Sarien Draeven’s voice reached me just after sundown—thin, distorted, and carrying a tremor I had never once associated with her.

  Fear.

  I had been trying to sit comfortably against the pillows, though every shift sent a dull ache rolling through my ribs. The Wardhall healers promised most of the damage would fade within a few days, but every breath reminded me that I had lost a fight I never should have lost.

  Leira sat at the foot of the bed, fingers tangled in her sleeves, posture tight as a bowstring. She had hardly spoken since the courtyard. She looked smaller somehow. Fragile. I told myself she was fine. She would recover. She always did.

  Then the communication crystal on my nightstand flickered—its fractured edges glowing faintly with Sarien’s signature.

  I answered immediately. “Report.”

  Instead of her usual biting professionalism, I heard her gasp for breath.

  “Lucien…”

  Ice slid down my spine. “What happened?”

  A broken, incredulous laugh bled through the connection. “You… messed with the wrong person.”

  Static crackled. Something heavy hit stone in the background.

  “Sarien?” My voice sharpened. “Sarien, answer me.”

  Her breathing hitched, then thinned into a whisper. “Wrong… person…”

  The crystal dimmed. The connection died.

  Leira snapped upright, fear etched across her face. “Lucien… what was that?”

  I swallowed hard. My pulse hammered beneath my skin. Sarien Draeven did not panic. She did not lose. She did not call nobles unless the floor had given out beneath her feet.

  “He probably ambushed her,” I said, though the words felt hollow even as they left my mouth. “He must have caught her off guard.”

  Leira stared at me with wide, unblinking eyes. She did not believe me.

  I wasn’t sure I did either.

  A frantic pounding rattled the door.

  “Enter,” I called, forcing irritation into my tone to disguise the unease clawing at me.

  An Ember Fang staggered inside—clothes torn, face smeared with dirt, breathing uneven. He dropped to one knee as if the act alone might protect him from whatever he feared more than me.

  “Lord Veylan—sir—I bring… I bring proof.”

  “What proof?” I demanded.

  He held out a cracked crystal recorder with trembling hands. “A recording. One of the boys filmed it, sir. Miss Draeven didn’t know.”

  Leira made a small, strangled sound. I ignored it.

  “Give it here.”

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  The Fang nearly flung it at me before bolting from the room as if chased.

  I activated the crystal.

  A flicker of light filled the far wall. The recording stabilized into a rooftop vantage overlooking the river promenade. Even distorted and grainy, I recognized the figures instantly.

  Cale Arcanus. His little bitch of a sister—Ellara. Three other insignificant welps.

  Leira whispered, “Lucien… what are you watching?”

  “Quiet, Leira.”

  I pressed play.

  Atum formed the mana blade with textbook precision—silver sigils, clean lines, predictable lethality. He threw it with commitment and perfect form.

  Good. Cale needed to learn.

  Then I gawked.

  Arcanus swatted it aside without invoking an Expression—just raw mana wrapped around his forearm. The blade shattered into golden shards.

  Leira clamped her hands over her mouth. “No…”

  I leaned forward despite my ribs protesting. This was impossible. It should have been impossible.

  The recording was too far away to capture his expression clearly, but I didn’t need it. I watched the air around him twist in rippling pulses.

  The thugs didn’t seem to understand what they were facing.

  Atum attacked again. Illusions bloomed—ice, shadow, mirrored attacks layered with beautiful accuracy.

  Arcanus tore through Atum in seconds.

  The speed. The brutality.

  Even I—who appreciated violence—felt something cold slide through my chest.

  Leira let out a broken plea. “Stop it. Lucien, stop it.”

  I did not.

  Sarien entered next—fire arcing up her arms. Her footwork was disciplined, elegant. Each strike balanced with breath. I had hired her because I enjoyed her fall from grace—and because her skill was second to none. She could humble experienced duelists.

  Cale treated her strikes like mild inconveniences.

  He anticipated her patterns, redirected her balance, dissolved her stance with a level of insight I had never witnessed.

  He could have killed her.

  He chose not to.

  Then the Fangs rushed him.

  He was much less gentle.

  In seconds, they lay scattered across the stones—groaning, broken, alive only because he allowed it.

  The recording shuddered as it was dropped. When the image steadied, Cale stood over Sarien’s collapsed form—eyes red, black lightning coiling around him like a curse made manifest.

  Then he spoke.

  “Where is he?”

  My breath stopped.

  He meant me.

  The crystal dimmed on that frozen frame—Cale, red-eyed, wrapped in lightning.

  At that exact moment, our parents entered the room.

  Father first—each step controlled, deliberate. His robe bore layered warding sigils, authority woven into every thread. Mother followed, silent and sharp-eyed, her gaze already assessing damage.

  “What are you watching?” Father asked.

  Before I could shut it down, Mother’s eyes locked on the projection.

  “Isn’t this that—” She trailed off.

  Leira shrank inward, unable to look away.

  “Arcanus,” I said. “You told me to handle him. Sarien was supposed to correct his behavior. Apparently she wasn’t as capable as I thought.”

  Mother’s irritation flared—not surprise. “Correcting behavior does not mean provoking a catastrophe. We told you to be discreet. This is not discretion.”

  Father stepped closer, studying the image like an intelligence briefing. “This is not a standard Expression manifestation. This is the Aura-Lightning combination you mentioned.”

  I nodded. “Yes. And Sarien has never lost before.”

  His gaze flicked to the incapacitated men. “This is what you considered manageable?”

  Mother turned on me. “We cannot let this out. The incident at the academy already stirred rumors. With your father’s bid for Magistrate, this is unacceptable.”

  “He got lucky,” I said quickly. “I’ll handle it. I’ll reach out to contacts in the Wastes—untraceable. They’ll take care of him.”

  Leira flinched. Mother noticed.

  “That is not the point,” Mother snapped. “If anyone finds out you harmed the girl, ArcLight will not let it slide.”

  “You always say that,” I replied. “They never act. We have leverage over ArcLight.”

  Father’s jaw tightened. “Enough. Half a dozen street fighters are broken. A Draeven heir is likely headed to the Medical Guild. The attention has already arrived.”

  Mother’s voice trembled—not with fear, but with restrained fury. “Then you may need a permanent solution.”

  Father exhaled sharply. “I’ll initiate MageComms. Increase warding. Double guard rotations. Suppression protocols on every external gate.”

  Mother nodded. “And send someone to the Medical Guild. Silence the thugs.”

  She stared at the projection again.

  “If he comes here, we will be ready.”

  A flicker of cold satisfaction ran through me. They finally understood. I was the victim here—not the instigator.

  And yet…

  “He’s probably coming,” I said quietly. “You heard him.”

  He had asked for me.

  And for the first time since this began, I wasn’t entirely certain that power would be enough.