The silence stretched, brittle and expectant. Selene could feel the court’s collective breath banced on the edge of disbelief.

  It was the Pontifex who finally broke it. His voice carried the softness of someone trying not to provoke the gods themselves. “You speak of removing corruption,” he said slowly. “Tell us, then—how do you intend to cleanse something that stains the very soul? And why must you form a Circle to do it?”

  Selene met his gaze without flinching. “It isn’t cleansing,” she said. “Cleansing implies acceptance—that the corruption belongs, and can be washed away. This isn’t that. What I propose is removal—undoing the infection altogether. It’s not purification; it’s reversal. A rewriting of what should never have been.”

  The words fell like stones into water. A wave of murmurs rippled through the chamber, rising quickly into protest.

  “Reversal?” a noble whispered. “She speaks of rewriting the soul!”

  “Such power doesn’t exist!” another barked.

  The noise grew until a sharp voice cut through it, calm but edged with knowing.

  Aelun had stepped forward, the silver threads on his robes catching the light. His expression was thoughtful, not accusatory, but his tone carried the gravity of ancient memory. “You intend to use magic rarely touched even by the dragons who are born of the will of magic itself,” he said. “Time magic.”

  Selene inclined her head slightly. “Yes. But not the kind that turns suns backward or rewinds fate. It’s focused. Contained. Even then, it would demand a Circle strong enough to hold it—a Circle bound by the First Coven’s bloodline. I need that strength just to study the theory, let alone attempt it.”

  Aelun’s eyes narrowed, then softened. He folded his arms. “Time is the oldest of fmes,” he said quietly. “Those who grasp it too tightly are burned. I would normally stand against any tampering with nature’s course. But if your aim is to reverse corruption—to restore what was stolen from creation rather than unmake creation itself—then it is not desecration. It is a correction. A noble pursuit.”

  A voice rang out from the gallery, shrill and indignant. One of the priests had stepped forward, his crimson stole trembling in his grip. “And you would permit this?” he cried. “A witch invoking forbidden power, ciming dominion over sin itself? How can any of us consent to such heresy being brought into being?”

  Selene turned her head slowly toward him. Her voice came calm, almost kind. “Are you against saving the souls of the innocent?”

  The priest stiffened. “They are not innocent,” he spat. “They drank demon’s blood. They courted damnation willingly—for power.”

  Augustine’s ugh rolled through the hall like a soft bell. He shook his head, eyes bright with something between pity and scorn. “Spoken like someone who’s never seen battle,” he said. “You think all who fall to corruption do so from choice? You’ve not seen an Inquisitor bleeding out on the field, his blood and the blood of his sin, mingled tightly in his veins? I’ve watched Saints inadvertently swallow Demonkin blood mid-combat, only to damn themselves one drop at a time. Many slit their own throats before the change finishes. Others don’t even realize it’s begun until they look in a mirror and find a stranger staring back.”

  He stepped closer, gaze locking on the priest until the man’s outrage faltered. “Tell me, priest—would you brand them sinners too?”

  The priest’s mouth worked soundlessly before his voice failed entirely.

  The stillness that followed was thick enough to feel. Then Isolde’s voice cut through it—steady, measured, the tone of someone who had seen too much to doubt. “When we fought Malcolm,” she said, “we found halls filled with people twisted into Kindred against their will. Their only sin was being in his sight long enough for them to catch his interest.”

  The room murmured again, but this time there was no outrage—only unease.

  The Emperor, who had listened in silence from the Ashen Throne, finally spoke. His tone was calm, his gaze level, and his approval more dangerous than any anger could have been. “An ambitious undertaking,” he said. “And one worthy of your abilities.”

  The murmurs faded again, and for a heartbeat, no one dared speak. Then Selene stepped forward. “Your Majesty,” she said, steady but firm, “if you recognize the scale of this threat, then you understand why I need reinforcements. I can continue to provide intelligence—on their movements and locations—but I must be allowed to pursue my search for the hidden bloodlines. Without the strength of a true Circle, I can’t complete the work. The corruption will only spread.”

