s not her,” he said as he turned to face the priest.

“You bastard,” Asher growled as Nero shrugged off his grip and returned to the aisle, keenly aware of Helena, trembling in the pews behind him.

‘How long has it been since we almost caught that pure-blood in bed with her? Almost two decades surely.’

Alden scowled as he spun in place and glared at the nobles. “Are you sure? Is it any of them?”

Nero glanced back at Helena and shook his head slowly. “None of them are witches.”

“I should think not!” Josiah roared indignantly. “What is this all about?”

Nero studied the man before him. The memory of Helena babbling out excuses while pleading for her life at the edge of his blade suddenly made flesh. ‘So this is the pig of a husband she was trying to punish by having an affair.’ His gaze shifted to the trembling red-head and then the coffin. ‘And they are the children she mentioned to Abbot Grendel.’

“The reason your son is dead is because a witch killed him,” Alden growled as he rubbed his chin. “A witness claimed he was in the alley where he died looking for his sister.”

“What?” Josiah sputtered as his brows rose and fell in confusion.

“Sophy is not a witch as your hound has just proven,” Mercy interjected coldly. “Since your business here is concluded, priest, I think its high time you left.”

Nero narrowed his eyes at the Abbess. ‘That’s where I remember you from. You were just a nun then when Abbot Grendel left Helena in your care.’ He had sensed it earlier, but now he was confident the Abbess was hiding something. His gaze shifted back to Helena, who flinched visibly. ‘No, they are hiding something.’

‘It’s no small coincidence that the woman we found in bed with a pure-blood ice witch became the mother of the noble killed by a young coven ice witch.’

“Finished?” Alden echoed as he whirled towards Mercy. “I haven’t even started with you, Abbess. Using your authority to remove Lincoln’s body from custody before our investigation had concluded was one thing. But removing a family name from the Lafeara’s church archives to thwart our investigation—only a Bishop or Abbess has that sort of power.” The priest advanced upon her as he spoke. “And Lafeara no longer has a Bishop.”

“I have no idea what you’re prattling on about,” Mercy replied as she stared down at the priest with a mocking smile.

“Pretend all you like. I know you’re hiding the ice witch,” Alden hissed as he stepped back and snapped his fingers.

Nero suppressed a growl at the priest’s infuriating gesture. ‘As if I am some beast you can command with the flick of your finger.’ He had already moved behind the Abbess beforehand. At the priest’s command, he seized Mercy’s arms and held them against her back before she could react. Instead of struggling, the Abbess merely turned and offered him a cold stare.

‘Arrogant bitch.’ Nero twisted his grip and was rewarded as a twinge of pain flickered across Mercy’s face, and she let out a sharp breath. He leaned over her shoulder and carefully whispered so that no one else could hear, “You let that devil’s child live, didn’t you?”

Mercy bowed her head, for a moment Nero thought she was trembling in fear, but then a laugh bubbled past her lips as the Abbess straightened and shot him a spiteful smile.

“Before you and your hound continue to threaten me, priest,” Mercy said with a note of amusement. “Perhaps you should deal with the trouble you’ve brought to my doorstep.”

Nero’s brows furrowed in confusion, then he glanced towards the chapel’s doors. Five men in fox masks stood illuminated by the mid-day sun, their black cloaks rustling faintly in the breeze. They were armed to the teeth with glistening blades, pistols, and ruthless eyes that glared through the cut-out holes in the masks, down at the priest, witch hunter, and Abbess.

Alden cleared his throat and glanced nervously at Nero. “Friends of yours?”

Nero relaxed his grip on the Abbess and chuckled as he glanced up at the choir loft where four more masked thugs aimed their crossbows at him. “Just some vermin that crawled out of the slums. They won’t be a problem.” He shoved Mercy in Alden’s direction as he took a step towards the brave group of thugs.

A ringing bang exploded through the church as the stain glass windows behind the altar shattered inwards and rained down upon the statue of the Saintess and Lincoln’s coffin.

The priest let out a small startled squeal as he ducked. Mercy quickly shook her hand free of his grasp. Alden turned, and belatedly tried to grab her robes, but they slid through his fingers like water. The Abbess dashed towards Helena, yanked the frozen noblewoman out of her pew, and then shoved her under Lincoln’s coffin.

A second explosion shattered the side windows and death poured like a tidal wave of rose-colored daggers onto the frozen congregation below.

Nero crouched beneath his enchanted cloak as bullet zipped overhead. He glared at the Foxes, who crouched behind the back pews, still guarding the doorway with guns drawn. ‘Just what sort of explosive device had they set up?’

With a guttural snarl, Nero grabbed the priest by the collar, tossed him on the ground beside a pew, ripped another pew’s bolted legs from the floor, and tipped it over the priest. “Stay there!” he yelled, then hissed as a bullet smacked against his shoulder armor and ricocheted.

The nobles screamed as they ran for cover. Asher pushed Sophya against the nearest column where they crouched beneath his jacket. Josiah dragged his panicked wife between the pews towards safety, then slipped and disappeared from view, dragging the poor woman down with him.

Nero remained crouched beside the priest’s wooden shelter as the last pieces of falling glass shattered against the floor. The piercing ring in his ears throbbed into a dull ache as he shook the glass from his cloak then peered around the pews to search for the pesky Foxes.

The scent of brimstone hit his senses, and Nero whipped his head towards the altar and the visage of Lafeara’s Saintess, Harmonia.

“Nero?” Alden called hesitantly from beneath the glass-covered pew.

Nero ignored the priest as a shadow stretched across the chapel floor towards him, and the pure-blood witch appeared.

Twin serpents of fire spiraled around the witch’s arms and melted the broken glass edges of the arch window he levitated within. The hellfire spread along the stone frame, illuminating the blue mask that covered the witch’s face. The ghoul’s eerie grin and sinister black eyes focused on Nero with murderous intent. The flame serpents swelled in size and snapped in the witch hunter’s direction hungrily.

“Oh—Holy Fuck!” Alden whispered as he crawled out from beneath the pew behind Nero.

“Alright,” Nero growled as he unclasped his torn, red cloak and let it fall to the floor. He stood, and the scarlet armor he wore underneath flickered awake as it reflected the pure-blood devil’s fire magic. “This one might be a problem.”

Chapter 84: A Broken Family Affair

Helena looked down at her beautiful boy one last time. His bright auburn hair neatly swept away from his proud brows and clear skin, paler than it should be. His eyelids, unnaturally dark, were peacefully closed. He might have been sleeping were it not for the odd way the left corner of his mouth twisted in pain, or the strange discoloration that was visible beneath the powder of makeup against his cold skin.

She leaned in to kiss him goodbye and pulled away quickly as the rancid scent of death filled her nostrils.

From a distance, Lincoln resumed his peaceful slumbering expression. Helena knew he was dead, but visualizing him this way kept her from falling apart. If she closed her eyes, she would see him awake with his charming, confident smile, forest-green eyes, and fiery red hair—a younger, kinder version of Josiah.

A son who had loved her—who had shielded her more than once from Josiah’s foul moods. A son she had convinced Josiah to send away to school.

‘You should have been safe there. You would have become a better man than Josiah could ever dream of being!’ Helena opened her eyes and clutched her handkerchief against the tight, suffocating pain within her chest. ‘You could have been the next heir of Gilwren. Your future was limitless, Lincoln. How did this—why did this happen?’

A comforting arm wrapped around her and Helena turned to search the dusk-blue eyes of Abbess Mercy, as if she hoped to find answers within the holy woman’s gaze.

“Say your goodbyes, Lady Helena,” Mercy said firmly as she gently pat the trembling woman’s hand and then turned to the two figures who lingered at a discreet distance. “You as well, Lady Sophya. It is time to close the casket.”

“Sophya?” Helena turned towards her silent daughter. The pale, beautiful Sophya stared at Lincoln with an expression of numb disbelief. “Sophya, do you—”

Lord Asher stepped forward quickly as Sophya swayed, grabbed her head, and collapsed.

