Cassian sat in the drawing room with a marquis, his wife, and their children. The small talk was as bnd as watered wine—praise for his recent engagement, questions about the gardens, comments on the capital’s weather.

  The marquis’s wife leaned forward in her chair, her voice syrupy with fttery, praising the Prince’s discipline and sense of duty. His daughters sat on the edge of the seat, their rehearsed smiles brittle. One kept tugging at her sleeve; another dared a nervous gnce his way before dropping her eyes. The marquis’s two younger sons fidgeted in the corner, kicking each other under the table when they thought no one was looking.

  The marquis’s wife leaned toward him again, her jeweled fingers clinking against the arm of her chair. “It is such a blessing for the Empire that Your Highness has chosen a bride so luminous. A union of such virtue will surely strengthen the bloodlines.”

  Her eldest daughter nodded too quickly, rehearsed words tumbling out. “We prayed for your happiness, my Prince.” Her sister echoed the phrase with stiff precision, eyes flicking toward their father for approval.

  Cassian’s gaze slid to the two younger boys. One whispered something crude, the other stifled a ugh, and both immediately pretended to be angelic when their mother shot them a gre.

  The marquis pressed, his voice all casual bravado. “Perhaps, when the time is right, one of my daughters might serve Your Highness’s household more closely. A concubine in your retinue—an honor for our blood and yours.”

  Cassian’s lips curved faintly, his tone as smooth as marble. “Your generosity is noted. But my household is already crowded with courtiers. I have no need of more mouths whispering at my table.”

  The girls bnched. The marquis’s wife stiffened, and though her husband recovered quickly with another wave of meaningless compliments, Cassian saw the wounded nd.

  Cassian endured it all in silence. Normally, he would have denied such an audience, but now these visits were useful. Every noble who set foot in his chamber was another chance to gauge the bloodlines.

  The marquis, casual as a dagger slipped between the ribs, suggested his eldest daughter might one day serve as a concubine to the Prince. Cassian’s lips curved faintly, his tone polite but ft. “No need. My household is already full enough of courtiers.”

  The wife’s smile faltered, the daughters’ cheeks flushed, but the marquis pressed on with meaningless pleasantries. Cassian nodded in all the right pces, already certain he would find nothing here.

  When the family finally withdrew, he let out a slow breath, relieved to have the room to himself.

  He crossed to his desk, where parchment y in messy stacks—family trees inked with his sharp handwriting. Names crossed out. Notes scrawled in the margins. Entire branches cut down to nothing.

  He scanned the lines again, though he already knew them by heart.

  He dragged a finger down the parchment, smudging ink where he had crossed out names. House Theryn, proud and loud, had butchered itself when two cousins dueled for succession—both sin, their heirs fled, their crest now nothing but a tavern sign. House Elvain had sold daughters into every marriage they could grasp, scattering their name across provinces until nothing remained but debts and weak-blooded offspring clinging to empty titles.

  Even those who survived carried little of the old fire. Branches pruned themselves to stumps. Families with banners bright as dawn now clung to scraps of coin and influence, whispering promises of glory while their blood thinned to nothing.

  House Veylor’s heir had been no heir at all, but a bastard raised as trueborn. House Lorrin split into warring cousins, each ciming the crest, until the line itself bled dry. House Fereth had intermarried until their blood carried nothing of the old strength, clinging only to a name while power slipped through their fingers.

  It was all the same story. Cheating wives. Bastards raised as heirs. Lords leaving broods of uncimed children. Branches cannibalizing one another until nothing remained but ash.

  The First Coven’s bloodline, once a mark of power and fear, had been buried by human greed long before the Church put its knife to it.

  Cassian pressed his fingers to his temple. If Selene discovered that all this searching led to nothing, that her marriage to him offered no link to the blood she craved—he couldn’t predict what she would do.

  A knock broke his thoughts. Maelis stepped in, bowing low. “Your Highness. Two of your siblings request to see you.”

  Cassian straightened, irritation flickering in his chest. “Send them in.”

  The doors opened to admit Princess Seraphine Valenfor, all silk and calcuted grace, her smile as sharp as gss. Behind her came their elder brother, Aric, Captain of the Royal Guard. His hair was bck like all Valenfors, but he kept a neat beard, and his green eyes gave him the air of a hawk always watching.

  Cassian didn’t rise. “What do you want?”

  Seraphine clutched at her chest in mock offense. “What a welcome. After giving up the throne to you, after helping you silence our more short-sighted siblings, I thought at least you’d spare us kinder words.”

  Aric smirked. “Respect is expensive in this pace. He’s too frugal to spend it.”

  Cassian rolled his eyes. “The only reason you’d come here is because you want something.”

  “On the contrary,” the Captain said evenly, folding his arms. “We’re here to help.”

  Cassian arched his brow. “With what?”