  The Emperor regarded her as if measuring the weight of every word. His reply was calm, but absolute. “No.”

  The single sylble hung heavy in the air.

  Selene blinked once, disbelief flickering into anger. “No?”

  His tone did not change. “The Empire cannot act alone. We’ve fought our share of monsters, Witch of the Hallow, but this—this will not be ours to bear in solitude.”

  Her expression tightened. “Then what do you intend to do?”

  The Emperor’s gaze moved from her to the silent nobles, to the Pontifex, to the gleaming banners overhead. When he spoke again, his words were measured, deliberate. “Alleve’s Hallow is an independent kingdom, yes—but it stands within Valenfor’s borders. Its strength, and the strength of its… inhabitants, will be required. If the Hallow holds an army of monsters, then it will march as one of ours.”

  A faint stir rippled through the court at his choice of words—monster army—but he continued unfazed. “And beyond that, this threat does not end with Valenfor. If we fall, Altheryon will follow. The corruption doesn’t care for borders.”

  Selene’s eyes narrowed. “So you pn to make a spectacle of cooperation.”

  The Emperor’s lips curved, almost approving. “I pn to make an alliance. Between Valenfor, the Hallows, and Altheryon.”

  An obvious safeguard, wrapped in the nguage of unity.

  He turned his gaze back to her. “You, Lady Selene, are the key that makes such an alliance possible. You carry the blood of The Warlock Emperor Altheryon; you are the Princess of Alleve’s Hallow; and soon you will join the Valenforian royal family. None in this world can cim ties to all three powers, save for you.”

  Selene’s jaw tightened. She saw the trap immediately—his alliance wasn’t just politics; it was a chain.

  “You don’t trust me,” she said, quiet but edged like gss.

  The Emperor leaned forward slightly, the faint emberlight from the throne dancing across his face. “On the contrary. I trust your abilities more than I trust my own bloodline.” His eyes sharpened, voice lowering until it almost purred. “And that, my dear Princess, is the problem.”

  The chamber fell still again—no one dared interrupt the quiet, dangerous respect between them.

  Selene held the Emperor’s gaze until the silence began to hum. Then, at st, he rose from the Ashen Throne. The sound of his movement—armor beneath silk, the low sigh of the smoldering seat—was enough to draw every head in the room toward him.

  “Then let us make it official,” he said. His voice was steady, the tone of a man decring something already decided. “We will announce the engagement of Crown Prince Cassian and Princess Selene Altheryon LeFaye. The Queen of the Hallow and Altheryon’s Emperor will attend. Let the world see unity before we test it.”

  A ripple of whispers crossed the hall, like wind brushing tall grass. Selene’s expression barely changed, but the flicker in her eyes could have cut gss.

  “You want to throw a ball,” she said, her voice ft, “while a Circle of Sorcerers tears through your borders?”

  “Yes.” The Emperor descended a step, hands csped behind his back. “Because it is the only way to ensure the presence of both your grandparents. They would never come for treaties, never answer to titles. But they will come for pride—and to see who dares wed their blood.”

  Selene’s tone sharpened. “And when, exactly, will this take pce?”

  “In two months’ time,” he said. “Enough for the invitations to reach every kingdom that matters, and enough for our armies to prepare. This will not be a provincial gathering—it will be a demonstration of faith and power.”

  “You’re wasting time with spectacle,” she replied.

  “Spectacle,” he said softly, “is what turns rumor into w. Armies don’t move without sanction. Sanction requires legitimacy. And legitimacy—” his smile returned, faint and cold “—requires celebration.”

  The words hung there, impossible to refute.

  Isolde watched Selene, her brow furrowed in quiet concern. She could see the fury building behind Selene’s composure. The Witch Heir looked ready to fracture marble, yet she was trapped again, checkmated before realizing the game had even begun.

  “Every hour we waste,” Selene said, “costs lives.”

  “Every army we rush,” the Emperor replied, “costs nations. We will move when the world is watching, not before. If you wish to save it, my dear, then you must first let it see you.”