“Sophya!” Helena rushed to her daughter’s side and pulled her from Asher’s arms. “I—” she could not find the right words. “I’m sorry,” Helena whispered as she brushed back Sophya’s pretty red hair—red like an apple at harvest, red like an oak leaf in autumn, as red as Lincoln’s hair had been.

They could have been twins, were it not for the two years between them. Still, Helena had always taken comfort in their closeness, reassured that they would support each other long after she left this world.

But instead, her eldest lay cold in his coffin, while her youngest lay weak as a babe in her arms.

‘And it’s all my fault—No, it’s all her fault!’

“I’ll take her to rest,” Asher said softly as he touched Helena’s shoulder.

Helena nodded and reluctantly moved aside so Asher could support Sophya in his arms. He lifted his fiancé effortlessly and carried the limp girl to a pew three rows back from the coffin.

Mercy assisted Helena to her feet, and though the Abbess did not speak, Helena could sense she was becoming impatient.

“I will—we should close the coffin now,” Helena whispered, even as the instinct to rip her son free from the casket and shake him awake shuddered through her.

‘Harmonia, give me strength.’

“Wait a moment,” Asher jogged back and offered a token of red hair tied in a ribbon of forest-green to Helena. “Sophya’s token.”

Helena nodded as she accepted the parting gift. She returned to the coffin and placed the token on Lincoln’s chest, beside the silver pocket watch she had bought for him when he was eighteen. The same watch the knights had used to identify and bring back word of his death.

‘If I could only turn back time.’

Helena could still hear the words the knights had spoken when they delivered the death notice.

“He was found dead in an alleyway. The only witness said he went looking for his sister—he must have gotten tangled up in some sort of trouble after that.”

Helena watched the nuns lower the coffin lid, separating her from her son for the final time. Her fingers trembled as she pulled down her veil then folded them against her stomach. She clenched her jaw tightly as tears slid down her cheeks and clung to the shroud’s thin fabric.

‘If I could go back—I would kill her before she even took her first breath—before she could take you from me.’

The soft melody of the choir in the loft above floated down upon the tiny gathering. The setting sun burned through the glass window pane. The divine rays bathed the casket, walls, columns, and pews in a garden of colors. Helena knelt slowly onto the provided pillow to offer her prayers to Harmonia, Saintess of Lafeara. Mercy took her place behind the coffin and folded her hands in silent vigil.

The Abbess’s benevolent expression beneath the statue of the Saintess helped ease the desperation that clawed through Helena’s chest as she closed her eyes and offered a mother’s plea. ‘Let my boy find peace and comfort in the arms of the Saints. Let him be born into a better life, one he deserves, where he shall live to the end of his days—happy and blessed. If the Saints and gods are willing—let me find him again in my next life.’

The chapel doors banged open behind her. Helena’s heart nearly spun out of her chest as she turned—full of dread—to find the figure of her recently divorced husband.

“There they are!” Josiah trilled as the choir died out with a faint squeak. “Old wife, old life!” He wove unsteadily through the pews towards the small grieving party. “Let’s drink to new beginnings!” He kissed the bottle in his hand, then turned and motioned impatiently to the woman who hesitated at the threshold of the chapel. “Stop dallying and come in, girl!”

Helena blinked in stunned disbelief at the small young woman who took Josiah’s arm intimately. Her ex-husband laid a slobbery kiss on the familiar woman’s mouth before he turned and raised his bottle in a mocking salute to Helena.

“Lord Josiah!” Mercy’s tone flared with divine wrath as she lowered her hands from prayer. “You are drunk!” The young woman who clutched Josiah’s bandaged arm flinched beneath the Abbess’s disapproving tone.

It was then Helena saw the bruise, barely hidden beneath the young woman’s mousy brown hair and makeup—and recognization sank in. ‘Josiah—you didn’t!’

“Excellent perception—for a nun,” Josiah snickered as he eyed the Abbess up and down crookedly. “Yes, I’m drunk.” He smacked the bottle against his chest and sniffed. “And that’s my boy—” he nodded towards the casket as a tear spilled down his flushed cheeks. “My oldest—my best—” he choked and shoved his drink into the young woman’s hand while he fumbled for a handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

“Father,” Sophya said numbly as she rose from the pew beside Asher. “Is that—Judith?”

“You recognize her? Good.” Josiah raised his gaze with a gleeful smile as he stepped back and pinched Judith’s pale cheek. “She’s your step-mother now, and my new wife—” his gaze slid over to Helena with ruthless malice “—Lady Judith.”

“Lady Judith?” Sophya repeated in sharp disbelief. “Father—she is a slave!”

“Was a slave,” Lady Judith corrected with a bitter smile. “But now, I am the Lady of Turnbell Manor.”

Sophya let out a strangled laugh and reached blindly for Asher’s arm as she wobbled unsteadily. Asher pulled her against him and glared wordlessly over Sophya’s quivering shoulders at Josiah and his new bride.

“How dare you!” Helena fumed as she rose from the prayer pillow and marched towards Josiah. “How dare you bring a whore to my son’s funeral!”

“Well—” Josiah replied with a huff, “—it’s not like she’s the only whore here, is she?”

“Lady Helena!” Abbess Mercy, who appeared behind the livid noblewoman with surprising speed, caught Helena’s raised hand quickly. “Do not demean yourself to his level.”

Josiah cackled as he tipped back his hat. “No, no, don’t stop her. Go on, Helena, give us a show. Let’s see how vulgar the fallen noble daughter of a viscount has become. Oh, wait, you’re divorced now! And the Viscount stripped you of title and inheritance—do you even count as a noble anymore?”

“Why!” Sophya shrieked as she whirled around to face her parents. “Why must you both be so vile. This isn’t about you—either of you! Lincoln is dead!”

“Miss Sophya has a point,” Judith said stiffly as she surveyed the family before her with cold disinterest. “Let’s get him buried so we can move on with our lives.”

“You!” Sophya jabbed a finger in the slave’s direction. “Have no right to speak, let alone be here!”

Judith pulled away from Josiah’s arm and sauntered past Helena towards Sophya with a crooked smile. “No right to speak?” She held up her hand to display the bright emerald ring, which had once adorned Helena’s finger. “I’m not a slave anymore, little Sophya. I am your step-mother. And at this very moment—” she grabbed Sophya’s hand and pressed it to her stomach “—I just might be carrying your father’s next male heir.”

Sophya pulled away sharply and cringed as her hip smacked against the pew. “You-you’re revolting—”

Judith laughed as she raised the sparkling jewel to her lips and tilted her head. “Well, if I am, it was your family that made me this way.”

“That is enough,” Asher interrupted as he took Sophya’s arm and gently placed her in the pew behind him. “Before you act above your class Lady Judith, remember that your husband is one bad creditor away from dragging you both back into the gutter.”

Judith flinched as she pulled the shawl over the bruises on her arms. She dropped her gaze, turned sharply, and returned to Josiah, who lowered his bottle to welcome her with a hungry kiss.

“You are in a church, Lord Josiah,” Asher growled with evident disgust. “Even if you do not care for such things, you should at least remember this is your son’s funeral.”

Josiah peered around Judith and squinted at the young baron. “Ah, it’s Lord Asher! Good to see you. I trust things are well with your father, Baron Winslet?”

“The Baron still suffers from gout,” Asher answered stiffly as he left Sophya briefly to check on Helena. “Which is why he’s left me in charge of the estate and his businesses.” He guided the shaking mother back to her daughter and offered his handkerchief as she sank into the pew.

“Excellent! Excellent!” Josiah cried as he advanced towards them, dragging a reluctant Judith behind him. “Young minds are keener when it comes to business and more courageous when calculating risk and reward.”

“No, Lord Josiah,” Asher said bluntly as he moved to block the drunk man’s path into the pew.

“No?” Josiah repeated in confusion.

“No, I will not be offering you a loan.”

Josiah’s already splotched skin reddened to match his hair while his lips twisted in fury. “Loan? Why would I need a loan?” He brushed a hand down his brand-new suit with a note of disdain. “Don’t act so high and mighty with me, little pup. I know Helena paid you and the Baroness quite handsomely to marry that preening shrew.”

“W-what?” Sophya squeaked as she turned towards them, horrified.

