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“Then you demand a containment,” she said. “Understand that any alternative carries risk. An incomplete solution requires continuous maintenance and leaves a margin for failure. If the bloodline magic within her asserts itself against the binding, the containment could fracture.”

“State the method,” Drystan commanded.

“The magic can be bound rather than destroyed,” she explained. “We transform her physical form, forcing her soul into a vessel capable of holding it without immediate harm. An animal vessel isolates the power, preventing the bloodline from organizing. Her life is preserved, but contained.”

“What vessel?”

“A common field rat,” the witch replied. “Their natural lifespan in the wild does not exceed three years. The soul will remain bound for the duration of the creature’s life, and upon its death, the thread of her power expires quietly. It is the shortest, most effective containment.”

Drystan met her gaze, the weight of the choice pressing down on him.

“What is required of me?” he asked.

“Your presence at the ritual,” she said. “The Aurelian sovereign must witness the binding at the sealed altar below the palace. The dynasty’s presence acts as the anchor. We meet at the third hour after midnight.”

“I agree,” Drystan said quietly.

“Then prepare yourself,” she replied, bowing slightly before turning toward the door. The heavy wood swung open at her approach, closing silently behind her.

Drystan returned to the open window, looking out into the dark east toward the distant village he could not see. The cold wind moved through the chamber, carrying away the last remnants of heat.

He stood motionless until the third hour approached, his hands resting steady upon the sill, bound to the duty he had chosen.

Chapter 6

The dreaded third hour arrived.

Drystan rose from his chair by the hearth, a space as cold as his own chest at the thought of what lay ahead. He had neither eaten nor slept, remaining in the riding clothes he had worn through the long afternoon. The velvet shirt still carried the faint, lingering scent of Liora, a subtle reminder that cut straight through his composure. He refused to change, welcoming the discomfort as a quiet penance. It seemed fitting that he should suffer alongside her, even if their burdens took vastly different forms. Those clothes were the last physical warmth he would carry from her, a final trace of the only woman he had ever loved. He knew the act he was about to commit would forever alter his ability to feel such devotion again. Yet he walked this path because the demands of his realm left him no alternative, clinging to the worn velvet as the only remaining honesty he possessed.

The candles in his private quarters had burned down to their stubs, leaving the room in darkness as he stepped through the inner door at the eastern wall.

The passage beyond was one most of the household never saw, running behind the imperial residence and descending into the ancient foundations beneath the palace. Drystan had walked this route only twice before: once at fourteen when his father showed him the hidden way, warning him never to speak of it, and again during his coronation to complete the binding ritual connecting the sovereign to the realm.

Now, he descended a third time, feeling the same sharp apprehension that had gripped him as a boy.

The corridor narrowed as it sloped downward, the polished white marble of the upper halls giving way to rough, ancient grey stone. Drystan carried no torch, relying instead on the faint, ambient luminescence embedded within the rock itself, a lingering residual magic older than the dynasty he represented.

The path carried him deep beneath the gardens, the courtyards, and the vast vaulted cellars where the palace stores were kept, reaching a depth unknown to servants, scribes, or official maps.

At the end of the descent stood a heavy iron door, seamless and without a handle, marked only by a single carved sigil at chest height. Drystan pressed his palm against the cold symbol. The metal warmed beneath his touch, acknowledging his bloodline, and the door swung open without a sound.

The chamber beyond was round and stone-walled, its floor sloped slightly toward a low altar of black stone at the centre. Beside the altar, a small brazier burned with an unnatural, pale-green flame that cast strange shadows across the floor. The light carried a sharp, bitter scent that overwhelmed the familiar traces of Liora’s fragrance, leaving a faint sting in the air.

Morrigwen waited by the altar, her gaze fixed on him as he entered.

She had shifted her appearance once more. The woman who had visited his chambers earlier had appeared in her prime, but the figure standing by the black stone now carried the visible weight of years. She stood upright and steady, her expression composed, the presence of someone accustomed to severing bonds and wielding ancient magic.

She inclined her head as he approached.

“You arrived,” she said smoothly.

“You stated my presence was required.”

“It is,” she replied. “I am merely noting your punctuality. Your predecessors often hesitated before their most difficult duties. Your father delayed the action in the southern provinces, and your grandfather hesitated during the eastern rising. They acted eventually, but they delayed. You have come precisely at the third hour.”

“Is that meant to be praise?”

“It is an observation,” she said. “The nature of a ruler is revealed in how he meets the hardest demands of his position. You are here as agreed, and the dynasty is served by your presence. Let us proceed, so your will may be carried out.”