The Readers confirmed the cache contents had been in Demare's house before vanishing. Whether by design or accident, Anna had hidden those documents so thoroughly that even our best Readers couldn't retrieve them.
The interrogation proved... taxing. All defiance and sharp edges. Even her righteous father had been easier to break. But this one? Like shards of glass in a wound—each fragment twisting deeper. Who'd have thought she'd dare use blood magic in an Inquisition cell? Breaking that fighting spirit would be... satisfying. Dousing the fire in those shameless blue eyes.
"Captain Kiron."
The measured tap of a cane announced Dirac's approach.
(Just what I needed.)
I turned to face him, schooling my features into neutrality.
"General Dirac." A crisp salute. "How may I serve?"
"I'm told you've detained Demare."
(Naturally. Couldn't resist sticking your nose in.)
"Yes, General."
"Interrogated her already?"
Dirac always spoke with deliberate sweetness, that infuriating habit of lilting his sentences upward grating like nails on stone. Even the plaster on the walls seemed to crumble at the sound of his voice.
"I'm so curious what... revelations you've wrung from that rebellious little bird. They say she's quite... prickly," he crooned, syrup-thick.
(Prickly? Oh, you'd know all about breaking wings, you carrion-fed hyena.)
"Interrogations will proceed by protocol, General. Thus far, Miss Demare has provided us with—" A calculated pause. "—vivid demonstrations of her stubbornness."
Click. Cane tip on stone. A step closer.
"Don't dawdle, Kiron. Retrieve the documents and hand them to their rightful keepers. Parsing them is above your station. Far too lofty for an upstart." His smile didn't reach his eyes. "You do recall what happens to those who overreach?"
"Oh, I recall, General. Every lesson." I kept my tone carefully neutral.
(I remember every precious lesson of yours.)
"This matter falls under General Glover's jurisdiction. My reports go to him alone."
Dirac closed the distance between us, straightening despite the cane propping him up, the same one he'd needed ever since etheric corruption ate through his right leg. Yet even now, he radiated that same condescending superiority. His words echoed down the narrow hall, bouncing off the mottled gray walls.
"Don't overestimate your protection, boy. Glover is far away. While I... I am here." His finger jabbed into my chest as his voice dropped to a venomous whisper. "And I know you too well. Know how you extract information. One complaint, one witness—" The cane tapped ominously against the floor. "—and your house of cards collapses. Along with your career."
I held his reptilian gaze, breathing through my mouth to avoid the stench of wine and spiced meat on his breath as he leaned closer.
"Break her too soon, or gods forbid, lose the trail to those documents—"
"General, General," I countered, taking a deliberate step back and running a gloved hand along my jawline. The faint scent of my cologne from the leather was a small, defiant pleasure. "You underestimate my modest talents. Can one truly lose what's already so... artfully hidden? The documents will be recovered. Anna Demare will break. And it will happen under my meticulous direction." A curt, mocking bow. "You, of course, are welcome to observe from the front row. Or not. I couldn't care less. Now if you'll excuse me—"
His cane lashed out, hooking my ankle. I barely sidestepped the trap, but a hissed curse escaped me anyway.
"Run along, run along..." Dirac crooned, his smile a gash of yellowed teeth. "You always did know when to retreat. Remember crawling under that cot when they came searching? I can still smell that stench of fear on you."
(You bastard. One day I'll shove that rotten cane down your throat.)
I straightened my jacket, shoulders squared.
"I'm afraid I don't follow, General," I said through clenched teeth.
"Don't you?" A quiet chuckle escaped him. "You will soon, Captain," he emphasized the rank with deliberate condescension.
(You know damn well I'm aware of your patronage. You elevated me in your little power games just to pull my strings like a puppet.)
"When you find yourself in the cell across from your rebellious songbird," his saccharine voice dripped into my ears as his cane clicked against the floor again. He stepped closer, brushing imaginary dust from my shoulder. "Don't hold back. We need results. Quickly. The walls here are thick. She can scream all she wants. You remember, don't you?"
I remained silent.
"Ah, and speaking of... My leg is particularly troublesome today. It reminds me of an insufferable little upstart."
My jaw tightened until it ached.
"Is that all, General?"
"Yes. You're dismissed, Captain Kiron."
