Page 14
The line had not ended. A distant branch had survived the purge, carrying the bloodline through centuries of quiet, hidden existence until it resurfaced in an eastern village girl who knew nothing of her heritage. The woman he loved was the last of the fallen house.
He moved further down the wall, stopping before a smaller portrait near the end.
The woman in the painting wore the Vespera sigil visibly marked upon her chest, positioned above the neckline of her gown.
He read the plaque below: Elara of the Eastern Reaches, beloved guest of the court of Vespera.
He recognized the name. Imperial texts mentioned Elara briefly as a foreign noblewoman, yet they omitted her mark, and omitted the fact that the sigil could be borne by one outside the direct royal bloodline.
The truth crystallized.
The mark was not merely a physical trait of birth, but a manifestation of alignment with the ancient Vespera magic, granted to those recognized by the court. In Liora, the dormant magic of her ancestors had begun to stir, woken by the intensity of their connection. His devotion had served as the catalyst, awakening the very power his ancestors had sought to bury.
He stared at the portrait for a long moment before turning sharply and retracing his steps. He passed the Aurelian kings, the candle flames flickering in his wake, and returned to his private quarters.
Sitting in the chair by the cold hearth, he remained motionless for an hour.
* * *
The witch arrived after the third bell.
She entered without a sound, the heavy doors opening on their own. She was not part of the official court roster, holding no formal title or registered chambers. Her existence was documented only in the secret archives of succession, passed from emperor to emperor on a single parchment burned upon reading. Drystan had memorized the protocol twelve years ago, hoping never to use it.
She did not resemble the withered woman his grandfather had introduced him to in his youth. Presenting the appearance of a woman in her prime, her slate-coloured hair and erect posture contrasted with the ancient weight in her eyes.
She inclined her head, remaining standing near the doorway.
“You have altered your appearance,” he noted, his voice flat.
“The form is merely a choice made by the magic,” she replied smoothly. “I appeared aged to your grandfather because he required it. Tonight, I assume a form suitable for our purpose. Tell me why you have called me, Emperor.”
Drystan hesitated, the rehearsed words failing him.
“A Vespera remains,” he said finally.
Her expression remained entirely still. “Where?”
“In the eastern province. A village named Anwen. The daughter of a woman who passed five years ago. The mark surfaced on her skin.”
“How did the emperor witness the mark of a peasant girl?” she asked, though the answer was evident.
“It surfaced this afternoon,” he said, looking away.
A brief, cold smile touched her lips. “You have awakened the bloodline. The magic responds to profound emotion, a bodily connection alone would not suffice. Love was the catalyst. You call me to perform a task you find painful, yet you fulfill the cold necessity of your lineage. You are an Aurelian, after all.”
“I was unaware their line survived,” Drystan said.
“Your grandfather calculated that the bloodline would dilute across generations of common marriages until it vanished,” she explained. “His logic held for two centuries, but failed in the third. He did not anticipate an Aurelian sovereign falling in love with the descendant. What do you require of me?”
Drystan remained silent.
She stepped closer to the cold hearth, her shadow stretching long against the stone. “The Vespera must be eliminated. Tonight, before the power organizes further. Within a moon, her magic will resist my reach. The window is narrow, and destruction is the simplest solution.”
“No,” Drystan said firmly.
She accepted the refusal without surprise. “You forbid her death?”
“I cannot permit it.”