  Selene opened her mouth to retort, then closed it again. The truth of his words burned worse than his condescension.

  Cassian’s voice finally broke the tension, light but edged with unease. “Father,” he said, “perhaps Selene’s concern is less about celebration and more about urgency. The faster this alliance—”

  “She will have her urgency tomorrow,” the Emperor said. “Tonight, we pn.”

  He turned back to Selene. “You will remain here for the night. At dawn, you’ll deliver the invitation to your grandmother yourself. I’ll send word to the Warlock Emperor. Let's see how much they value their little Princess.”

  The audience felt over. No one spoke. The Emperor had turned away before she could even respond.

  Selene bowed her head slightly, every muscle in her jaw drawn tight. “As you command, Your Majesty.”

  Her bow was low, the movement sharp enough to be mistaken for defiance. The Emperor’s faint smile didn’t falter.

  “Good,” he said. “You learn quickly.”

  She turned on her heel and strode from the hall, cloak whispering behind her like smoke.

  Cassian lingered only long enough to clear his throat. “If there’s nothing else, Father,” he said, the lightness in his voice a thin disguise for exhaustion, “I’ll excuse myself to console my better half.”

  The Emperor’s gaze didn’t follow him, but a faint exhale passed for approval. “Do what you must.”

  Cassian dipped his head and started after Selene, Isolde falling into step beside him. The echo of their boots trailed through the vast corridor as the sound of the court faded behind them.

  For a while, they walked in silence, past the tall windows where the dawn light bent through the gss and turned their reflections into ghosts. Only when the doors to the outer hall closed behind them did Isolde finally speak.

  “What is it you actually want from her?” she asked, eyes never leaving the corridor ahead.

  Cassian gnced sideways, a small, uncertain smile tugging at his mouth. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted after a pause. “But being around her makes the world… louder. More alive.”

  Isolde gave a short, humorless ugh, shaking her head. “Alive? Meme’s life is complicated enough as it is. The st thing she needs is some flighty prince chasing excitement at her expense.”

  Cassian’s smile thinned but didn’t fade. “Maybe,” he said quietly. “But it isn’t excitement I’m chasing. She just—” he hesitated, searching for the right word, “—she makes everything else feel small. Predictable.”

  Isolde gnced at him sidelong, unable to tell if she should be annoyed or impressed. “Careful, Your Highness,” she said. “That kind of fascination tends to end badly.”

  Cassian chuckled softly. “Then I’ll enjoy the fall while it sts.”

  Isolde scoffed under her breath, still unsure whether to be upset or amused, and turned her eyes forward again.

  Behind them, the chamber they’d left still hummed with the aftershock of what had transpired.

  Eryndor and Darius remained at the foot of the dais, silent amid the thinning crowd. The Emperor had already departed; the nobles drifted out in murmurs. Only the faint ember-glow of the Ashen Throne lingered, painting the marble in restless light.

  Saint Augustine approached, his step measured, his presence calm. He stopped before them, studying their faces—the weariness, the disbelief.

  Darius broke the silence first. “What does a Saint like yourself possibly have to do with me?”

  Augustine’s expression softened, almost fond. “Garran once asked something of me,” he said. “He said, if the boy ever earns Devotion’s recognition, then teach him.”

  Darius blinked, confusion fshing across his face. “Teach me? Teach me what?”

  Eryndor’s eyes widened, realization dawning. “You can’t mean—”

  Before he could finish, another voice answered from the side. Aelun had been standing quietly all along, hands folded behind his back, eyes reflecting the dying light.

  “As I said before,” the elf murmured, “you’ve always had the spark of a Magic Swordsman. It’s about time someone added tinder.”

  A faint smile tugged at Augustine’s lips. “Come with me,” he said quietly. “We have much to discuss—and little time to waste.”

  Darius hesitated only a heartbeat before nodding. He gnced once toward the grand doors Selene had vanished through, then turned to follow the Saint and the elf into the corridors beyond.