The music softened, the rhythm slowing into a more deliberate waltz. Darius found himself moving in time with Isolde, his earlier stiffness melting away as he followed her lead with surprising ease.

  “You seem to dance well enough,” he said, a wry note undercutting the compliment.

  Isolde’s lips curved. “It was part of the Saintess curriculum. Grace, posture, and poise—apparently, divine favor requires rhythm.”

  Darius huffed a ugh. “And here I thought sanctity was found through prayer, not footwork.”

  She tilted her head, studying him with that fox-bright gaze of hers. “You’re not so bad yourself, Inquisitor. For someone who cims to hate courtly nonsense, you move like a man who’s spent years practicing.”

  “It’s easy enough to pick up after watching the others,” he replied. “I’m good with my body.”

  Isolde’s smile deepened, voice low and teasing. “Clearly.”

  For a few measures, they moved in silence, their motions effortless against the tide of music. Then Darius leaned closer, lowering his tone. “Why did you really ask me to dance, Isolde?”

  She gnced past his shoulder to where Selene and Cassian were still speaking with nobles near the dais. “Because,” she said softly, “you were staring a little too hard. There are eyes everywhere, and the court doesn’t need new rumors—that the future Empress has taken an Inquisitor for a secret lover.”

  Darius scoffed. “Only a fool would believe that.”

  “They don’t have to believe it,” Isolde replied. “They just have to whisper it. And others will use it, whether it’s true or not. That’s the nature of courts.”

  Her words hung between them, sharp as gss. Darius looked down at her, the faintest frown drawing across his lips. “It’s not good for an Inquisitor to be seen with a Saintess either,” he said.

  “True,” she admitted, her expression cooling into something distant. “But I’m done worrying about what the Church thinks.”

  “That’s bsphemy,” he said automatically.

  “Then burn me down, Darius,” she murmured, voice soft as silk and twice as cutting. “If you can.”

  Her smirk fshed like the edge of a bde. He exhaled through his nose, equal parts irritation and reluctant amusement.

  Before he could answer, the orchestra swelled. Dancers turned, partners shifted in elegant rotation—and when Darius looked up again, Selene was in his arms.

  The music slowed. The air tightened. Isolde vanished into the crowd behind him, and Darius found himself staring into the eyes of the woman who had haunted his every waking thought since the Sanctum.

  For a while, neither of them spoke. They simply moved, step for step, the rhythm of the orchestra guiding their silence. He’d faced demons that screamed and cwed their way through steel, yet none had ever unsettled him like her silence did. The space between them felt impossibly thin—charged by something neither was willing to name.

  Finally, Selene sighed. “You move quite well,” she said lightly, “for a peasant.”

  Darius scoffed. “And you clean up nicely for a bog hag.”

  Her lips twitched into a faint, dangerous smile. Then the music carried them into another spin, the tension simmering just beneath their practiced grace.

  When he spoke again, his tone was quieter—measured. “Tell me… is this worth it?”

  She looked at him sidelong. “Is what worth it?”

  “Giving up your freedom,” he said, “just to find a few witches.”

  Selene’s gaze flicked downward, then back up, steady and unflinching. “Yes,” she said. “It’s an incredibly small price to pay.”

  Darius nodded slowly. “A commendable sacrifice—for the greater good. Countless people spared corruption.”

  Selene ughed softly, though there was little humor in it. Darius opened his mouth to say something noble, something to make sense of her fire — but the look in her eyes warned him off. “Stop looking for reasons not to hate me, Darius. I’m not doing this for anyone’s salvation. I’m doing it for myself. Everything else is just a by-product.”

  He looked at her then, truly looked—and saw something shadowed behind her words, a quiet fracture she refused to show. The music swelled; the dance called for a partner switch. As she spun away, Darius’s hand shot out and caught hers, pulling her back in with sudden force. Gasps rippled through the ballroom.

  Her would-be partner stumbled back, bowing awkwardly as Selene turned, caught in Darius’s grip. Her expression didn’t falter—though her smile now was razor-thin.

  “It’s his first real dance,” she said to the crowd, her tone airy. “He’ll need further instruction.”