“You are mistaken, Lord Josiah,” Asher adamantly replied as he gripped the corner of the pew tightly. “Helena only gave us Sophya’s dowry, which you, her father, were unable to provide. A dowry that will be given to Sophya after we are married as is proper,” he added with a cynical smile. “Unlike certain detestable scoundrels, I don’t need to rely upon a woman to support my household.”

“Ha! I wouldn’t be so ready to marry a girl whose mother is the queen of lies if I were you,” Josiah spat furiously.

“You!” Helena shrieked as she tore past a startled Asher to rake at her ex-husband’s face. “You who bore more bastards than you could ever remember to name? You who spent my aunt’s fortune pandering to your friends and useless business partners while assuring me the company was bringing in a profit. If I am the queen of lies, then you are the emperor of filth!”

Asher managed to restrain the hysterical woman around the waist and pulled her back, though not before Helena left her mark on Josiah’s cheek. The belligerent man stumbled and caught himself as he yanked Judith’s arm harshly enough for her to cry out in pain.

“Josiah!” the young woman sobbed as she stumbled to her knees and clutched her stomach protectively.

“Stop! Stop this or I will throw you both out!” Mercy snapped as she quickly moved between the quarreling ex-spouses.

“Mother, please!” Sophya reached past Asher to clasp the still struggling Helena’s wrist. “Please!”

Helena tore her burning gaze from Josiah as her arms dropped limply to her side. Asher released her cautiously as Sophya moved around him to embrace the still trembling woman.

Helena buried her face in her daughter’s shoulder as her anger bled away and drained her very bones. ‘I am so tired of fighting a man who only ever hurt and disappointed me.’

“Yeah, that’s right, cry like the pathetic bitch you are,” Josiah taunted as he pressed a shiny new silk handkerchief to his bleeding cheek.

“One more word,” Mercy hissed in warning. Her far from benevolent gaze made Josiah’s jaw clamp shut. “Attend to your new wife, Lord Josiah.”

The humbled noble turned and grumbled as he helped Judith to her feet.

Sophya trembled with rage as she watched Josiah dote over the ex-slave, her new step-mother, and escorted Judith to a pew. Asher touched her shoulder and offered a reassuring smile.

“I wouldn’t be so proud of your new wife,” Asher said as he focused upon the newlyweds. “In fact, I would keep her as far from the public eye as possible. Who knows how many nobles might recognize her after she was passed around your last group of investors.”

Josiah visibly flinched. Judith shrank away from her husband as he turned towards Asher.

The young noble moved into the pew with a smug leer. “A wife with that kind of background—even if she gave birth to a dozen sons—they would only ever be of questionable lineage.”

“You!” Josiah blustered as he stormed from the pew and grabbed Asher’s collar.

“Gentlemen, please!” Mercy snapped in an exasperated tone.

“Don’t start something you can’t finish, Lord Josiah,” Asher warned as he caught the lord’s swinging wrist. “Unlike the Earl of Hawthorne, I have no problem crushing you beyond the point of return. If it weren’t for Lady Sophya, your pathetic hide would already be in debtor’s prison for the 6,000 crescents you still owe my father.”

Josiah’s jowls billowed as he sucked in an angry breath to retort—just as the chapel doors rattled open behind them.

“Is this the funeral of one Lincoln Turnbell?” the priest demanded as he strode down the aisle shadowed by another man, cloaked in red robes and scarlet armor.

Helena took one look at the witch hunter’s electric-blue eyes and pulled Sophya down into the pew beside her as her legs buckled in terror.

The past she had long feared—had finally caught up to her.

Chapter 83: A Lover’s Cursed Fate

Eleanora scanned the contents of the Dowager’s invitation and then motioned for Carina to sit beside her at the vanity desk.

“You are limping again, Lady Maura,” Eleanora commented as Evelynn brushed through her hair. Beside them, Tiffany prepared a set of amethyst gemstone earrings and necklace to go with the dark wine-purple taffeta dress Eleanora now wore. “I think it would be best you remained behind to rest.”

Carina didn’t miss the victorious smirk on Evelynn’s face and suspected some conversation had gone into this decision. “As you wish, your Highness.”

‘Better for me anyway to avoid the Dowager a little while longer. Out of sight, out of mind.’

“Still, while you are resting here, there is a favor I would like to ask of you,” Eleanora continued as she accepted the earrings from Tiffany and slid them into place.

“Yes, your Highness?”

“Would you keep Lady Hana company for me? She is beginning to mend, but I would feel more at ease with someone I trust beside her while I am away.”

“Of course.” Carina blinked, surprised to be considered someone trusted so quickly. ‘And what about Mrs. Poppy?’

Still, it was an opportunity Carina was only too eager to seize, though she was careful to remain calm on the surface. If she was to save Hana for Maura, winning the young woman’s trust was paramount, and time was already running dangerously close to Hana’s first brush with death.

“Excellent, are we done, Lady Evelynn?” Eleanora’s amber gaze flashed with a hint of restrained impatience as she stared into the mirror at the woman, who struggled to tame the Crown Princess’s luxuriant black hair.

“Ah—just about—umm.” Evelynn’s focused expression shifted from a scowl to panic as the diamond hair clasps, meant to pin Eleanora’s hair up into a voluminous bun, repeatedly popped open one after another, until the neatly styled hair had begun to resemble a disheveled bird’s nest.

“Your Highness, perhaps I should—take over?” Carina offered as she rose from her seat.

“If it gets this mess tidied up faster, please do,” Eleanora replied with a note of relief. “Once you’ve finished, I’ll take you upstairs to meet Lady Hana.”

Carina nodded as she moved into the spot behind the crown princess, which Evelynn relinquished with a deflated expression as she returned the hair clips to the open desk drawer.

A quick removal of more than half the pins Evelynn had left behind, a light brush, and a few deft twists, settled Eleanora’s wild hair into a simple yet refined curled braid. Tiffany supplied a woven black-pearl band to tie at the end and a few pearl hairpin ornaments, which Carina slid into Eleanora’s mane to finish her work.

“So, the Countess taught you Ventrayna hairstyles as well?” Eleanora observed as her lips twitched between a laugh and a smile of approval. “I shall have to thank my aunt for choosing such an excellent protégé when next we meet.”

A strange sense of anticipation prickled along Carina’s skin as she followed Eleanora down the hallway to the door that waited across from her own room.

“Hana,” Eleanora called out gently as she knocked. A muffled response answered, and Eleanora quickly opened the bedroom door. “Wait here for a moment, Lady Maura.”

Carina nodded and remained outside the threshold as Eleanora half closed the door behind her.

“Elly?” Hana’s faint voice slipped through the opening. The sound of glass and other objects being moved aside filled the growing silence.

“I have to leave Rose Palace for a while, Hana,” Eleanora’s voice explained. “The Dowager has dragged me out to another one of her tea parties. Lady Maura, would you come in please.”

Carina pushed the door fully open and entered. The bedroom mirrored hers in nearly every way as far as size and orientation, though the drapes and furnishings had a distinct foreign look to them that was not quite Ventrayna. Carina focused her attention on the young woman, only two years her senior, who lay against the pillows with a pale, confused expression.

“Lady Maura is going to look after you while I’m gone,” Eleanora said reassuringly as she sat upon the bed and took her lover’s hand. “Do try to eat something in the meanwhile.”

Hana’s eyes closed for a moment as her hand wrapped tightly around Eleanora’s. A shadow of pain flickered across her features before she opened her weary turquoise-blue eyes and nodded. “Please—don’t worry about me,” she whispered. “You should—be wary of the Dowager.”

“I am more worried about you than that old wolf,” Eleanora replied as she brushed away the damp light-golden locks of Hana’s hair from her forehead.

“You are making a big fuss out of nothing—again,” Hana reproached wearily. She turned toward Carina and offered a ghost of a smile. “It is simply my moon cycle that makes me fatigue too easily. It will pass in a few days.”

Carina nodded and offered a sympathetic smile, aware of Maura’s specter that lurked in the doorway behind her.

