The parlour emptied in stages, like a theatre after a bad review. Laila remained until the last door closed, then stood alone with the silence her family had left behind.
The courtyard garden had overheard the argument and was pretending it hadn’t. Laila sat on the stone bench. Cedric stood beside it, because butlers do not sit in the presence of their employers, even when the employer in question rather wished they would.
“You knew her,” Laila said. Not a question. She had watched his face during the meeting, watched his gaze fix on Seraphina’s portrait with something that wasn’t professional composure. “Better than any of us, I think.”
Cedric was quiet for a moment. His hands, usually occupied with some necessary task, were still. “She was... formidable, madame. Kind, in her way. She knew this estate better than anyone. Better than Artan, certainly.” He paused. “I was proud to serve her.”
The past tense hung between them. Cedric heard it too. His jaw worked once, briefly. “I always thought she was ill,” he said, almost to himself. “The closed curtains. The night hours. The way she refused visitors before dusk. I thought she was frail, and proud enough to hide it.” He stopped. The professional mask settled back into place, a little less comfortably than before.
Laila let the silence stand. She could have pressed. She didn’t.
“The hidden chambers in the library,” she said eventually. “Do you believe she was aware of their existence?”
Cedric’s gaze drifted to the distant horizon, searching for a convenient change of subject. “If anyone knew of such secrets,” he said solemnly, “it would have been Madame Seraphina de Vaillant. Or perhaps... Artan.”
“Thank you, Cedric,” she said. “Truly.”
Laila’s fingers found the pigments in her coat pocket. Cedric’s composure had always been professional. She wanted to know if it was still only that.
Instead of the usual whispers and impressions, she found herself rebuffed by unexpected resistance. Cedric’s mind was a fortress, its gates firmly barred.
Laila withdrew. “Thank you, Cedric,” she said quietly. “Get some rest. It’s been a difficult day for all of us.”
Cedric inclined his head and withdrew. He carried something new with him and hadn’t yet decided how to hold it. Laila watched him go. He loved her. He actually loved her. The garden was darker now. She sat with that for a while.
Isabella had spent the afternoon failing to sit still. She’d checked on Aurora, reorganised her satchel twice, and sharpened a knife she didn’t need sharpening. None of it helped. The family was cracking, and she couldn’t fix it from her room.
Maximilian stood at the window, staring out to intimidate the rain into stopping. The fire in the hearth did its best to add a bit of drama, casting flickering shadows across the room, but even it knew it was playing second fiddle to the storm brewing inside him.
“Maximilian,” Isabella said softly, stepping into the room with the cautious tone of someone approaching a bear of uncertain honey-guarding status.
He didn’t turn, but his shoulders stiffened in that universal way of people who have already decided they don’t want to hear what you’re about to say. “If you’re here to lecture me, don’t bother. I’ve already had more than enough wisdom thrown at me for one day.”
Isabella closed the door behind her with a soft click that sounded suspiciously like determination. “I’m not here to lecture you. I’m here because I’m worried.”
He let out a sharp exhale, the kind designed to communicate both the weight of his burdens and your inconsideration for not already knowing about them. “You should be worried about Lambert. He’s the one parading around like a saint while dragging this family into ruin.”
“Lambert is doing what he believes is right,” she said, stepping closer with measured calm. “That doesn’t mean I’m blind to his flaws. I want to understand what’s really troubling you.”
Maximilian finally turned to face her. “You want to understand? Fine. This family is splintering, and Lambert, always Lambert, is at the centre of it. He acts like he has some divine mandate, but he doesn’t see the cracks he’s creating.”
Isabella met his gaze unflinchingly. “And what about your role in this?”
He turned back to the window, hoping to find a less irritating conversation partner in the gloom outside. “My role is to keep this family intact. I’m the head of the household, the public face. Every time Lambert does something to bring this family into disrepute, I’m the one who has to smooth things over. You think high society forgives easily? No. It’s weeks of apologies, of dinners, of—of grovelling, Isabella. And every time I try, someone accuses me of being too harsh or too controlling. Do you know how exhausting it is to be the one holding everything together?”