  Murmurs faded, the orchestra resumed, and the two of them continued—still locked together.

  Through her teeth, Selene hissed, “What is your problem?”

  Darius’s voice was low, harsh. “You are.”

  Her eyes narrowed, but he pressed on. “Ever since we met, you’ve been trying to turn my world upside down. And when I’m trying—gods help me—to make sense of it, to find something good in, to find purpose in your actions, so I can move on. But you throw it back in my face. You scream, ‘No, I’m a bitch—deal with it.’ But it’s only ever with me.”

  His whisper carried like a bde between them.

  Selene’s practiced smile faltered. “Your mental turmoil isn’t my concern,” she said stiffly.

  Darius drew her closer until her breath caught. “It should be. So stop pretending you don’t care. What’s the point? Who are you doing it for?”

  Her fingers clenched against his chest, and she pushed him back. “For myself!” she snapped, her voice cutting through the music like a struck chord.

  The orchestra faltered into silence. All eyes turned toward them.

  Cassian appeared at Selene’s side in an instant, his easy smile masking the flicker of tension in his eyes. “Is there a problem?”

  Selene’s jaw flexed once. “No problem,” she said smoothly. “He just stepped on my foot one too many times. A terrible partner.”

  Cassian’s smirk turned sharp. “What did you expect? He’s lowborn.”

  Darius’s eyes fred with fury, but before he could respond. Before the court’s murmurs could settle, the sound came. A scream tore through the corridor outside the ballroom—sharp and blood-chilling. Then another.

  The hall fell into chaos as the music died completely, and steel rang in the distance.

  The ballroom doors crashed open, their gilded frames splintering under the force. The ughter and music cut short, leaving behind only the echo of harp strings snapping mid-note.

  An Imperial soldier stumbled through the threshold, drenched head to toe in blood so bck it seemed to drink the light. His breathing came in wet gasps. A trail followed him — a line of darkness that hissed where it touched marble.

  The crowd recoiled as one. Dresses whispered backward, chairs scraped across stone.

  “Your Majesty,” the soldier croaked, falling to one knee. His eyes were unfocused, wild. “The capital… the capital is under attack.”

  The words hit like thunder. The once-celebratory hall erupted in noise — nobles shouting, guards reaching for weapons, courtiers crying prayers to the saints.

  “Silence.”

  The single word — sharp, cold — came from the Emperor himself.

  He looked down at the soldier. “By who?”

  The man shuddered, clutching at his chest. “It’s— it’s madness, sire. The citizens… the guards… they’re killing each other.” His voice cracked. “Their eyes— bck as tar— their veins split open— they’re not people anymore. They’re ghouls!”

  The word hung in the air like a curse.

  A ripple of horror passed through the gathered guests. Servants fell to their knees; a few fainted.

  Morgan’s expression hardened immediately, her red pupils narrowing to points. Rhydan’s ughter had died entirely — he straightened to his full height, and even in stillness, he seemed to tower over the chaos.

  “It seems,” he said, his tone low and steady, “this Circle of Sorcerers fears what our alliance might become.”

  Morgan exhaled slowly through her nose, her voice quieter, sharper. “Or perhaps… this is only the smokescreen for something worse.”

  Valerion’s lips curved — not into amusement, but grim resolve. “Whatever their game, my capital bleeds. That takes precedence over all else.” He turned his gaze upon Morgan, and something flickered behind the emperor’s eyes. “Would you care to join me, Lady LeFaye… for a stroll through my city?”

  A murmur spread through the court — disbelief, fascination, terror.

  Morgan smiled faintly. “Not the most romantic after-dinner walk,” she said, brushing a hand over the bck mink at her shoulders, “but it will have to do.”

  Valerion turned his head toward Rhydan. “And you, Warlock Emperor?”

  Rhydan chuckled deep in his chest — a sound that seemed to shake dust from the ceiling. “Miss the fun? Never.”

  He reached into the empty air beside him and tore reality open. From the rift, he drew forth a saber — ornate, massive, etched with gold veins that pulsed like living fire. It was too rge for one man to wield, yet Rhydan held it with casual grace.

