The wind had not yet died when they reached the capital. Dawn’s pale light dragged across the spires. Selene descended through the mist. Isolde was not far behind with Eryndor in her grasp, their shadows sweeping across the white marble causeway that led to the palace gates.

  They landed hard enough to rattle the gatehouse towers. Eryndor touched down between them, the impact ringing through the stones.

  Selene straightened first. “This one is my win,” she said, smirking, voice rough from cold air.

  Isolde exhaled a slow white plume. “Win? You barely stayed ahead, and I was carrying Eryndor.”

  Selene laughed, brushing the frost from her shoulders. “When we were young, you could’ve beaten me even while carrying two others.”

  Isolde’s mouth curved. “Maybe so. It’s been a while since I really let loose. I’m rusty.”

  Eryndor cleared his throat—a single deliberate note. “If you two are finished, you might notice we’ve gathered an audience.”

  They turned. The courtyard had gone still. Guards stood frozen at their posts; servants half-bowed where they had fallen to their knees. Awe moved through the crowd like a spark through dry grass. Every gaze fixed on Isolde—Saint Isolde—who had flown through the heavens with the ease of legend and had descended not as an angel of faith but beside the Witch Heir herself.

  Whispers cracked the quiet.

  “She flew—”

  “With her—”

  “Saint Isolde carried—”

  Selene met Isolde’s eye. Beneath the amusement, she saw the tremor of apprehension. “Are you ready for what’s coming?”

  “Ready or not,” Isolde said, her voice steady, “I’ll do what I must.”

  Selene stepped forward. “Tell His Majesty the Emperor that I am here,” she commanded the nearest captain, “and that it’s urgent we speak.”

  The man blinked, torn between reverence and fear, then bowed sharply. One runner vanished toward the inner court while another barked for escorts. Spears lifted; the gates began to part. The nearest guard bowed deeply and spoke, his voice trembling just enough to betray nerves. “Her Majesty’s message was unnecessary, my lady. His Imperial Majesty has already given word—he has been awaiting your return since dawn.”

  Selene paused at that, catching the flicker of unease that passed between the soldiers. They looked at her not as a supplicant but as someone expected, almost summoned.

  “Then open the way,” she said.

  The heavy doors groaned, spilling out a breath of warm cedar-scented air. They stepped inside as the escorts fell into formation around them, boots striking in unison on polished stone.

  As they climbed the marble steps that led to the court hall, Isolde frowned. “He’s waiting already?”

  The Grand Hall was bathed in morning light. Chandeliers dripped with gold, scattering fractured halos across the marble floor. At its far end loomed the Ashen Throne—a monument of blackened timber and burnished iron, its surface etched with the ghosts of dragons once carved into its frame. Wisps of soot rose from its seams, vanishing before they touched the vaulted ceiling. The faint shimmer of heat made the throne appear alive, as if the embered heart of the empire still smoldered within it.

  Nobles crowded the balconies in silks that rustled like leaves. Near the dais stood the Pontifex, his face arranged in the practiced stillness of a holy man, though the mask did not quite hold. Beneath the calm lay a storm of recognition—shock, remorse, something dangerously close to awe. His gaze lingered on Selene a moment too long, as if the shape of her shadow recalled a name he dared not speak.

  Beside him stood Saint Augustine, eyes gentler than Selene remembered. He inclined his head; she returned the courtesy with a bare tilt. The royal family had gathered as well—the Emperor on his throne, his sons and daughters ranked below him, the crown prince Cassian standing foremost.

  The Emperor wasted no time. “Have you slain the three sorcerers already?”

  Selene’s voice carried clearly and even. “No. We’ve dealt with one so far.”

  “Then why return,” he said, “and with no proof that the first is dead?”

  Isolde began, “There’s nothing left of Malcolm—”

  Selene cut her off. “Your Majesty, enough with the games. Someone’s been following us since we left the capital. They’re here now. I’m sure they’ve reported everything.”

  A low chuckle answered her, echoing from behind the throne.

  From the shadows stepped a man so like the Emperor that the court gasped as one. Dark-haired, broad-shouldered—the former crown prince, who vanished the moment Cassian had come of age.

  “Father,” he said easily, “I think you’ve given the youngest a difficult task, if you’d have him tame this one.”

  Cassian’s smile flickered. “Taming was never an option. I’m just bracing myself for the ride.”

  Laughter rippled through the hall, brittle but welcome. The man bowed with a predator’s grace. "Regulus Valenfor, once heir to this throne, now head of the Empire’s shadows—its eyes, its knives, and, when required, its silence.”

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  Isolde’s tone sharpened. “How much have you heard?”

  Regulus’s grin deepened. “Quite a bit, Little Soso. And you, Meme.”

  The old nicknames struck like thrown stones. Isolde’s eyes narrowed, flicking toward the Pontifex. His expression—half pity, half guilt—told her enough: he had already shared the report with the entire court.

  Selene’s smile returned, small and dangerous. “Fantastic. Then I won’t waste time explaining.”

  The chamber doors burst open behind them. Darius and Aelun entered, breath steaming in the warm hall, cloaks rimed with frost.

  “Couldn’t wait for us, could you?” Darius said between breaths.

  Selene glanced over her shoulder. “I wanted to get the explanation over with. But apparently that’s been handled.”

  “Good.” Darius faced the throne and dropped to one knee. “Your Majesty, we request aid in dealing with the Circle of Sorcerers.”

  The Emperor regarded him for a long moment, then let his gaze drift to Devotion, the relic sword resting beside him. “No,” he said at last. “Not yet.”

  “May I ask why?” Darius ventured.

