(Kael's POV)
The candlelight in his study had long since guttered out, leaving only the dull glow of embers in the hearth.
Kael Dravenhart sat behind his desk, motionless except for the rhythmic twitch of his fingers against the armrest — a habit that betrayed the storm he refused to show.
Two assassination attempts in four days.
The first — Zelene.
The second — him.
The first had nearly broken something in him he didn't want to name. The second only confirmed what he already knew: Dravenhart had enemies — too many, too old, too patient.
And this time, they were growing bolder.
His study still smelled faintly of blood and smoke. The rug beneath the desk hid a blackened mark — where he'd burned the assassin's weapon to ash with his own hand. He hadn't meant to lose control. But when the dagger came within inches of his throat, something in his magic surged, wild and hungry.
The attacker had collapsed, paralyzed by Kael's will.
And Kael, in his calm, deliberate way, had knelt before him.
"Who sent you?"
The man's eyes had rolled white as Kael's power seeped into him, threading through the cracks of his mind like cold iron. The hypnotic pull of Dravenhart blood — a gift and a curse.
The assassin trembled. His voice came out broken, half-choked, half-entranced.
"They… they said… to strike where the Duke bleeds."
Kael's jaw tightened. "Who said that?"
But then — a flicker. Something dark. Something wrong.
A shadow in the assassin's mind. A presence that wasn't his own.
And suddenly, the man screamed — not from pain, but from resistance. As if something unseen was blocking Kael's command.
"Who sent you?" Kael demanded again, his voice cold and low.
The assassin's mouth twisted, his body convulsing.
Then blood leaked from his nose, his eyes, his ears — and his heart stopped.
Just like that.
Dead.
No name.
No sigil.
Only that haunting phrase echoing in Kael's mind:
Strike where the Duke bleeds.
He hadn't slept since.
---
Kael stood now, pacing to the window overlooking the mist-laden courtyard. His reflection in the glass looked like a ghost — pale, sharp, and tired in a way even battle hadn't managed to make him.
He thought of Zelene.
How she'd looked that night — breathless, frightened, blood on her cheek.
How close she'd come to dying because of him.
It was easier not to see her.
Easier to let her hate his silence than to risk her seeing the cracks in his control.
Because if his enemies were right — if they truly believed Zelene Evandelle was the weakness of the Duke of Dravenhart — then every glance, every touch, every word would paint a target on her back.
So he distanced himself.
Buried himself in work. In strategy. In fury.
He'd told himself it was protection. That this was for her safety.
But deep down, he knew — part of it was fear.
Fear of what she made him feel.
Dravenharts weren't meant to love.
They were meant to command, to conquer, to endure.
Love was a vulnerability — a slow, exquisite kind of death.
And yet, when he'd seen her reach for him that day, her eyes wide and trembling…
It had felt like the most dangerous thing in the world.
A soft knock came at his door.
"Enter."
Miren slipped inside — silent, precise, as always. She bowed slightly. "Your Grace, the guards have swept the perimeter again. No further activity has been detected."
Kael didn't look at her. "And the bodies?"
"Disposed. Quietly, as you ordered."
"Good."
Miren hesitated. "If I may speak freely—"
He looked up, one brow lifting.
"Lady Evandelle has been asking after you," she said, her tone careful. "The staff are uneasy. Rumors spread quickly in silence."
Kael's gaze darkened. "They'll do better not to speak of her at all."
Miren inclined her head, though a flicker of something unreadable — envy, perhaps — crossed her face before vanishing. "As you wish, Your Grace."
She lingered at the door. "Still… she worries for you."
Kael didn't answer. His jaw flexed, his hands curling slightly at his sides.
When the door closed again, he finally let himself breathe.
He crossed to his desk, staring at the map spread across it — a network of ink and secrets. Enemy families. Trade routes. Loyal houses. Disloyal ones.
He'd protected the Dravenhart name for years, built walls so high even the gods would think twice before climbing them.
But now, those walls had cracks.
And Zelene — bright, stubborn, reckless Zelene — stood right at the heart of them.
He pressed a hand to the glass, staring out into the night.
"I warned you not to get close," he muttered under his breath, though he wasn't sure if he was cursing her… or himself.
The wind howled softly through the open balcony doors.
Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled midnight.
And Kael Dravenhart, for all his strength, couldn't shake the whisper in his mind — a voice neither magic nor reason could quiet:
Strike where the Duke bleeds.