I gathered the shattered remnants of my pride, straightened my posture, and strode away without a parting salute. But I forced myself not to walk too fast. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction of seeing just how badly I wanted to be a thousand kilometers from this viper.
One of the junior officers scurried toward me with a report, snapping into a salute like an overeager fawn. I didn't even register who it was because my mind was elsewhere. With every step putting distance between me and the epicenter of my hatred, my pace quickened on its own. I barked orders at the guards to admit no visitors without my explicit approval and was out the doors like a shot.
A carriage waited at the entrance. Heavy raindrops drummed against my protective cocoon, as if mocking me. Ever since that blood magic stunt with Demare in the cell, drawing energy from the stones had become laborious—like trying to force jelly through a straw. Even the smallest exertion of power felt like dislodging a boulder.
Blood magic always demanded payment.
I'd known that in theory. Now, thanks to Anna, I knew it in practice.
She'd shattered a suppression sigil. Unexpected. That meant direct physical contact with blood operated differently than channeled sigils—stronger, more volatile. Likely tied to the parasitic nature of those entities.
(Need to pry the documents' location from Demare. The sooner I uncover the origins of those creatures, the more leverage I'll have against Dirac.)
Inside the carriage, I dissolved the cocoon with relief and slumped against the seat. The scents of wet cobblestone and pine seeped through the window, cooling my anger. The crisp air dulled the budding migraine.
Soon, the rain-threaded gloom gave way to the illuminated windows of the Alcasar estate which was a gleaming island of a life I'd never tasted. My wayward mother could only dream of luxury behind those sculpted hedges and wrought-iron gates. She'd lived in the pages of books, buried under parchment in her Archive cubby, promising we'd trade our squalid closet for a quaint house with a garden. Instead, I got a bunk in the cadet barracks and an order to "be strong, care for yourself and others."
As if anyone had cared for that scrawny twelve-year-old boy.
Well. At least the cadets were fed decent meals and not the petrified gruel my mother served, which hardened into cement by lunch. Call it a varied menu.
I pushed aside the childhood memories, swallowing back the bile of nostalgia, and stepped out of the carriage. Straightening my uniform with deliberate care, I ascended the mansion's steps where the butler already waited, bowing slightly as he held the door open.
"Good evening, Captain Kiron."
"Good evening."
The bright marble floors, dark wood-paneled walls, and shimmering crystal chandeliers enveloped me instantly with an illusion of prosperity. Tempting. Seductive. Tangible.
But not for me.
Dirac's voice hissed in my mind, reminding me that a wretch like me deserved nothing more than a bowl of thin soup and the lash.
The ornate mirrors of the grand foyer caught my irritated reflection. I forced composure, slipping on the mask of joy.
(Joy with the aftertaste of decay.)
The Alcasars lived as if tomorrow would never come—that inevitable day of reckoning. Parties, celebrations, gifts. Everything was the epitome of carefree extravagance. I doubted my soft, doe-eyed fiancée had ever known true hunger or agonized over whether to wash her clothes at night, lest they wouldn't dry by morning.
(Stop. That's the past. You're not there anymore. Not that shivering boy in a soaked jacket.)
The clamor of voices, bright laughter, and the clinking of silverware. It was time to don the mask. Beyond the drawing room doors, carefree life bubbled like a fountain. My entrance was met with Olivia's delighted exclamation as she detached herself from her flock of friends and floated toward me in a swirl of gossamer fabrics.
We still maintained decorum before our official union, so I pressed a dutiful kiss to her knuckles—and suddenly, memory superimposes Anna's lips closing around her own bloodied finger—
I blinked the vision away, though the phantom scrape of it lingered in my chest.
"How was your day, my dear future Mrs. Kiron?" My voice was its usual polished blend of warmth and detachment.
(Now you'll list every gown you tried on, recite the gallery's guest list, and drown me in who-said-what gossip.)
I braced to nod and exclaim on cue while mentally dissecting how to recover those missing documents. To ensure my performance, I brushed Olivia's mind with a subtle pull of power—just enough to stoke her eagerness to chatter. Let her fill the air with trifles; I needed the space to think.