“Do you mind if I inquire as to what medicine Lady Hana has been taking for her condition?” Carina asked as she turned towards the table across from the foot of the bed, where an assortment of herbal teas, a porcelain pestle, and a few untouched plates of food lay in plain view. Beside the pestle, a fresh pile of daisy-like flowers lay sprawled across a wooden board, a few plucked petals scattered about the floor.

‘Feverfew, she must be getting headaches.’

“Lady Maura is familiar with medicine?” Hana murmured with a hint of worry.

“Lady Maura has many useful talents,” Eleanora affirmed. “My aunt has been training her with great care since she was young.” She sighed as she glanced at the clock on a nightstand. “I must go now, or I’ll be late for tea with grandmother.” She leaned over, kissed Hana’s forehead lightly, and rose. “Please see to it she eats something.”

“Of course, your Highness,” Carina replied as she kept her gaze discreet.

“I’ll check in on you when I get back,” Eleanora promised. “Do you want me to fetch you anything while I’m out?”

“Just be careful,” Hana murmured.

Carina turned as Eleanora headed towards the door with a confident grin. “I’m sure I’ll have an entertaining story to tell you when I get back.” The crown princess waved, shut the door—and then they were alone.

Carina glanced towards the ghost, who floated over to the bedpost to stare longingly at Hana. ‘Stalker much, Maura?’

“I’m sorry,” Hana said with a sigh as she turned towards Carina with an apologetic smile. “You probably would have preferred going to a tea party over babysitting me.”

“Not at all,” Carina replied with a wry smile as she circled the bed and cleared a chair nearby of books. “How frequent have your headaches been?” she asked as she stacked the novels neatly beside the nightstand.

Hana blinked and followed Carina’s movements as she cleared away the half-finished cup of cold tea. “I suppose you really do know medicine.”

“I’m not a physician by any means, but I have taken an interest in herbs and common illnesses. Would you mind if I made you a different tea? Something a bit more specific to your needs?”

Hana grimaced as she pushed herself up against the pillows. “It’s not that I don’t believe you, Lady Maura.”

“It’s quite alright,” Carina replied quickly as she settled into the chair. “We are strangers, after all.” She cast a covert glance towards Maura just as the ghost faded from view. “Then, would you mind if I had the maids fetch us some water and lemon cakes later.”

“Of course,” Hana laughed self-consciously. “Please feel free to order whatever you need.”

“You must eat something as well,” Carina urged and reexamined the stack of books beside her. “And perhaps I could read to you while we wait?”

“I suppose that would help to pass the time,” Hana murmured as she rubbed her neck wearily. The sleeves of her gown slid down and Carina’s gaze fell upon the long bruises that ran across Hana’s arm. The marks were yellow-green and almost faded from view.

‘So it wasn’t just a headache or her moon cycle.’

“Let’s see what we have here then.” She knelt beside the chair as she sorted through the stack of books. “The Night Wind’s Sorrow, A Lover’s Lament, The Willow’s Secret…” She pushed the bed skirt aside as she read the titles aloud—and stopped when she found the neatly wrapped pile of rope.

The chill that washed over Carina as she quickly dropped the bed skirt back into place was not from magic—but horror and empathy for Hana.

“Any of those will do, though I should warn you, they do not have happy endings,” Hana said above her as the bed shifted.

“I’ll let you decide then,” Carina replied as she placed three of the books on the bed beside her and stood. “Do you mind if I open the windows for more light.”

Hana shrugged as she reached for a book. “I don’t see why not.”

Carina nodded and moved to the windows. Sure enough, the heavy ropes used to bind the thick curtains were missing. ‘So they hadn’t been prepared for Hana’s condition to reoccur here and improvised.’ Carina pulled half the curtains aside and tucked them behind a chair without comment.

She checked Hana’s reaction as the sunlight spilled over the foot of the bed. The young woman grimaced and shielded her eyes for a moment but appeared otherwise unaffected.

‘Not a serious headache then.’ Carina smiled as she returned to the chair beside the bed.

“I just realized,” Hana said as she flipped through the book in her lap. “These are written in Vetrayna. Can you read them, Lady Maura?”

“Yes, the Countess of Hawthorne had me learn to read, write, and speak Vetrayna early on in my education,” Carina responded in Hana’s native tongue.

“That woman does like to be prepared,” Hana observed with a wry smile. “Very well, The Lover’s Lament.” She gestured to the smaller of the two volumes.

“A tragedy?” Carina asked curiously.

“Mmm,” Hana mumbled as she lay back against her pillows. “I’ve never really cared for happy love stories. They’re too—unrealistic.”

‘I couldn’t agree with you more.’

“Then Lover’s Lament it is.” Carina picked up the book, slid the blue vellum cover open, and flipped to the first page. It took her a moment to adjust to the devilishly fancy script of the Vetrayna language. As she glanced over the book’s opening line, which already foreshadowed the doom that awaited the unfortunate characters of the story, Carina noticed a tremor in Hana’s hand as the young woman combed back her disheveled hair.

Hana stilled for a moment and took in a slow, steady breath. Then she tucked her arm beneath the blanket and closed her eyes. “Read as much as you like, Lady Maura.”

Carina nodded as she refocused on the first paragraph and cleared her throat, “Not all lovers meet by fate, and often lovers meet too late.”

 

Chapter 82: A Clash of Wills

The bustle of servants greeted Eleanora and her ladies-in-waiting as they circled the courtyard on their way towards the stables. Men and women, dressed in leather aprons of green and brown, poured and scraped fine gold and white sand into the squares of the chessboard carefully outlined in red string.

“Ahh, they’re finally getting it laid down today!” Eleanora exclaimed as she paused to survey the work. “And they’ve completed a fair amount already.”

A quarter of the field now gleamed in a pattern of shimmering gold and pearl-white sand as the sun crept closer to claiming the full courtyard below.

“Excuse me, you Highness,” Evelynn said as she nudged past Carina to stand beside Eleanora. “But why such a large chessboard? Surely a garden would be better for entertaining guests.”

“You Lafearians and your love of flowers,” Eleanora scoffed as she moved closer to the glittering squares with a distracted frown. “Major, would you ask Lord Lane why they have not applied the glue yet? It should be done square by square to ensure the lines remain intact.” She gestured with a black satin riding boot to where white sand had blown under the red string onto the gold square.

“I’ll inform the Lord Architect,” Garrett replied and stepped carefully through the red thread squares that had not been filled, towards the nobleman making a fuss over a bucket of white sand.

“Honestly, what is that architect thinking? If the wind doesn’t make a mess of it, the servants will,” Eleanora muttered as she continued her stroll of the courtyard. She had been in a tense, distracted mood since breakfast that had prompted her decision to go for a ride to “clear my head.”

“I suspect it’s the first life-size chessboard Lord Lane has ever installed,” Carina replied as she pulled Tiffany out of the path of two servants carrying small buckets of white sand.

“How do they give the sand that rainbow-white color?” Tiffany murmured curiously. “It almost looks like crushed pearls.”

“Crushed opals, not pearls, Lady Tiffany,” Eleanora corrected as she stopped one of the servants, lifted a pinch of white sand from the bucket, and dropped it into Tiffany’s hand. “Not as precious as a diamond but highly valued by artists as a more practical medium for creativity. My father sent them from Ventrayna when I told him of my plans for the courtyard, but they have other uses. For example, I know of a designer here in Lafeara who uses black opal to paint detailed designs onto her gowns.”

“You are referring to Lady Aconitum!” Tiffany guessed quickly. “I have two gowns designed by her! My mother has about seven!”

Carina coughed and cleared her throat as Eleanora smiled down at the beaming girl.

“Indeed, it was her subtle designs that lured me into becoming the Patron of The Holy Maiden’s Boutique,” Eleanora explained as she waved the servants on and continued towards the back door of the courtyard. “The owner, Sir Everly, sent me a purple muslin gown to wear for the royal honeymoon. Of course, every designer in Lafeara sent a gown to represent their store of either gold or purple, but it was the black scorpions painted onto the sheer sleeves of Sir Everly’s gown that caught my attention. No other designer bothered to present the aesthetics of Ventrayna in my gowns. Opals are also a natural resource from Ventrayna, so for me, it was like receiving a gift of home.”

