Page 134 of Smoke, Mirrors, & Misdemeanours

“Does anyone in the council know?” Ark asked.

His father opened his eyes. “I hope not, though I can’t be sure.” He scoffed. “There are enough families already watching me, waiting for the cracks. If word spread that I was unwell, there’d be power grabs. Houses who never wanted the Four Factions to coexist in the first place, using my weakness as their opening, angling for the first opportunity to tear down the work we’ve done for four hundred years.”

Ark narrowed his eyes. “The secessionists.”

His father’s mouth pressed thin. “They’ve been quieter, the last few years. But quiet isn’t the same as surrender.” Those golden eyes found him again. “And you know who’s been stirring the pot.”

Ark’s jaw ticked. Agmon Alderrath. His first gambit had been a marriage alliance—his sister Lucindra in exchange for a direct line to the Varil power. With that door slammed in his face, he was undoubtedly already moving his next piece into place. The question was no longer if he would strike, but what other weapon he had up his sleeve.

Kassenor sighed. But, for once, he looked unburdened. “For years, I struggled with my decisions. On one hand, I wanted you to create your own life, unburdened by the legacy my own ancestors placed on my shoulders. On the other . . .” His father looked at him. “I suppose I also hoped that if I just stayed standing long enough, you’d come around on your own. You would’ve been good at it. Better than most of them. You have the pedigree, the brain.”

After a pause, his father continued, “And the heart.” He burrowed his head deeper into the pillow. “But then you chose your path, and it seemed fair to let you see it through.”

Ark couldn’t help but smile. “You mean my path as a ‘glorified collector of junk?’”

A faint smile curved on Kassenor’s lips. Another beat of silence passed. “Did your witch friend tell you that I am ill?” The choice of word was deliberate, and Ark heard the test in it.

“My Chosen,” he corrected. “And no, not precisely.”

Kassenor gave a faint nod, though his gaze had already drifted, as if it took immense energy to keep himself awake. “I thought she might have,” he murmured. “She strikes me . . . as someone who sees more than she lets on.”

Ark didn’t refute that. His father’s lashes lowered. His breathing slowed. The line of his jaw relaxed.

He was asleep within seconds.

Ark stayed where he was, watching him. Years of distance, now reduced to this quiet shape beneath the bedding. He stood and pulled the blanket up a little higher.

His mother took her place beside the bed. Ark left the room. A few steps down the corridor, he leaned back against the wall, his head resting against the cool stone as he let out a long breath.

He pulled out his phone. His thumb hovered over Oromon’s name.

How could he tell his brother that the father they’d both spent years resenting was dying?

He pressed ‘call’. Oromon answered on the second ring.

“Come home,” Ark said, his hand over his eyes. “It’s Father.”

33

CASSIA

Cassia crossed Eldryn Gardens like someone moving through fog—barely seeing, barely thinking. Her silk skirts clung to her legs. The buttons down her back were undone, gaping beneath her coat, but she hadn’t been able to fix them on her own. Cold air seeped through the wool, but she didn’t have the strength to pull it tighter. She wanted to feel nothing. Instead, she felt everything.

She reached into her pocket and found the empty drawstring bag. The sight of his hair scattered across his floor must have hurt him. She’d known it would—that had been the point. She’d needed him to let go. But standing here now, with the empty bag in her hand, she felt the weight of what she’d done.

She had hurt him. And it had worked.

Her chest ached. She kept walking.

The hour was early enough to keep the gardens mostly empty. She ignored the few strollers who passed her by, casting sidelong glances at her evening gown. Her feet carried her forward, familiar even when her mind wasn’t. Past the hedge-lined paths and toward the stone gate.

Starlight.

A warm beacon across the frost-laced grass.

The kitchen would already be humming, the dining hall filled with children—hands sticky with jam, mouths full of warm buttered rolls and soft scrambled eggs. Laughter would rise with the scent of hot chocolate. Routine, safety, and laughter.

A place that somehow always made sense, even when everything else didn’t.