The clusters of empty glasses littering side tables and consoles signaled dinner would soon be served. Servants moved like shadows, clearing the remnants of canapés and champagne. I nodded at guests, half-listened to Olivia's chatter, and scanned the room for her father. Steering Lord Alcasar's reasoning in the right direction could prove pivotal to my current objectives.
With a featherlight brush of my knuckles against Olivia's wrist, I redirected her attention—just enough to elicit a blush, to leave her craving more.
"It seems your day has been... exceptionally eventful."
"No time for boredom," she replied with a self-satisfied smile. "But enough about me. How was yours?"
(Tread carefully, Captain Kiron. This bridge is narrow.)
A measured sigh, which was weighty enough to convey unease but not so dramatic as to trigger immediate pity.
"There's something I need to discuss with you." Hesitation laced my words as I gauged her emotional readiness. Not yet. "Though it can wait. I won't spoil such a lovely evening." A pause, then a smile designed to disarm. "Besides, I feel much better now that I'm here."
There—the spark of curiosity took root. Now to let it grow.
"Is this about those rebels?"
I shook my head, leaving the question hanging—let her mind spin with possibilities.
The rich aromas of roasted meat and spiced peppers curled through the air, mingling with the clink of silverware. The scent conjured an unwelcome image of Dirac's wine-stained breath. Arm in arm with Olivia, I followed the guests into the glittering dining room, where an opulent table groaned under the weight of gilded platters. I held her chair as she arranged her skirts, my gaze lingering on the delicate curve of her neck beneath those artfully pinned curls—then skipped, unbidden, to another neck, smelling of campfire and wettness of rain.
"Alexander, dear! How good to see you." Tadeusz Alcasar's voice boomed across the table. "Olivia mentioned you've been buried in work."
He extended a hand. I clasped it with calibrated firmness.
"Thank you for having me, Lord Alcasar. Yes, the past few days have been... demanding."
"Anything to do with this Demare business?"
He settled his bulk drapped in peach jacket into the chair at the head of the table, nodding absently at a cousin before tossing greetings around the room like coins. Only then did his attention drift back to me.
(You overstuffed fox. Playing the pillar of justice while swapping masters with every shift in the wind.)
The ghost of a smirk nearly escaped me before I schooled my expression back to professional neutrality.
"In part. The Inquisition is merely doing its duty to maintain order."
"A dreadful business," Alcasar sighed, shaking his head. "I knew her father. Brilliant mind. Pity the daughter chose to follow rebel footsteps."
"Papa!" Olivia's knife clattered against her plate. "Anna would never—"
"My dear," Alcasar cut in, his tone making it clear he wouldn't tolerate his daughter's reputation being entangled with this scandal, "you don't know the half of it. The Demares appear to have been collaborating with seditionists. I wouldn't wish to tarnish Adam and Veronica's name, but what the investigators have already uncovered..." He took a deliberate sip of wine. "Our Anna has strayed down a dark path, I fear."
"You can't be serious!" Olivia's wide eyes darted between me and her father as she fumbled for words. "Anna saved your life!" Her fingers dug into my sleeve like talons.
I placed a reassuring hand over hers.
"Darling, we all hope for the best. But facts are stubborn things. The Inquisition has irrefutable evidence."
"Quite right," Alcasar murmured, already half-distracted by the pâté. "Leave it to the professionals."
"Evidence of what?" Olivia persisted. "Papa, we've known Anna practically our entire lives! She would never—"
"Darling," her father said in a hushed tone, his gaze sharpening with a silent warning—such outbursts wouldn't be tolerated in front of guests. "Sometimes those closest to us turn out to be strangers."
The fact that Alcasar had laid it all out for Olivia only played into my hands. I merely stoked the flames.
"Sweetheart," I murmured, leaning closer, "remember that incident at the restaurant? The terrorist attack?"
Olivia's eyes flickered to mine, uncertain, before she gave a hesitant nod.
"And do you recall how Anna saved me?"
(Come on, little dove. Choose the right answer.)
Her fingers twisted in her napkin. "But Alexander, without... that—" She couldn't bring herself to say it aloud—the damning truth. "—you would have died."
"I know. Believe me, I know." I let my voice thicken with false gratitude. "But that doesn't make her actions any more lawful."