They reached the arched doorway, which led out to the back entrance of the palace. Eleanora stopped again to wait for Garret, who was carefully making his exit through the field of red thread.

“Anyway, to answer your original question, Lady Evelynn, I simply wanted to repurpose the courtyard with something that I could enjoy. The Royal Palace has plenty of gardens as it is, and while I may not be able to hunt and duel as freely as I could in Vetrayna, I shall endeavor to keep my mind sharp with whatever tools available to me.”

“Of course, your Highness,” Evelynn replied with a defeated sigh.

“It was my uncle, Ambassador Haemish, who taught me to play chess.” Eleanora’s gaze grew distant and withdrawn as she considered the incomplete battlefield before them. “I have yet to beat him, but one day, I hope I will be in a position to claim victory.”

Carina silently glanced at Eleanora’s clenched jaw and determined gaze.

“Perhaps the Crown Prince also plays chess?” Tiffany remarked with her usual naive optimism.

Carina frowned as a vision flashed before her eyes. The completed chess field stood before her lined with servants dressed in gold or white to match the pieces of the board, and at its center, Eleanora and Nicholas faced each other with swords drawn. She shook the foreboding thought from her head.

“I suppose he at least knows how to play,” Eleanora replied with a disinterested shrug. “But I have never had a match with him. Not many people in Lafeara appear to have an interest in chess—except for Lady Hana, of course.” Her expression grew pensive as Major Garret jogged up and bowed before her.

“Apologies for the wait, your Highness,” Garrett said as he raised his head.

“Is he going to fix it.”

“Naturally, your Highness.”

Eleanora nodded and turned to her attendants. “So, which of you will ride with me today?”

“I would be delighted too, your Highness,” Evelynn volunteered quickly.

Eleanora flicked a glance over the eager lady-in-waiting and nodded. “Garrett, would you see to it the stable prepares a comfortable lady’s saddle for her.” She turned to Tiffany and Carina. “And you two may do as you wish as long as you stay inside Rose Palace. Please see to it that no one aside from Mrs. Poppy disturbs Lady Hana while she’s resting.”

“Yes, your Highness.”

“Crown Princess!” Mrs. Poppy’s clear voice proceeded the visage of the Ventrayna woman running towards them. “Thank—Kritanta—I caught you.” She stumbled to a halt with what might have been a curtsy or an attempt to catch herself. “The Dowager sent a knight—Captain Leo—to summon you—an invitation for tea.”

“Ahh, no doubt to put me in my place after thwarting her servant’s attempts to have Lady Maura dismissed,” Eleanora muttered. The distracted worry that had clung to the crown princess’s expression all morning vanished as her lips twisted into a smile of acceptance. “Well, this will certainly be a lot more fun than hunting rabbits.”

“Should we go greet the Dowager’s messenger?” Tiffany asked hesitantly.

“You may if you wish, Lady Tiffany,” Eleanora said with a permissive wave. “Lady Maura do go with her to receive the invitation officially. Lady Evelynn, it appears that I shall need to change.” She glanced down at her men’s pants with a rueful chuckle. “Grandmother is a bit old fashioned when it comes to appropriate garments for young ladies.”

“Of course, your Highness.”

Captain Leo turned towards them with the faintest glimmer of disappointment, before his usual charming smile took hold and beamed upon Tiffany and Carina with equal measure. “Good morning, beauties.”

“C-Captain Leo.” Tiffany blushed and quickly dropped her gaze as the knight directed his attention towards her.

“You have an invitation for her Highness?” Carina asked pointedly as she stepped forward and held out her hand.

“I was instructed to deliver it to her Highness personally, Lady Maura,” Leo replied with a flirtatious wink.

“A servant does not dictate the actions of their master or mistress,” Carina answered with a polite smile. “I am here on my mistress’s behalf to receive the invitation.”

Leo scoffed. “Dowager trumps Crown Princess, Lady Maura. So, I’ll have to insist.”

“Queen trumps Dowager; perhaps you should reconsider, Captain,” Carina returned as she stepped closer and folded her arms.

“She’s not queen yet.” Leo smirked as he closed the distance between them. “But I do admire your stubbornness, Lady Maura.”

“What a shame,” Carina murmured, then shrugged as she sighed. “If you are not going to hand over the invitation, then I must ask you to leave now, Captain.”

“What?” Leo blinked down at her as his smile faltered. “You can’t—”

“This is the Rose Palace, and I represent its mistress, who was instated here by marriage and the full authority of Lafeara’s future King and the House of Lords,” Carina chided with a note of boredom. “Since you have refused to hand over the official invitation, I shall inform her Highness that she may resume her earlier plans, which will take her away from Rose Palace for most of the morning. Do convey this unfortunate turn of events to the Dowager on your return trip.”

She spun around and caught a glimpse of Tiffany’s goldfish stare before the knight captain caught her arm.

“No, wait!” Leo firmly pushed the invitation into her hand. “It seems the Crown Princess’s servants are just as arrogant as their mistress,” he muttered as he stepped back. “I’ll be taking my leave then.”

“Do try to remember your place in the future, Captain,” Carina advised him with a cold smile. “Although—I do admire your stubbornness.” She held up the invitation between her fingers and smirked at his enraged glare.

Only after the palace doors had closed behind the knight captain’s stormy retreat did Tiffany speak up. “Did you have to treat him so coldly?”

Carina turned towards her with a frown. “Should I have asked the Crown Princess to come down and greet a simple servant?”

“N-no,” Tiffany murmured. “But you—didn’t have to provoke him.”

Carina tapped the invitation against her open palm as she considered the golden-haired young woman, who was physically a year older than Maura, but mentally still a child in many ways.

“In court, if you yield an inch, you only reveal your weakness,” Carina explained patiently.

Tiffany blinked her lilac-blue eyes and sighed. “Maura, I am only worried that you have made an unnecessary enemy when you already have plenty in the palace.”

Carina smiled ruefully as she turned towards the stairs. “I suppose that’s true.”

“But not me!” Tiffany added as she caught up and linked her arm through Carina’s. “At least, I hope we can be friends.”

Carina felt her chest tighten as she considered Tiffany’s hopeful and innocent gaze.

‘But are you truly naive and innocent, though? Is it just a coincidence that you become engaged to Captain Leo in the future and escape before the queen’s death?’

“Of course,” Carina replied, ignoring the painful twist in her gut as she lied.

‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.’

Chapter 81: A Vendetta of Power

A sense of deja vu washed over Nicholas as he studied the three people seated at the table around him, and recalled a similar scenario where Octavia, the Prime Minister, and King Henri had sabotaged him with Eleanora’s marriage proposal. He slumped back into his chair with a sigh. ‘Good luck, Percy.’

The Earl offered his mother a benevolent smile before he replied, “I am not getting engaged to Lady Evelynn.” His rejection and expression were in such disharmony that Nicholas took a moment to register what he said.

The Countess recovered much faster. “Percy!” she snapped in a tone filled with reproach.

The Earl ignored her as he turned his attention towards the Dowager. “As much as I appreciate the Queen Regent’s interest in the future of the Hawthorne family, respectfully, I think your Grace should focus on Nicholas and Eleanora’s coronation and other matters—” he tapped at the document before him “—that are important for Lafeara’s future.”

Nicholas clamped his lips together as a laugh threatened to prick the dangerous bubble of tension that enveloped them all. He covered his traitorous lips with a hand as he watched his old friend with begrudging respect. Right now, the best thing Nicholas could do for Percy was to remain silent. Though he would be happy to step in if the Earl so much as looked in his direction for help, something told him, this would not be the case.

Lady Constance’s usually guarded topaz-blue eyes flashed with barely contained rage as she attempted to pin down her rebellious son. Whatever plan she had laid out by bringing up the engagement in front of the Dowager, Percy was clearly unwilling to comply.

Octavia raised a single elegant grey eyebrow and offered Percy an amused smile. The Earl continued to ignore the beams of wrath radiating from his mother as his gaze remained locked with that of the Queen Regent.

“No one is suggesting we rush towards marriage, Lord Percy,” Octavia said with a tone of reassuring calm. “But your mother and I both agree that Lady Evelynn is a good match. And the Hawthorne and Hendrix households have been in talks for some time as well. It would be ignoble of you to drag the matter on any further, only to break the poor girl’s heart.”

