Anees scans the corridor, his jaw working as he processes my revelation. I've caught him off-guard with this, though I trust him completely. He's always been our family's mediator, our voice of reason. Father's judgment may be fair, but it's absolute. If he discovers his own sons conspiring against the crown's edict to keep Draethys hidden below, his retribution would shatter our house.
Byzu must realize this.
The palace barely stirs at this hour. Servants polish silver in the dining hall, sweeping away evidence of last night's festivities. The wedding guests have departed, leaving the palace to its routines. By midday, Father will hold court, listening to petitioners and grievances from across the kingdom.
Time enough to corner Byzu somewhere private and knock sense into his thick skull.
“Last night, Byzu mentioned checking the underground casket room,” Anees says, the furrow between his brows deepening. “Something about a barrel of aged mead he remembered, which he wanted to present as a wedding gift. Said he'd retrieve it himself… But now I wonder if it was a cover for something else.”
We descend into the palace depths—having no other lead right now—moving like wraiths through corridors where no servants have reason to venture this early. The perfect place for an uninterrupted fraternal intervention.
The passageways constrict as we descend, ceiling pressing lower. At the corridor's end lies the drinks cellar, its entrance barely visible in the meager light cast by scattered torches. Water seeps from the stone above, collecting in shallow pools at our feet.
“Byzu?” Anees calls.
A clatter echoes from the darkness. A tall figure emerges from the cellar's mouth, features obscured in shadow.
I surge forward, leaving Anees behind, determined to confront my wayward brother.
Only as I close the distance do I realize: this isn't Byzu.
“He knows,” Anees says behind me, his voice suddenly cold as stone.
The fireball hits before I can react, a molten hammer slamming square into my chest. Pain sears through layers of skin as my senses dim at the edges. Not a killing blow, just enough to render me useless. My head sinks into a shallow puddle as I collapse, the cold water a sharp contrast to the burning agony spreading across my torso. Through wavering vision, two figures materialize above me: Sema Braynor's hooded silhouette and my brother's unmistakable face.
“No,” I rasp, fingers clawing at Anees's ceremonial robe.
“Oh, but yes.” A smile plays at the corners of his mouth. “Stay put while I finish this, brother.”
“Anees...” My voice breaks. “What have you done?”
Sema's lip curls with contempt. “He's choosing Draethys over your weakness.” He turns to my brother with impatience. “Kill him now. He'll only interfere.”
“Unnecessary,” Anees replies, raising his palms.
White light blooms from his hands, and an invisible force lifts me from the ground. I strain against the magic, but my muscles refuse to obey. Rage burns hotter than my wounds as Anees hurls me into the abandoned wine cellar, my paralyzed body landing in an undignified heap.
The heavy door slams shut. Through narrowing vision, I watch Sema press his palm against the lock. Metal bubbles and collapses into itself as amber sigils ignite along the damp stone walls—containment wards activating, sealing me inside.
“Anees! Don't do this!” I roar after my brother.
“Years of planning, Dayn.” His words filter through the door, distorted yet unmistakable. “There's no turning back. Not that I want to.”
Footsteps fade—his and Sema's—retreating down the tunnel until silence swallows even their echo. Darkness presses against my eyes, absolute and suffocating.
Esme. Upstairs, unprotected, oblivious to the danger. The promise I made her pulses in my mind. I can still feel the press of her lips, the warmth of her skin, the intoxicating blend of her power with mine—what began as strategy has left an imprint I cannot shake, cannot rationalize away as mere calculation.
She needs me. Draethys needs me. Whatever conspiracy Anees and Byzu have woven with House Braynor, I will unravel it. I didn't spend centuries walking the world above to watch extremists destroy what remains of my homeland. They have no conception of the inferno they're about to unleash.
23
ESME
Istare at King Bemmar from the edge of the ceremonial bed, the words “house arrest” hanging in the air between us. My tongue feels suddenly frozen.
“Until my son is found, yes,” he says, “you will be under house arrest.”
Two guards flank him, and behind me, warding nets shimmer across the windows like ghostly curtains. No way in, no way out.