She stepped closer, her voice steady. “I do. And I know you’ve carried more than your share of the burden. But you don’t have to do it alone. We’re a family, Maximilian. That means we carry the weight together.”
For a moment, his expression softened. Then he reached into his pocket. “Look, Isabella—” he began, his tone quieter now. “I don’t know what’s going to happen to us in the coming days, but you’ve stood by us stronger than most.”
“You’ve earned your place here in this family. And so... have a token to remind you of that.”
He stepped forward and pinned a small bronze flower to her vest. It was simple yet intricately crafted, the petals catching the firelight with an almost conspiratorial wink. Isabella looked down at it, her fingers brushing over the cool metal.
“This was a gift from Seraphina to Father,” Maximilian said. “She gave it to him when he was young, to remind him that even the most delicate things can endure. It never left his study.” He met her eyes. “You weren’t born into this family, Isabella, yet you’re as much a part of it as any of us.”
Her throat tightened. She looked up at him and didn’t trust herself to say anything more complicated than what came out. “Thank you, Maximilian.”
He nodded, his usual sternness melting into a smile. “Just don’t let Lambert ruin it.”
Isabella couldn’t help but laugh, the tension between them easing like the first break in a storm. “I’ll do my best. But only if you promise to stop trying to do everything alone.”
Maximilian let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. “Fine. But if he pushes me too far, I make no promises.”
They stood there for a moment longer, the rain outside still doing its best impression of a persistent but untalented drummer. The bronze flower glinted on Isabella’s vest.
Lambert’s chambers suited sombre brooding perfectly. Caliburn lay on the table between them, wrapped in its velvet, conspicuously not being discussed. Across from it, Wylan sat, his expression somewhere between a sigh and a shrug.
“I appreciate your candour, Wylan,” Lambert began, his tone suggesting the conversation was about to become spiritually significant. “Through all of this, your insights have helped me see things I might have missed.”
Wylan raised an eyebrow. “I pointed out some inconsistencies in Church doctrine. You’re the one who decided to burn it all down.”
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Lambert nodded. “The truth is often a double-edged sword,” he intoned. “Yet it is a burden we must bear if we are to navigate the shadows that encircle us.”
Wylan briefly considered pointing out that the sword metaphor was becoming a bit overused but decided against it. Instead, he simply nodded, the universal signal for ‘Go on, I’m listening.’
“No, Wylan. I mean it.” Lambert leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the formal posture abandoned. “Some years ago, you and I had a conversation. You told me, in between a slew of rather hurtful words, I might add, that I should read a book the Church hadn’t written.”
Wylan winced. “I remember. I wasn’t exactly diplomatic about it.”
“You were not,” Lambert agreed. “But I took it on board, even if I didn’t think much of it at the time. It wasn’t until my appointment to the Inquisition, when I found myself studying heresy for the first time, that I understood what you meant.”
He paused. “I would not have reached this truth had it not been for your insistence. I might have remained ignorant. I wanted you to know that I valued your insight, even when I failed to show it.”
Wylan’s hand stilled on the table. He’d been tracing idle patterns; now he wasn’t. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “That actually means quite a lot.”
“I haven’t always shown it,” Lambert continued. “I’ve had to play the part of the pious Inquisitor. But you have served as inspiration, whether you knew it or not.”
Wylan stared at a point past Lambert’s shoulder. When he spoke, his voice carried an edge. “I’m not surprised everyone reacted the way they did. To your revelation, I mean. It’s hard to hear things like that for the first time.”
“Perhaps I was too forthcoming,” Lambert admitted.
“Perhaps.” Wylan’s mouth quirked. “But if it makes you feel any better, I’ve had my doubts about the Church for years. I just kept them quieter than you did, and no one listened anyway.”