“Your Grace,” Percy responded without a flicker of guilt or reproach. “You know as well as I do that an engagement cannot be made official without the intended groom’s consent. More importantly, I already rejected Lord Hendrix’s initial offer of marriage three months ago, so I am bewildered as to why the matter bares any further discussion. I have not changed my mind since then, nor have I given Lord Hendrix or Lady Evelynn any cause to believe I would.”

“I see,” Octavia replied as her gaze shifted to Constance. “Then, do you have another bride in mind?”

“I am very focused on my new responsibilities at the moment, your Grace. But I will be sure to let you know when I find a woman equal to the task of being the next Countess of Hawthorne,” Percy answered without hesitation.

“Nonsense,” Constance interjected, finally breaking her silence. “Lady Evelynn is refined, educated, resourceful, and comes from one of the most eligible noble families of Lafeara.”

“Hendrix is only a Viscount, Mother,” Percy replied with a hint of restraint.

“So, the young Earl is aiming for someone higher?” Octavia commented with a calculating tone. “Perhaps, the daughter a Marquess?”

Nicholas doubled over sharply as he choked down a laugh. He hastily coughed and reached for his tea in an effort to cover his unwelcomed interruption. Fortunately, the Dowager and Countess remained focused on the obstinate Earl.

There were only two women of marriageable age who belonged to the house of a Marquess, and one of them had been his father’s secret mistress. That left the daughter of Marquess Borghese, Lady Priscilla.

‘Percy and Priscilla?’ He considered it for a moment then rejected the idea altogether. It was, perhaps, a match even more disastrous than his own marriage. ‘Though it would be an interesting way to keep the Marquess in check.’

Percy interlocked his fingers and pressed them against the document before him. “Again, your Grace, I respectfully ask that we focus on the matter of Lafeara’s impending future.”

“I simply don’t understand why a young man of twenty years is so intimidated by the thought of marriage,” Octavia replied with a teasing smile.

“Perhaps because I wish to live longer than my father did.”

This time Nicholas not only choked on his tea but managed to dump half of it down his ceremonial jacket. Beside him, the Countess sucked in a sharp breath as her cup clinked against the saucer plate. ‘Pope’s Balls, old friend, so much for keeping your cool.’

Around the room, the Queen Regent’s attendants quickly retreated to safety. Nicholas cast an anxious glance between the silent Dowager and the Earl as he hastily wiped down his jacket and the royal medallion. The tension between those pairs of ice-blue and winter-gray eyes was enough to send a familiar, foreboding chill down Nicholas’s spine.

The Dowager smiled, a sight about as cheerful and reassuring as a wolf spreading its fangs. Percy wisely lowered his gaze, though from the locked position of his jaw—the Earl didn’t appear ready to recant those words any time soon.

“Lord Percy,” Octavia murmured with deadly calm. “Would you care to expound upon that statement.”

“Certainly, your Grace,” Percy replied without a shred of hesitation.

‘Has he gone mad?’

“I think—” Nicholas quickly interjected as he grabbed Percy’s wrist and squeezed tightly “—that it’s been a while since my friend and I have seen each other. If you’ll excuse us.” He pushed back his chair and yanked the Earl from his seat.

“Nicholas.” Octavia’s calm tone only solidified the fear in his gut. “We still have to—”

For the first time, in a very long time, Nicholas blatantly ignored his grandmother as he led his old friend from the wolf’s jaws towards the nearest exit.

“Percy, wait!” the Countess called after them as she rose from her seat.

Beaumont opened the doors ahead of them and followed at their heels as Nicholas dragged the rigid Earl in the direction of the front doors.

Once they were outside on the palace steps, Percy shook his grip loose. “Thank you, your Majesty,” he growled and brushed past Nicholas down the steps, “but I can leave on my own.”

“Wait a minute!” Nicholas grabbed the Earl’s shoulder and turned him around. “Are you out of your mind, Percy?”

“I am not you, your Majesty,” Percy replied coldly. “I refuse to be manipulated by that woman.”

“You! You’re still holding onto those unfounded suspicions, even after all these years?” Nicholas scoffed as he ignored the sting of Percy’s words.

Percy inhaled slowly and brushed Nicholas’s grip from his shoulder. “I may barely remember my father’s face—or the sound of his voice, but I have not forgotten who had the most to gain from his death.”

“Percy!” Nicholas shook his head. “Do you honestly believe Lady Constance would support my grandmother if she believed the Dowager had anything to do with your father’s death.”

Percy stared back at him, frustration and anger slipped past the mask the Earl had learned to wear from a very young age. Then he stepped closer. “Do you still believe it was a coincidence Queen Catalina died a week after my father was murdered? Do you even remember how she looked like when she died, your Majesty?”

Nicholas’s hands curled into fists, and Beaumont moved warily closer.

“You know what?” Percy continued with a dismissive, cold smile. “I don’t need an answer.”

Beaumont’s hand caught Nicholas’s shoulder as Percy turned his back on the crown prince and continued down the steps.

“By the way,” Percy paused at the bottom step and turned back, his political mask once more in place. “Belated congratulations on your marriage to Princess Eleanora. Please be sure to treat my cousin with the respect she deserves. Her happiness and security are of the greatest importance to the Hawthorne family.”

‘Was that a threat?’

Nicholas’s fists tightened as the Earl turned around once more and continued towards the palace gate. Beaumont maintained his gentle grip long after the Hawthorne carriage pulled away from the entrance.

Nicholas jerked free as he pulled out his ceremonial sword, stormed towards the nearest garden bush, and hacked it to pieces. “Bastard!”

‘You bloody fool! Don’t you realize, digging into the death of the queens is what got Tristan killed!’

 

Chapter 80: A Brotherhood of Sorrow

The morning breeze barely subdued the heat of the rising sun as Nicholas arrived at the Iris Palace, accompanied as always by Captain Beaumont. The Hawthorne carriage, with its immaculate twin white raven crest, was parked beside the palace gate. The Earl’s retainers bowed their heads respectfully as the Crown Prince approached.

‘To think I haven’t seen Percy in person since Tristan’s funeral.’

Nicholas shook off the gloom that memory carried and offered the servants a faint smile as he urged his horse to canter past them. The palace steps loomed towards them. Nicholas couldn’t help but remember a time when he and Percy had played here under the watchful eyes of servants.

Once the boys had gotten older and wise enough to slip away from their escorts, they spent their time chasing after Tristan. The eldest prince was always climbing up one building or another, locked away in his studies, or mastering the sword under Colonel Durante’s tutelage. How jealous Nicholas and Percy had both been of Tristan, the golden Crown Prince.

But Nicholas had also been envious of Percy. Earl Ethan Hawthorne had no greater love than that for his country and his son. The Earl brought young Percy to the palace as soon as the boy could be separated from his nursemaid. He even went so far as to parade Percy on his shoulders during meetings before the House of Lords, a move which had inspired King Henri to invite Tristan into those meetings as part of his education to become Lafeara’s future king.

‘I was the only one who remained invisible.’

Nicholas dismounted and fidgeted with his ceremonial robes and sword. He didn’t have to dress up for such a small meeting, but this was Percy Hawthorne. King Henri had always treated Earl Ethan, his friend, and political ally, with the utmost respect.

“The jewel in every king’s crown is his queen, his strength is the might of the Lafearian Army, but the security of his reign lies in friendship to the House of Hawthorne.”

Those had been King Henri’s final words after yielding the crown and throne to Nicholas on his death bed. As if Nicholas needed further reminding that he was unworthy to be Henri’s successor.

Since childhood, Nicholas had grown up under the shadow of two names. One, his deceased older brother, the other, his estranged childhood friend. Now the added weight of the crown, and the ghosts it carried, rested uneasily upon his head.

‘And I haven’t even been officially coronated.’

“Your Majesty,” Beaumont said patiently as he waited behind the crown prince at the foot of the stairs.

“Have you got the documents?”

“I have.” Beaumont held out the white leather satchel. “Nervous?”

