Chapter 19 – Blood in the Hall
The banners of the Luther Clan flew half-mast.
Jean dismounted at the gates of Whitehearth Citadel, her armor scorched and her expression grim. Whitney walked beside her, silent and tense. Behind them, Cassien rode in under disguise, his presence concealed under an envoy's cloak.
But it wasn't the ash of Mount Narthul that filled the air.
It was mourning.
She was met by one of the Envoy Knights—Sir Renald, a veteran with deep scars and deeper loyalties.
"Jean," he said, falling into step. "You should've returned a day earlier."
Jean froze. "What happened?"
Renald's jaw tightened.
"Leon Luther is dead."
Her breath caught. "...Leon?"
Her older brother. Her twin by bond if not by birth. The gentle tactician, always with a book in one hand and a dagger he never wanted to use in the other.
She had sparred with him just before leaving for Pyraxis.
"How?" she asked.
"Poison," Renald said. "At the Feast of Arms. Just after he declared his intent to support you in the succession."
Her hand gripped the Radiant Fang tightly.
"Who—?"
"No proof. But everyone's whispering the same name: Sylas."
Her second-eldest brother.
Cold. Brilliant. A strategist with no soul. He had once studied under the Magus Family in secret before returning home with a half-scarred face and a new hatred for magic.
"He said nothing at the council," Jean muttered. "But he watched me like a serpent."
Renald nodded. "He made his move while you were gone. He's rallied three outer houses to his banner and claimed your absence as abandonment."
Jean stepped into the Great Hall.
Silence fell.
Every head turned. Some bowed. Some flinched.
At the high table sat Charles Luther, unmoved by the tension. To his right sat Silvia, arms folded, eyes cold.
And to his left…
Sylas.
His pale eyes met Jean's with practiced calm.
"Welcome back, sister," he said. "We feared you were dead. Tragic, isn't it? How fleeting life is."
Jean's steps echoed across the marble floor as she stopped before the Patriarch's throne.
"I'll mourn my brother," she said, her voice like steel, "after I bury his killer."
Charles rose slowly, cane in hand.
"The Succession War was meant to be honorable," he said, voice heavy with restrained wrath. "Now, blood stains our halls before a victor is even chosen."
He pointed between Jean and Sylas.
"Then let it be tested. Two contenders. Two banners. Your followers will clash in a Trial by Fire. Whoever claims victory at Luthmere Field in one week… advances. The other?"
His voice dropped.
"Will withdraw. Or die."
---