Lambert studied him. “Do you share my convictions, then? Regarding faith?”
“You know I’ve never been much for Invictus,” Wylan said. “But in the Dungeon, when the lamp wouldn’t light and the science had run out—” He shrugged. “I asked Lilith for inspiration. And she answered. That’s not theology. But it’s something.”
Lambert nodded. “She’s a fine patron. Invictus is powerful, certainly, and has gifted us with the spark that allows us to survive. But putting him above all others narrows one’s view of the world.” A faint smile. “I feel no compulsion to push my faith onto you. Or anyone.”
Wylan exhaled. For a moment, neither spoke. The fire crackled. Somewhere in the house, a door closed.
Lambert straightened in his chair. “We must ensure Caliburn remains hidden,” he declared. The furniture would have sat up straighter if it could. “Its power is too great to fall into the wrong hands.”
Wylan picked up the sword. “Right. We’ll need a cunning plan to hide this thing. Good thing cunning plans are my speciality.” He tucked it under his arm. “Follow me.”
Wylan’s laboratory occupied a ground-floor wing that the rest of the household had learned to give a wide berth. It had been organised once and never forgiven him for it. The air was thick with the scent of alchemical reagents, and the occasional clink of glassware encouraged visitors to walk more carefully.
? The de Vaillant household insurance policy contained a specific clause regarding ‘alchemical incidents,’ with a premium so high it had its own line in the family budget. Wylan considered this a mark of professional distinction.
Wylan unwrapped the velvet and held Caliburn up to the lamplight, turning it once. Then he crossed to a workbench against the far wall, knelt, and ran his fingers along the underside. Something clicked. A panel swung open, revealing a cavity lined with felt that was exactly the wrong size.
“Hold on.” He disappeared into the back of the laboratory and returned with a saw, a plane, and the expression of a man solving a problem that was, for once, merely physical. Ten minutes of carpentry later, the cavity was exactly the right size. Caliburn slid in. The panel clicked shut. The seam was invisible.
“Now the decoys.”
He fired up the small forge and hammered out half a dozen crude bronze blades. None of them would fool a swordsmith, but they didn’t need to. He scattered them around the laboratory, propping one against a bookshelf, tossing another into a crate of copper tubing, balancing a third on a stack of manuscripts.
Lambert stood back, surveying the result. Somewhere in this room was Caliburn. The sword of legend. The proof that could reshape the Church, the weapon that had chosen heroes, the relic that scholars had spent lifetimes seeking. And they’d found it. Pulled it from a tomb. And now had absolutely no idea what to do with it.
“It called to him,” Lambert said quietly. “When we unveiled it. Max felt it. That gleam in his eye, that wasn’t ambition. If Caliburn can do that to one of us...” He trailed off, the weight of possession settling on his shoulders.
Wylan folded his arms, his earlier levity gone. “Swords of legend don’t just sit quietly in a corner gathering dust. They have a way of... finding their moment. Drawing heroes. Or monsters. Or anyone who thinks they’re supposed to be one.” He paused, studying Lambert with guarded curiosity. “You felt nothing? When you were near it?”
The question carried weight. Lambert met his gaze. “Nothing like what Max described. But that doesn’t mean...”
“That it won’t?” Wylan finished. “Lambert, you’ve been talking about divine purpose and reshaping the Church. If Caliburn can call to people, can influence them...” He let the implication hang.
“Which is why it needs to stay hidden,” Lambert said firmly. “Until we understand what we’re dealing with. Until we’re ready.”
“And if it decides it’s ready before we are? Or if you decide you’re ready, and the rest of us aren’t sure?”
Lambert had no answer for that.
The silence settled in and made itself at home. Then Wylan dusted his hands off, leaned against the table, and let a grin replace the concern. “You know,” he said, “if this whole saving-the-world thing doesn’t work out, I think we’ve got a future in interior design.”
Lambert chuckled. It suited him better than solemnity. “Thank you, Wylan. For all of this.”