Nicholas snatched the bag of official documents. “No.” He slung the strap over his shoulder—decided it looked ridiculous against his ceremonial robes—took it off and adjusted the golden chain which bore the royal sigil of Lafeara’s three circling wolves. “You carry it.”

Beaumont accepted the satchel and tucked it under his arm without comment. Nicholas glared at the knight captain’s masterfully blank expression and turned to march up the steps.

‘Perhaps I should have worn something less formal. Will Percy think I’m trying to throw my position about?’

Captain Leo greeted them at the door of the Dowager’s palace with a respectful bow. “Good morning, your Majesty.” His gaze shifted past Nicholas to the silent giant. “Captain Beaumont.”

Nicholas glanced curiously over his shoulder, but Beaumont’s impenetrable expression remained in place as he ignored his half-brother’s greeting. Nicholas turned back to Captain Leo and loudly cleared his throat. “I assume the Earl of Hawthorne is already inside with the Queen Regent?”

“He is, your Majesty. The Countess of Hawthorne is also here.”

‘Lady Constance?’ Nicholas frowned but did not comment as the knight led them through the foyer. If there was one person that could match the Dowager’s imposing presence, impossible to please personality, and cold disapproving sneer—it was Lady Constance.

‘And to think, my reunion with Percy would be in a room with them both.’ Nicholas sighed and rested his hand on the hilt of the ceremonial sword.

Captain Leo bowed and stepped aside just outside the open dining room door. Nicholas stepped past him, trying to appear confident, even as he peered around the frame at the room’s occupants. A glance revealed his grandmother, the Countess, and Lord Percy all seated silently together as a servant poured tea. And Lord Percy, Nicholas noted with a flood of relief, was also dressed in his official ceremonial robes.

The page, who had been patiently waiting for Nicholas’s permission, caught the crown princes signal and announced, “His Majesty, Crown Prince Nicholas!”

The Countess and Earl both rose courteously to greet him. “Good morning, your Majesty.”

“Good morning, Countess,” Nicholas inclined his head to Percy’s mother and then turned to greet the Earl with a warm smile. “Lord Percy, it’s been a long time.”

“It has, your Majesty,” Percy replied with deference. “I apologize for not visiting sooner.”

“No need to be so formal,” Nicholas joked as he moved around the table to greet his old friend with a quick embrace. “You’ve been busy taking over leadership of the Aristocratic Party and doing an excellent job of it, I hear.”

“Thank you, your Majesty.” Percy stepped back from Nicholas’s reach and inclined his head respectfully.

Nicholas frowned as he lowered his arms. ‘Is this how things will be now between us?’

Compared to the two princes, Percy had always been better at following the rules of court, but he had never let them stand in the way of his friendship with Tristan and Nicholas.

Nicholas studied the young man before him. They were the same age, and both shared similar education, overly dominating mothers, or grandmother in Nicholas’s case, and the expectations of title and office. Still, by all reports, the Earl was a perfect model of noble ambition, intelligence, and perseverance—minus the temper he inherited from his father.

‘When this meeting is over, I should make some excuse to take him about the palace. Perhaps a visit to the royal library or the House of Lords? Somewhere he can relax and come out of his shell.’

Nicholas glanced between the Dowager and Countess, who watched them with unnerving concentration.

‘Somewhere not here…’

“Now that his Majesty has arrived,” Octavia said as she signaled the servant to prepare a drink for Nicholas. “We are ready to begin.”

“Some breakfast would be wonderful,” Nicholas grumbled as he moved over to kiss the Dowager’s cheek and then took his seat between her and Percy.

“The tea is more than sufficient for me,” Constance said with a stiff smile. “Thank you, your Grace.”

“And I also have another matter to deal with once we’ve finished here,” Percy replied apologetically. “Another time, your Majesty.”

‘So much for catching up later.’

“I’ll hold you to that,” Nicholas replied ruefully. He glanced between the Earl and Countess, not missing the awkward tension between them. “I suppose we should just get started then. These are the terms for renegotiation with Ventrayna. They passed through the House of Lords only yesterday, with some difficulty, so one or two minor things may change before Ambassador Haemish arrives.” Nicholas snapped his fingers, and Beaumont stepped forward to present the file from the satchel he carried. “But I believe the main points will remain relatively unchanged.”

Nicholas passed the document to Percy, who opened it without hesitation and read its contents with interest.

“Actually,” Octavia interjected as she stirred her tea. “There was another matter we wished to discuss with Lord Percy before we moved onto that.”

Nicholas turned towards her with a perplexed frown. “Was there something else we needed to discuss?” ‘If so, she certainly neglected to inform me.’ Nicholas shifted in his seat uneasily.

“It is an important matter the Countess and I have been working towards with the greatest hope and patience.”

“Indeed,” Percy remarked with a hint of cynicism as he rolled up the negotiations and turned his cold gaze towards his mother.

‘What on earth is going on between those two? I thought he was the perfect son.’

“Yes,” Constance replied with an unwavering smile of confidence. “The Dowager and I would like to move forward and officially announce Percy’s engagement to Lady Evelynn.”

Chapter 79: A Shadow of Deception

Several awkward moments later, Acheron and Rosamund were both dressed and now sat on opposite ends of the bed. The rogue held a piss pot between his knees, which he had already thrown up in twice but was not quite willing to part with.

“I can’t believe it was you of all people,” Rosamund whispered hoarsely.

“You sound like you’ve done this before,” Acheron observed cynically.

“Oh, shut it! You’re in no position to lecture me!”

“I’m not the one in a relationship with the future king!”

“What relationship?” Rosamund demanded. “He’s married now in case you forgot. I barely even see him!”

“So—did you start these nightly seductions before or after he married Eleanora?”

“I will not have my private life judged by the capital’s infamous rogue. Just because you’re a man and can flaunt your conquests doesn’t make you any less of a whore!”

“Yes, fine—I’m a manwhore, and I accept that. Excuse me if I’m unprepared to accept the fact that I’ve slept with my best friend’s mistress!”

“You think this is any better for me?”

“I don’t know—From what I can tell, I may not be your first affair since Nicholas.”

“Don’t you dare speak his name!”

“Are you being serious right now?” Acheron glared down at the contents of last night’s many poor choices. All of his mother’s warnings about the “consequences of sins” collided between his ears. ‘Women will be the death of me.’ He shook his head, set the pot down, and turned to face her. “Honestly, instead of wasting time on pointless dramatics and blame—can we just talk about what we’re going to do now?”

Rosamund half-turned towards him, her face curtained beneath her platinum hair as tears rolled down pale cheeks and spilled over her sultry lips. Even in this state, she was strikingly beautiful—and yet all Acheron could feel looking at her now was the immense weight of guilt that made him want to retch again.

“You-You’re not going to tell him—are you?” she asked weakly.

“Fuck!” Acheron slid his hands into his cinnamon curls as he turned away from her. “No,” he admitted with a groan.

“Then—you need to leave,” Rosamund said as her timid tone turned suddenly forceful. “Before the maid comes back.”

‘Shit—right—Nicholas mentioned getting her a maid.’

Acheron wasted no time gathering every piece of clothing that belonged to him before he hastily scrambled towards her bedroom door.

“Wait!” Rosamund hissed as she rose from the bed. “Too late to go that route, she’s here.”

“What?” Acheron scowled even as he heard a door open below them.

“Shh! You’ll have to climb down the back ivy.” Rosamund circled the bed and opened a window that led to the yard. “I’m sure you can handle escaping unnoticed,” she commented with an acid tone.

Acheron brushed past her and glanced over the window ledge. Sure enough, a dense growth of ivy had woven itself up the walls stone crevices.

“Nothing I haven’t tackled before,” he admitted as he climbed over the ledge. He paused just as his descent brought his gaze level with Rosamund’s womanly curves. “Ah—” he swallowed and glanced up towards her clover-green eyes that stared back with evident displeasure. “You might want to fix your hair,” he suggested with a faint grin. “And your lipstick. Pretty sure you left some of that on my—”

She slammed the window shut in his face, and Acheron almost lost his grip as he scrambled to save his fingers. He bit back a curse as he seized a fist full of ivy in each hand and hugged the wall as the vines creaked against his weight. A heart-stopping moment later, the ivy held, and Acheron carefully made his way down the wall.

