While security had increased in Belleplace, it was crawling all over Lafontaine’s château. The police stationed at the gates had only let Nik in because of his direct apprenticeship to Lafontaine—and the mild threat that Lafontaine would be upset if they held up his “guest” any further.
One guard said flatly, “He’s out.”
“I have urgent news. Of the Restes.”
His voice trembled, and the words barely tumbled from his lips. Acting was more difficult than he’d given Chantal and Blai credit for.
But it worked. The guards stepped aside and admitted him into his father’s foyer. To be fair, it wasn’t uncommon for Nik to be summoned and made to wait like a dog.
He sprinted up the stairs and to Lafontaine’s office.
Nik had navigated these halls hundreds of times in the last four years, yet they felt strange tonight. Different. The white walls he once thought rich felt sterile. The red accents along the floor and ceiling like blood-soaked omens.
No. The château hadn’t changed.
Nik had.
Sneaking into a Souverain’s study? Digging up information? Usingit to release a rebel? These weren’t the actions of a diligent son, and it went way beyond a little bit of teenage fury.
It was treason.
But it was the only way he could prevent Lafontaine from doing something rash. Something that would spark a war they’d worked so hard to avoid.
Once he reached his father’s office, his hand hovered at the door.
He’d been angry at him before, and he’d acted out as all children do. But Nik wasn’t a child anymore, and this wasn’t a simple disagreement.
The paper tucked safely in his pocket reminded him of that. Everything his father had done, from Plouffe’s murder and framing Gaetan, had made things worse. Nik had to know how the formula fit into all of this. Howhefit into all of this.
The door opened with a click.
“Souverain?” he called.
No answer.
The desk was empty and clean, the cascading crimson lights above illuminated in a dull red, but it didn’t account for the smoldering orange light spreading across the white carpet.
“No.” He approached the window on leaden feet.
Anespérer was on fire.
The Restes was burning.
Elara’s home was burning.
His home was burning.
Smokestacks from one of the factories collapsed in a gnarled gulf of flame. Black smoke plumed into the sky. Sparks of light shattered outward, hungrily searching for the next dry tinder to devour. On and on it would continue until it consumed everything.
Unless he found a way to stop it.
Nik ran to the shelves.
The answers had to be somewhere. His father had hidden so much from him, secret rooms and dangerous serums. All of it here, beneath his nose. There must be more, something to help him.
He tore through the shelves and drawers. Dead ends. Everywhere. A simple thief had been able to uncover the truth—why not Nik?
He slammed his fist against the wall with a growl, rattling his mother’s painting.