Wylan waved a hand dismissively, though his eyes said otherwise. “Just keep the world-saving to a reasonable schedule. I have experiments.”
Close to midnight, Isabella found Lambert in the family chapel. The chapel had seen more conspiracy than confession lately, and had given up expecting prayer.
She entered quietly, her boots finding every creak the stone floor had to offer. Lambert had the posture of a man who had conducted several internal debates and lost most of them.
“Is everything alright?” Lambert said.
Isabella hesitated. “I wanted to ask you something,” she began with an accusatory tone. “While we were in the dungeon, did Seraphina... do something to you?”
Lambert blinked, caught entirely off guard. “No, nothing of the sort,” he replied, shaking his head in earnest confusion. “She’s just... a relative.”
“A relative who’s also a vampire,” Isabella muttered under her breath, but her voice was relieved. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t planning on confronting her alone. If you do decide to go, let me know. I’ll come with you.”
Lambert smiled, which on him was mostly a matter of the eyes. “Thank you,” he said earnestly. “I wouldn’t go alone, but it means a great deal to know you’d have my back.”
Lambert sighed. “About the meeting—”
“I understand why you did what you did,” Isabella said, her tone gentler now. “It was a tough situation, and you made a call. I can respect that.”
Lambert nodded, visibly relieved. “It was a risk,” he admitted, “but one I felt was necessary. I just hope Maximilian comes around before we all end up skewered on the point of his pride.”
Footsteps echoed in the chapel corridor. Laila arrived the way she always did: exactly when the conversation needed an adult.
“I feared I would find you in the chapel,” she said, her gaze settling on Lambert with maternal disapproval. “Lambert, you’ve begun an unseemly habit of holding court here rather than hearing confession. And now I find you both lamenting our sordid family affairs when we have more pressing matters to discuss.”
Isabella straightened, the warmth of the previous moment cooling rapidly. “More pressing than the family tearing itself apart?”
“Yes, actually.” Laila moved further into the chapel, her expression sharpening. “We need to talk about the Merovian Accords.”
Lambert frowned. “The Accords? What about them?”
“Think, Lambert. You’ve just declared war on the Church. What do you imagine happens to treaties signed under Church authority when one of the signatories becomes a heretic?”
Isabella and Lambert exchanged glances. Neither of them had thought past the theology.
Neither of them had considered the paperwork.
? The Church’s fondness for paperwork bordered on its own religious conviction. Heresy could be forgiven, in theory. Incomplete forms could not.
“The Accords aren’t just ink on parchment,” Laila continued, settling onto a nearby bench. “They’re the scaffolding holding up two decades of peace. Your theological revolution might bring down more than just the Church.”
She ticked off points on her fingers. “Alexios’ name is intricately tied to those accords. My marriage to Alexios. Our cousin’s alliance with Prince Nereus. Isabella’s place in House de Vaillant. If the Church excommunicates us and strips us of our titles, every thread unravels.”
“So we’re not just facing heresy charges,” Isabella said. “We’re talking about losing our legal standing, our alliances, possibly our lands.”
“And the peace,” Laila said quietly. “That rarest and most fragile of states, which has somehow held for over two decades.”
The chapel fell silent. Lambert stared at the altar. You are exactly the shadow of your father. Laila’s words from that morning. He had carried them through the day like a stone in his pocket, turning them over, unable to decide if they were condemnation or commission.
“Then we have no choice.” He stood. “The Church will move against us regardless, whether tomorrow or next month. But if we strike first, if we expose what they truly are before they can denounce us as heretics...”
He met each of their gazes in turn. “We don’t dismantle the Church. We become it. We take Caliburn, we take the truth about Valère, and we give the faithful something real to believe in.”
The chapel had nothing to add.
“You’re talking about schism,” Isabella said.
“No.” Lambert’s voice was quiet, and certain, and utterly calm. “I’m talking about revelation.”