At the top of the kitchen window, the sound of running water and moving dishware forced him to stop. Twice he saw the maid’s reflection in the windowpane as she prepared a tray of food for her mistress upstairs. His stomach grumbled at the smell of eggs and fresh bacon, but instead of hungry, it only made him nauseous again.

A crow cawed mockingly from a dogwood tree as Acheron contemplated jumping down the rest of the way. A quick recollection of his last experience jumping through a window changed his mind. Unlike Maura, he had an aversion for pain.

The moment he thought of that cold little lady, Beaumont’s menacing scowl came instantly to mind. Acheron beat his forehead softly against the stone wall. ‘Perhaps celibacy is the way to go—at least I’ll live longer.’

The maid finally left the kitchen, and Acheron quickly scaled down the wall and darted through the bushes out of sight towards the road—like a rogue.

Russell beamed with evident approval as Percy descended the stairs of Hawthorne Manor dressed in ceremonial court robes. “Good morning, Master.”

Percy accepted his hat, and the late Earl’s cane then stood still as Russell fussed over the official gold medal that marked Percy as the Leader of the Aristocratic Party. “Good morning, is Mother not up yet?”

“The Countess already left, my Lord.” Russell stepped back to retrieve his master’s summer cape.

“Left?” Percy turned so the servant could place the garment around his shoulders. “I wasn’t aware she was going out.”

“She mentioned visiting Lady Maura now that the Selection is over.”

Percy’s grip on the cane tightened. He nodded, checked the clasp of his cape, and headed for the door. “I’ll be heading out then.”

“Veles blessing upon you, Earl of Hawthorne.”

The Hawthorne carriage and servants waited for him outside. The footmen opened the door and bowed as Percy climbed in. He settled into the cushioned seat as they shut the door behind him and hastened to take their post at the back of the carriage.

“Morning, Master.” Captain Flint, leader of the mercenary group that Percy had hired to handle his public protection, tipped his hat as he bowed courteously from atop his energetic mare.

“You and your men will not be permitted inside the palace-fortress, so wait for me in the capital,” Percy reminded him.

“Understood, Veles blessing upon you, my Lord.”

Percy nodded dismissively then tapped his cane against the driver’s window. The light flick of a whip proceeded the evenly paced hooves of a well-trained team. ‘Only the best for a meeting with Lafeara’s future king.’ Percy smiled thinly as he balanced the cane beneath his forefinger and studied its black-metal crow sculpted head.

It had been some time since he had last spoken to or even seen Nicholas. Not since the capital funeral for Prince Tristan.

‘I was your brother’s friend and strongest supporter back then. I watched your family bury an empty coffin while you took his crown and Eleanora. What a shame you can’t win the support of the Aristocratic Party that easily.’

While the nation grieved the sudden death of Queen Rosalind a week after the Earl’s funeral, only Tristan remembered Percy. After the Countess all but locked her young son away inside Hawthorne Manor, the crown prince had made every effort to visit, even if that meant scaling the walls and climbing through windows to avoid the Countess and servants.

Percy had found these unexpected visits annoying at first, especially with the added risk of Tristan bumping into a member of the Coven of Crows. He knew full well that each Monarch relied on the Earl of Hawthrone to control the nobles of Lafeara. But it didn’t take him long to realize that Tristan had no agenda, other than mutual empathy that stemmed from the loss of his own mother, Queen Catalina.

Percy had made use of that kindness to the fullest—until Constance banned Tristan from coming anywhere near Percy. “This is all for your protection,” his mother had promised.

It was around that time that the Countess had stumbled upon Lady Maura and taken an instant liking to the half-blood. Percy began to see the funny-faced girl everywhere, though Maura had taken great pains to avoid approaching or intruding into his space.

Back then and even now, her ice-blue eyes always held a wary expression whenever she looked at him. As if she could see past the mask that he wore for everyone else.

Percy’s lips twitched with a mocking smile as he drew in a deep breath. The carriage slowed as instructed, a safe distance from Hawthorn Estate. The footman alighted and opened the door so that a woman, shadowed in a black cloak, could enter.

“Have you anything to report?” Percy asked as the coven witch settled into the seat opposite him.

“Our eyes on the crown prince’s whore reported another stray dog leaving her room,” the woman replied as she arranged the cloak, crossed her legs, and brushed her ankle against him intentionally. “It seems the whore’s desperation has made her even more reckless.”

Percy moved her leg away with his cane as he dispelled the bewitchment charm that gave her voice an alluring power. “Behave.”

She chuckled but uncrossed her legs and sat in a more dignified manner. “As you wish.”

“So? Was it anyone notable this time?”

Beneath the shadows of the cloak’s hood, her seductive lips formed into a thin line.

Percy tapped the window again with his cane and waited until the carriage continued its journey. “What is it?”

“My sisters and I are concerned,” the coven witch replied as she glanced out the carriage window.

“About the priest?”

“And his witch hunter.” She tapped a gloved finger thoughtfully against her cloak. “Perhaps it would be more beneficial to our long-term goals to give them the witch they’re looking for?”

Percy’s grip tightened around his cane as he searched the magic that shadowed her face. “You know that is impossible.”

Her smile twisted with amusement. “Why, have you become attached?”

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” he reminded her bluntly. The witch’s anger rippled through the air around them as shadows stretched from her dark figure. “And the coven is more than capable of dealing with a curious priest and his hound.”

“True,” she murmured with a faint sneer. “But—to attack them directly could draw even more attention—possibly the Pope’s gaze.”

“We have safety measures in place should Jericho wish to strike Lafeara with an inquisition. Besides, I don’t think Nicholas has the stomach for public burnings.”

“Your father once said the same thing about Henri,” she pointed out with a shake of her head. “And yet, after the Earl died, Henri burned four of our sisters and blamed them for the Earl’s death.”

“There are causalities in every war.” Percy shrugged. “We got rid of Henri. We can do the same to Nicholas if needs be.”

“It isn’t Nicholas, but the old bitch that worries us.”

“Ah—” his gaze sharped as he offered her a cold smile “—you know I have special plans for the Dowager, be patient. Meanwhile, remind your coven that if anything unfortunate should befall Lady Maura, I will hold them and you personally accountable.”

Her scarlet smile revealed pearly white teeth as she leaned against her hand towards him with a leer. “If you truly want her protected, why not make Maura your bride?”

“There is time enough for that,” Percy replied stiffly.

“To see you so worried about another woman’s feelings—I feel a bit jealous.”

Percy’s winter-gray eyes focused warily on the shadows of her face.

“I could always invite Lady Maura to join the coven. She would be much safer—”

“No, I will handle that,” Percy interrupted sharply. “I have someone more capable and trustworthy in mind. You already failed to keep her from passing the Selection.”

The woman shifted uncomfortably beneath his gaze. “How was I to know she’d continue despite her injury.” She pouted as she sat back and toyed with the ruby necklace at her throat. “Though I must say, her tenacity is a trait I quite admire.”

“Have the crows keep watch and keep a discreet distance,” Percy commanded. “She is far too valuable to lose to that cunt or the crown prince.”

“As you wish.”

“What of the poison I asked you to look into?”

“Poison?”

Percy’s gaze narrowed at the odd ring in her tone. “Yes, the one that Lady Helena used when Maura was injured.”

“Ahh, yes.” Her hooded gaze returned to the carriage window, but he didn’t miss her displeased frown. “My sisters detected nothing unusual. It might have increased her chances of having a scar, but there was nothing life-threatening.”

“So, unless the person is already injured, it serves no purpose?” Percy sighed with disappointment. “Then again, if Hayes could pick up on it so easily, a royal physician would likely spot it even quicker. Shame, such an unusual poison for such a simple result.”

“If the Earl requires a more lethal, discreet poison, my sisters and I are happy to oblige.”

“I’m aware, but your poisons involve the use of magic.” Percy tapped his signet ring against the cane’s black crow head. “Now, before we arrive at the first checkpoint. Tell me, who did Lady Rosamund fuck this time?”