  Seraphine’s ughter rang soft and cutting. “Don’t insult us. We all know why you’re suddenly hosting nobles instead of leaving it to me. You’re checking their bloodlines.”

  The Captain’s gaze dropped to Cassian’s chest. “And you’re wearing Mother’s neckce again. Been years since I saw that.” He chuckled, eyes glinting. “We know what it is. What it does.”

  Cassian’s eyes narrowed—not in surprise, but because they dared to speak it aloud. In the royal court, knowledge was currency, and even allies kept their purses closed. That they revealed it so freely meant they wanted him to know..

  Seraphine’s expression cooled. “You’ll find little among the nobles,” Seraphine said, her tone cooling. “Any trace of the Coven’s blood was snuffed out when the Church rose to power. The First Coven’s blood was once prized for alliances, but once the Bishops gained their footing, it became poison.”

  Cassian leaned back, exhaling through his nose. “So there are none left among the Empire’s nobility? Then finding them will be a monumental task.”

  “Not entirely,” his brother said. “Aside from our mother, there was one family. Counts. House Caelthorne. They held strong to the Coven’s blood.”

  Cassian frowned. “And I was never told this?”

  Aric rested a hand on his sword hilt, as if the memory itself weighed something. “It ended before you were born. But their name still lingers in the marrow of the Empire. Caelthorne knights carried bdes wreathed in fire. Their mages bent storms until the sky cracked. Their duelists were spoken of beside legends. When they rode under their banners — red and silver, steel in one hand and fme in the other — the marches trembled.”

  Cassian saw it in his mind: lines of horsemen sweeping down a valley, cloaks streaming, a storm rolling in their wake. Their name was not only feared, but revered.

  Seraphine’s voice cut like silk dragged across gss. “And it was that reverence that killed them. Rivals whispered. The Church pressed. One word was enough — witch. Here in the capital, the word means nothing. Nobles here sip wine with witches, and toast victories bought with charms. But in the provinces…” She tilted her head, smiled thin. “In the provinces, the word is a curse. A bde sharper than steel. And once the Church gave its blessing, it was no longer just a rumor. It was true.”

  Her eyes flicked toward the desk where Cassian’s maps y. “That was all their enemies needed. Merchants shredded contracts. Betrothals colpsed. Brides dragged from altars as if vows had never been spoken. Caravans rerouted, coins pulled from their coffers. Their rivals watched, silent, while the Caelthorne crest rotted in their halls. A banner once flown over half the eastern marches burned to ash within a single generation.”

  Aric’s expression hardened. “The Count died alone in a hall stripped bare of servants, his banners left to mildew on stone. His sons disappeared into obscurity. His daughters were hidden, married off under false names, or vanished. Those who dared keep Caelthorne alive were hunted down.”

  Cassian could almost smell it: dust in proud halls, tapestries sshed, children grinding their crests off doorways with their own hands. Names once spoken with pride are now whispered as curses.

  Seraphine’s voice softened, almost pitying. “But blood like that never dies, Cassian. It only hides.”

  Aric’s smirk sharpened. “And some of it hides here — under my command.

  He narrowed his eyes, then fixed them on his brother. “Those descendants. They’re in the pace. Under your command. In the Guard.”

  His brother smiled faintly. Seraphine mirrored it.

  “What do you want?” Cassian asked.

  Seraphine lifted her chin. “Nothing—except that when you next go to the Hallows, you take me with you. I have too many ideas for commerce, but I must see the nd myself. And when you ascend, name me Minister of Finance.”

  The Captain’s answer was blunt. “Keep me as Captain of the Royal Guard. Full command. Budget intact.”

  Cassian let a smirk creep onto his lips. He had pnned to send his siblings away, trading them into foreign houses for alliances, safe from interfering in his reign. Yet these two had no intention of leaving the capital. They were binding themselves tighter.

  “Deal,” he said.

  “But I want to meet these Caelthorne descendants as soon as possible.”

  Seraphine gestured to the door, and one of her personal guards stepped in—a woman with sharp posture and a soldier’s watchful gaze. Aric signaled, and two soldiers followed him into the room. The first was a woman in pin mail, her posture straight as a spear, every movement precise. Her eyes cut the room with the discipline of a soldier who had seen real blood. Behind her came a man broad as an ox, a scar carving down his cheek like a mark of defiance. The third, younger and leaner, moved with restless energy—eyes darting to every shadow as if danger might spill from the walls themselves.

  As they approached, the moonstone at Cassian’s throat stirred. At first, a faint warmth, like a coal left buried in ash. Then, hotter, spreading across his chest, a pulse that beat in rhythm with his own heart. By the time the three stood before him, the stone was nearly burning, every throb echoing in his ribs.

  Cassian forced his face to be calm. His father’s lessons hissed in memory—never show weakness before kin. He shifted the chain casually, as if adjusting its weight, though sweat beaded at his colr.

  Seraphine’s eyes glittered. Aric’s smirk deepened. Neither spoke, but both knew.