  “Come, Fang.”

  The saber thrummed with recognition, its edge gleaming like a rising sun. Power rippled from him, rolling across the floor in waves of heat. The marble beneath his feet hissed and cracked.

  Then, ughing like a storm, he leapt — straight through the ceiling. Shards of marble rained down in his wake as he vanished into the night sky, ughter echoing like thunder.

  The two Altheryon princes exchanged tired looks, sighed in practiced unison, and bowed deeply to the Valenfor Emperor before following after their father in streaks of fme.

  For a heartbeat, silence returned — the kind that comes only after something impossible has happened.

  Then Darius stepped forward. His jaw tightened as he drew Devotion. The weapon shimmered softly in the candlelight. When he whispered its name, the Vaylora did not rage as it had before. Instead, it glowed faintly, pulsing with a restrained calm — a light that seemed to breathe with him.

  Selene’s gaze flicked toward him — the bde, his steady stance, the reverence in the air around him. Then her eyes drifted to Augustine.

  A quiet bitterness twisted in her chest.

  From the far end of the hall, Regulus — the former Crown Prince — emerged like a shadow. He said nothing, only approached his father and drew from a sheath of bckened steel the Emperor’s weapon: The Fallen Ash.

  The bde’s surface burned faintly, gray motes rising from its edge like smoke. When Valerion took it, the room seemed to dim.

  “All able nobles,” the Emperor said, his voice carrying the weight of centuries, “defend your homes. Your Empire bleeds. Stand with it or be forgotten.”

  Across the hall, steel rang as knights drew their bdes. The Prince and Princesses called for their attendance to fetch their weapons. The orchestra had fled — but the sound of chanting magic filled the space in its stead.

  Cassian turned to Selene. His hand hovered, uncertain.

  Selene sighed, her expression unreadable. She reached into a pocket of air, and the room’s light bent toward her as she drew something from the rift. A sword — pure, radiant, ancient.

  Its hilt was carved from elven wood, runes faintly glowing across the grain. The bde was forged of dragon bone, pale as moonlight. And where hilt met the edge, a fragment of crystallized dragon heart pulsed faintly — red light flickering within like a heartbeat.

  She tossed it toward Cassian. He caught it one-handed, awe freezing him in pce as the weapon’s hum filled his veins.

  “What’s its name?” he asked quietly.

  “You tell me,” Selene replied.

  He looked down at the heart embedded in the guard — and for a fleeting second, saw his mother’s face in its depths. Not an illusion. A memory.

  A warmth spread through his chest — not the burning fire of Vaylora, but something gentler, steadier. It felt like the sun after a long winter, like the scent of home that had vanished years ago. The ache he had carried since childhood eased, if only slightly, repced by a profound calm that steadied his breath and quieted the noise of the hall.

  He swallowed hard.

  “…Serenity,” he said.

  The sword answered him with a soft hum, resonant and full, a sound that wrapped around his heart like a mother’s hand.

  The sword sang — a low, resonant note that rolled through the chamber. It wasn’t loud, but everyone felt it. The Vaylora in every other weapon answered, harmonizing like an unseen choir.

  Darius clenched his jaw, his fingers tightening around Devotion as Cassian smiled at Selene.

  Valerion nodded once. “A fine sword,” he said. “Now… It’s time to cleanse my capital.”

  He turned, raising the Fallen Ash — the bde caught the candlelight and turned it to fme. “Knights, Magic Swordsmen — with me!”

  Cassian stepped close, took Selene’s hand, and pressed a kiss against her knuckles before following after his father.

  Darius’s gaze lingered on her one st time before he too moved, Augustine and Aelun at his side.

  Then, softly, almost tenderly, Morgan LeFaye exhaled. Power rippled around her like a sigh, her hair lifting in the unseen wind. Her crimson eyes gleamed — deep and ancient, like molten rubies in the dark.

  “Mages,” she said, her voice a velvet command, “to me.”

  No one hesitated.

  Saints and sinners alike turned to her, as if she were not just the Queen of the Hallows, but Queen to all who carried the gift.