The library became my sanctuary. Over the next few days, I fell into a strange, fractured routine. Mornings were for Rowan. We explored the solarium, a breathtaking indoor jungle with a real waterfall and butterflies that glittered like jewels. We played games in the cavernous suite, and I did my best to project an aura of normalcy, of adventure, for his sake. He was adapting with the terrifying resilience of a child, already treating the talking walls and instant-pancake deliveries as perfectly normal.
Afternoons, while Rowan napped or was entertained by the endless wonders of the tower, were mine. I would descend to the 77th floor, to the quiet, dust-scented world of Silas and his books.
True to his word, Silas was a willing, if cryptic, guide. He never gave me a direct answer, but he would always point me to the right shelf, the right chapter. I devoured books on the Coven, on vampire weaknesses, on the political structures of the European courts. I was a sponge, soaking up every drop of knowledge, my mind sharpening with every page I turned. My hunter's instincts were being honed not in dark alleys, but in the silent heart of the enemy's fortress.
Rhyian kept his distance. He was a ghost in our new life, a dark presence at the edge of my vision. I knew he was watching. The system—his system—catered to our every need. A new sketchbook for Rowan, a specific blend of tea for me. His silent oversight was a constant, unnerving reminder of his control.
Our truce was a cold war, fought in silent breakfasts and brief, formal exchanges in the hallway. We talked of logistics, of security, of Rowan's needs. We never spoke of the prophecy again. It lay between us, a sleeping dragon we were both afraid to wake.
On the third day, our cold war was interrupted.
I was in the library, deep in a tome describing the internal power struggles of the Ash-Scythe Coven, when the elevator doors opened with a hiss. It wasn't Silas. It was a man I didn't recognize, dressed in the severe, all-black tactical uniform of the Sovereign's Guard. He was young for a vampire, his face sharp and angular, his blond hair cropped short. His blue eyes were like chips of ice, and they swept the room with a quick, dismissive arrogance before landing on me.
"You're the human," he stated, not a question but a judgment. He strode toward me, his boots making no sound on the marble floor. "The Sovereign requires your presence. Now."
I bristled at his tone. He radiated an aggressive, militant energy that set my teeth on edge.
"And you are?" I asked, deliberately keeping my voice level, not closing my book. Serafina's lesson echoed in my mind: don't look like a frightened rabbit.
His lips thinned.
"I am Joric, Captain of the Sovereign's Guard. And I don't have time for pleasantries. Let's go."
"I'm in the middle of something," I said, turning a page with a slow, deliberate motion. "The Sovereign can wait."
Joric's hand shot out and slammed the heavy book shut with a loud crack that echoed through the library.
"The Sovereign does not wait," he snarled, leaning over the table, his face inches from mine. "And I don't take orders from his bedwarmers. You are a civilian liability. A distraction. The only reason you're breathing is because he commanded it. Now, move."
The insult, so blunt and crude, barely registered. It was the condescending way he dismissed me, the utter contempt in his eyes, that ignited my temper. I rose from my chair slowly, meeting his icy stare without flinching.
"Captain," I said, my voice dangerously soft. "You're right. I am a civilian. Which means if you ever put your hands on my property again, I'll take one of yours off. Permanently."
A flicker of genuine surprise crossed his face, followed by a dark, humorless chuckle.
"You've got a mouth on you, I'll give you that. Let's see if you have anything to back it up."
He turned and marched toward the elevator, expecting me to follow like an obedient dog. With a deep, steadying breath, I did. Arguing with the guard captain was a battle I couldn't win, but I had made my point.
He led me not to the penthouse suite, but to a different floor. The elevator opened into a room that was the polar opposite of the library. It was a high-tech command center, all sleek black surfaces, holographic displays, and glowing maps. Rhyian stood in the center of the room, staring at a large, three-dimensional map of Cinderfall City that floated in the air.
"There was a breach," Rhyian said without turning as we entered. "A low-level contact of ours in the Undercroft. He was found dead an hour ago. Coven work. Messy."
Joric stepped forward.
"Sovereign, we believe they were trying to send a message. His location was less than half a mile from the human's former... residence." He shot a pointed look at me. "They are still sniffing around her trail. She is a beacon for them."
"I am aware, Captain," Rhyian said, his voice clipped. He finally turned, his silver eyes landing on me. "We've intercepted their communications. It's heavily encrypted, but we've managed to isolate a recurring phrase."
He gestured to a holographic screen. A string of jagged, unfamiliar symbols glowed in crimson.
"Silas cannot identify the dialect. It's an older version of a runic language. But my intelligence team believes the root word translates to 'vessel' or 'container'."
My blood ran cold. The mortal vessel shall be shattered.
"They know about the prophecy," I whispered, the realization dawning.
"It would appear so," Rhyian said, his expression grim. "Which means the traitor in this court didn't just give them your location. They gave them the one piece of information that would make them hunt Rowan with religious fanaticism. They don't just want his power; they want to see the prophecy fulfilled. They want to see him break his vessel."
"Then the traitor is a true believer," I murmured, my mind racing. "Someone who wants the Dravos line to fall."
"Or someone who wants to see me fall," Rhyian corrected, his gaze intense. "Someone who believes my... affection... for a human has made me weak." His eyes flickered to Joric, then back to me. The unspoken accusation hung in the air. Joric's jaw tightened, but he remained silent.
"We need to know more," Rhyian continued. "The dead contact was supposed to meet another informant tonight. A ghoul-runner named Twitch. He operates out of the old catacombs beneath Mercy-Graves cemetery. He won't talk to my men. He's terrified. But he might talk to a neutral party."
"You want to send one of your human servants?" Joric scoffed. "Twitch will eat them for breakfast."
"No," Rhyian said, his silver eyes locking onto mine. "I'm sending her."
Silence. Joric stared at Rhyian as if he had lost his mind. I stared at him in disbelief.
"Sovereign, that is insane," Joric burst out. "She's untrained! She's a liability! Sending her down there is a suicide mission!"
"Am I?" I asked softly, stepping forward. I looked Rhyian in the eye, a silent challenge passing between us. My years of hunting in the shadows, my secret skills, my Aethel blood—he knew nothing of it. To him, this was a gamble. To me, it was an opportunity.
"You want me to go into the catacombs and interrogate a ghoul-runner?" I asked him, my voice steady.
"Yes," Rhyian said.
Joric looked like he was about to explode.
"She'll be killed within five minutes!"
"Then she had better be very persuasive in the first four," Rhyian replied, his tone leaving no room for argument. He looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Was it a test? A trap? Or was it the first, true sign of respect? Acknowledgment that I was more than just a mother to be sheltered?
"I'll do it," I said, my voice ringing with a confidence that startled even myself. "But I do it my way. Alone."
Joric threw his hands up in exasperation.
"This is a circus."
Rhyian just smiled, a slow, dangerous curve of his lips. It was the first time I had seen him smile in seven years.
"I thought you might say that," he said. "Welcome to the war, Carys."