  “Because I see no reason to. This mission was yours to begin with.” His eyes slid toward Selene. “I suspect this sudden return is merely a way for Lady Selene to talk her way out of duty—now that she wears the title of future Crown Princess.”

  Murmurs rolled through the nobles like shifting tides.

  Selene’s voice sliced through them. “You don’t understand how powerful a Circle of Sorcerers can be.”

  “Or a Circle of witches,” the Emperor countered. “Is that not what you’re trying to form? If a Circle of sorcerers—of inferior blood—proves too much for a LeFaye and the bearer of Devotion, what would a Circle of witches from the First Coven’s line become? Such a Circle could rule the world uncontested.”

  Selene’s jaw tightened. Her gaze snapped to Cassian; he lifted his shoulders helplessly, eyes pleading that he had not foreseen this.

  “Speak plain, Emperor,” she said, her voice rising until it filled the chamber. “What more do you want? I’ve already promised my hand to your blasted seed, with no guarantee I’ll get what I need—and now you stand in my way of protecting the empire you’d shackle me to through marriage. What the hell else do you want?”

  Gasps erupted. Even the Emperor paused, one brow arching. The Pontifex murmured a prayer; Augustine swallowed hard, memory flashing across his eyes. They had seen this fury once before, when she bore another name and left holy ground burning.

  “May I speak?” Augustine asked softly.

  The Emperor studied her in silence, seeing not rebellion but something sharper. The bearing of someone who left themselves superior, who tired of bending. After a moment, he nodded. “Speak.”

  Augustine stepped forward, robes whispering. “It’s been a long time, little one.”

  Selene scoffed. “What do you want, old man?”

  He smiled faintly. “Given the reports, you can understand His Majesty’s concern. These Apostates you hunt may summon an army of Kindred. If we aid you, we risk ruin. And if you succeed—if you truly form your own Circle—what becomes of a wounded empire facing a power that rivals a demonic invasion?”

  Selene folded her arms. “I have no desire for domination. If I did, there are easier ways—ways that don’t depend on maybe forming a Circle someday in the future.”

  The Pontifex stepped forward, voice smooth but weary. “Then tell us, child—what do you intend to do with this Circle?”

  She tilted her head. “Why would I tell you anything? Would you even believe me if I did?”

  He closed his eyes, and for a heartbeat, the old man looked smaller beneath the weight of his vestments. “I failed the child,” he said softly, each word shaped by something that might have been regret. “I watched her faith turn against her and did nothing. If there is atonement left for me, let it be this—allow me to hear the woman she’s become, even if I can never earn the right to guide her again.”

  The chamber held its breath. For a moment, it almost sounded like truth—an old man reaching for light after decades in shadow.

  Selene’s mouth twitched, but it wasn’t a smile. She saw the shape of the plea behind his words: not repentance, but reclamation.

  Selene’s laugh was bitter. “The Bishop I burned—still breathing?”

  A sigh. “Yes. But he no longer serves among the Saints.”

  Isolde’s laugh was not kind. She stepped forward at a pace, eyes bright with a cold fire. “He is still a bishop,” she said, quiet but cutting. “He still wears a title, still sits where a title grants him power. Do not pretend his removal is anything but relocation.”

  Augustine’s hands folded at his chest; the old Saint’s face tightened with a pity that tasted like iron. “They keep him on a very tight leash,” he said, voice low. “Moved to where he can do no more harm—at least, that is the promise they gave.”

  Selene heard the phrasing and felt something thicken behind her breast—anger, old and raw, sour as a wound half-closed. The memories snapped into place: a child driven from scripture into exile, apprentices whose lives had been folded like old prayers and tossed away. The Pontifex’s gentle phrasing, Augustine’s quiet rationalization—both sounded like a prayer folded around a lie.

  “Figures.” She exhaled sharply. “I should have made sure that bastard was dead.”

  The words fell like stones into deep water. The Pontifex’s fingers closed around his staff; his jaw worked, but his face remained outwardly composed, a man trying to hold the shape of piety against the tide. Augustine’s hand went to his lips as if to quiet his own memory; the old saint’s eyes flicked to Selene, and something like sorrow passed over them.

  She studied the Pontifex’s face, seeing what she expected—not repentance but calculation. They could not cage nor hunt her, so they sought to court her. Augustine’s presence was just another leash wrapped in silk. Their stance on witches had not changed, only their stance on her, and that disgusted her more than hatred ever could.

  Her attention returned to the Emperor. “You want to know what I need a Circle for?” Her voice lowered, every syllable clear enough to cut glass. The court leaned forward without meaning to. “I need it to research a spell that can remove demonic corruption.”

  The words struck like a bell.

  For a heartbeat, no one breathed. Then the soundless tremor of shock passed through the hall. A few nobles whispered prayers; others simply stared. The Pontifex’s fingers tightened around his staff until the wood creaked.

  The Emperor’s gaze did not tremble; it sharpened. The faintest glint touched his eyes—interest, as if he’d just glimpsed a new frontier hidden in her defiance. Beneath the crown, the lines of his face deepened in thought.

  Aelun’s serenity cracked in quiet astonishment. His expression softened with wonder, the stunned awe of a scholar hearing the impossible named aloud. For him, the words remove demonic corruption were something thought of but never touched upon in his long life.

  Darius—standing just behind Selene—felt the air leave his chest. Hope flared, sharp and dangerous, tempered by the dread of what such hope could cost. His hand flexed near his sword as if bracing for the weight of what she had unleashed.

  Around them, the court rippled with murmurs—curiosity rather than fear, the Empire’s elite tasting the idea of salvation like rare wine. No one laughed now; no one dismissed her. They only watched, waiting for their Emperor to decide whether this woman before them was salvation incarnate… or a force to be caged and studied.