The dawn over Valemont bled crimson, as though the city itself had been wounded by the death of Evander Dravienne. From the tallest spires of Belvoir to the damp alleys of Marshwalk, whispers carried like smoke—whispers of a war no one dared name aloud.
Lucien Dravienne stood before the high arched windows of the Dravienne estate, a fortress of stone and shadow. His reflection on the glass looked too much like his father's—sharp cheekbones, eyes burning with an intelligence that cut deeper than any blade. He hated that resemblance. Evander had ruled with fear; Lucien wanted something sharper, something cleaner. But power was never clean in Valemont.
Behind him, Jade's laughter broke the silence. It was light and cruel, echoing off the marble.
"You brood like him too," she said, slipping into the chamber in her emerald gown. "If I close my eyes, I could almost believe Father still lives."
Lucien turned, jaw tight. "Careful, sister. There are ears everywhere, and not all of them loyal."
Jade sauntered closer, brushing her hand across the arm of his chair before dropping into it with theatrical ease. "And what do you call loyalty these days, brother? The wolves? The witches? Or the bastard hybrid you pretend is blood?"
The mention of Cassien made Lucien's hands clench. Cassien—the half-brother he had never wanted, born of his father's sins with a witch. The boy carried both fire and ruin in his veins.
"He is Dravienne," Lucien said at last, the words as much a curse as a truth.
Before Jade could retort, the chamber doors opened with a violent crash. Nyra Vale strode in, her cloak dripping rainwater, eyes blazing like stormlight. The witch didn't bow, didn't soften. She never did.
"Your house is crumbling, Lucien," she declared. "Rand DuMonte moves in the Cantrie. The Versiera coven gathers in Marshwalk. And the whispers of the prophecy grow louder by the hour. You have days—at most—before Valemont eats itself alive."
Lucien studied her, expression unreadable. In her defiance, in her fury, he saw something dangerous… and something useful.
"Then," he said, stepping closer, his voice soft as velvet, "we give them a reason to fear us more than they fear each other."
Nyra's lips curved, not in agreement, but in challenge. "And what of Cassien? He may be the reason they rise—or the weapon that destroys you."
For a moment, the chamber held only silence, heavy as the storm outside.
Lucien finally smiled, sharp and cold. "Then let him choose which ashes he belongs to."