Blood sings to blood. And once it starts, the song does not end gently.
3
AMELIA
Velcryn rises out of the northern mists like something half-remembered from a nightmare. Its blackstone towers are jagged and tall, crowned with violet fire that pulses in eerie rhythm, as though the city breathes. Or hungers. Cold air knifes through my cloak as I guide my horse down the narrow winding path that cuts through the pine-choked cliffs. The last few hours of travel have been cloaked in silence, save for the soft crunch of hooves on frost-bitten earth and the occasional caw of the carrion birds that circle overhead like sentries.
The sigil under my collarbone burns hotter the closer I get. Not painful. Just aware and alert. As if it, too, knows we are crossing into enemy territory.
A pair of Vrakken guards wait at the iron gates, eyes like polished obsidian, armor glinting with rune-etched silver. One raises a hand in silent command. I stop my horse, lowering my hood slowly.
"Amelia Crow, of the Nytherian coven," I say, voice even.
The guard nods. A flick of his fingers and the gates groan open.
Inside, Velcryn is both darker and more beautiful than I expected. The streets are clean but quiet, lined with twisted, crystalline growths that glow faintly from within. The buildings are carved with sharp, elegant angles, designed to intimidate rather than welcome. Shadows stretch longer than they should here. As if light itself is reluctant to linger.
The square is too quiet. No market noise, no idle chatter. Just the low hum of magic coiled under the stone like something sleeping. Watching.
I glance up at the nearest tower and swear I see a flicker of movement, eyes behind glass, or maybe just ghosts of the past. This place feels like it remembers every war it's ever fought. And now I’m here, walking into the jaws of something ancient and sharp.
I dismount in the central square where a tall figure waits.
Prince Zeidan.
He is exactly as the rumors describe: obsidian hair, pale as moonlight, eyes so dark they catch the firelight like polished obsidian. He stands like a predator wearing patience as armor. And when his gaze lands on me, I feel something shift. A tension in the air, like the instant before lightning strikes.
He inclines his head. "Heir Crow. Welcome to Velcryn."
"Let’s skip the pleasantries," I reply. "We both know why I’m here."
A flicker of amusement touches his lips. "Then by all means. Let’s talk terms."
We are ledinto a chamber carved from blackstone, lit with hanging orbs of blue flame. No windows. No escape. Zeidan gestures toward the long table between us.
"Your coven needs aid. Resources. Magical reinforcement."
"And you want something in return."
"Naturally."
I meet his gaze, refusing to flinch under the weight of it. "We can offer trade routes. Spellstone. A political alliance."
He leans back in his chair, expression unreadable. "Insufficient."
"Then what do you want?"
He doesn’t answer right away.
Instead, he studies me with an intensity that makes my skin prickle, as though he’s reading something written beneath my words. His gaze is sharp, deliberate, not the casual appraisal of a man assessing a woman, but something colder. Strategic. Still, I can’t help noticing the way the firelight cuts across his face, sharpening the lines of his cheekbones, catching in the black of his eyes.
Annoyingly handsome, I think. In a dangerous, predatory way.
“You come prepared,” he says at last. “Trade routes. Spellstone. Alliances.” His mouth curves faintly. “You assume those things still hold value to us.”
“They should,” I reply. “They’ve held value for centuries.”
“Centuries ago,” he counters, “your people didn’t seal themselves behind failing wards and call it independence.”