Carefully, so carefully, I nudged her emotions, shifting her focus from Anna to the raw, clawing fear of losing me. My touch on her mind was featherlight, just enough to steer without leaving traces. Alcasar wouldn't suspect a thing.
"None of this makes sense," Olivia whispered, her chilled fingers brushing my hand.
For a fleeting moment, identical expressions of doubt flickered across her round, pampered face and her father's.
"Everything will be fine," I assured her.
(For me, at least.)
I gently dulled the edges of her anxiety, steering the conversation toward safer waters. Too much truth too quickly could breach the dam and sweep her loyalties to shores I didn't control.
Through dinner, I played the perfect fiancé—attentive to Olivia's chatter, exchanging polished jabs with Alcasar, complimenting each course. Yet occasionally, I caught Tadeusz's assessing gaze and knew he saw the tension coiled beneath my performance. No amount of stroking his ego would fool him. And probing his mind? A fool's gamble.
When Olivia excused herself to oversee dessert service, her father and I retreated to his study. He poured me a brandy without asking.
"So, Captain," Alcasar began, sinking into his chair with a groan—the buttons of his waistcoat straining valiantly. "How fares the Demare investigation? The Inquisition expects swift results, I presume?"
I took a measured sip, letting the burn steady me.
"The case remains under investigation, Lord Alcazar. We're following protocol to the letter."
He snorted into his glass.
"Protocols." Alcasar swirled his brandy with a derisive snort. "We both know how flexible those can be... when certain family interests are at stake. And yet..." His gaze turned uncharacteristically pensive. "The girl is practically family to us."
A familiar icy disgust crept down my spine—Dirak used the same tone when feigning sentimentality. Both men would throw anyone under the wheels of progress to protect their positions.
"I fully understand this case's importance to the city's stability," I replied carefully, taking another measured sip. "Believe me, I take no pleasure in Anna's predicament."
"Yes, yes... And to my family's stability, Captain." Alcasar's voice softened into a velvet threat. "My daughter is happy with you. Her future, her standing—all rests on our unblemished reputation. Any... complications... in the Demare affair could cast shadows. Shadows that would reach Olivia."
(Of course, dear future father-in-law. What's one girl's life against your cozy nest at the generals' feet?)
"Your family's reputation is beyond reproach, Lord Alcasar," I said, choosing each word like a chess move. "The Inquisition deeply values your contributions to our legal system. And as a soon-to-be member of this family..." I leaned forward slightly. "...I'll ensure the Demare matter concludes swiftly and favorably. For everyone's benefit. Especially Olivia's."
Our eyes locked.
"You have my word—no complications will touch your daughter's happiness or your family's name. You can rely on me."
Alcasar studied me for several long seconds before his face broke into a satisfied, wine-flushed grin.
"I never doubted it, my boy. Never." He raised his glass. "To a successful resolution?"
It took every ounce of control to keep my pleasant half-smile in place when he called me boy. Our glasses clinked in the study's heavy silence.
"To success."
The taste of ash lingered on my tongue long after I returned to my barracks quarters hours later. Finally, silence and simplicity after the suffocating opulence of the Alcasar mansion. The cramped, almost ascetic room felt like a balm compared to their gilded excess.
I tossed my uniform jacket over the chairback, undid my collar, and rubbed my temples, trying to dispel the throbbing behind my eyes.
(Dirac. Alcasar. Olivia. All pulling their strings like master puppeteers.)
But there was another.
The thought of her crept in unexpectedly, like a draft under the door. Anna Demare in her cell. No noble patrons, no connections, no pretenses. Just a girl with a knife for a tongue and blood that burned brighter than all the chandeliers in the Alcasar mansion.
I lit the lamp, and its frail glow carved the sparse barracks room from the darkness—rough walls, a utilitarian desk, a narrow cot without ornament. No mirrors to catch reflections, no servants to seek approval from. Just me and the silence.
(And her.)
I pictured her in that cell: not broken, not humbled, but furious as a caged beast. Even now, stripped of everything, she remained... whole. There was a challenge in that.
(She used blood magic. In her cell. Right in front of me.)
The corner of my mouth twitched against my will. Reckless. Insane. And yet—
I reached for the case files on my desk. The documents were gone, but their traces remained. As did her defiance.
(Tomorrow.)