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A cry tore from Idonea as her knees buckled.

“Seal her palms,” the High Hierophant said.

Her head snapped up to him as terror lanced through her at his words. The closest Templar hauled her to her feet, but she refused to stand.

Two sets of boots rang against the smooth stone surface behind her. A sob heaved her chest.

“Brother Alcaeus,” the High Hierophant said. “What do I owe this interruption to?”

“You must release her into my custody.” Something twinged in her brain. The pitch of it, the deliberate slowness. That voice belonged somewhere in her past.

“I’d heard you’d sent your Severant to see her,” the High Hierophant said.

She turned, breath catching in her throat.

Lysander. No.

“Yes,” Alcaeus said. “I did. She is my daughter.”

The room lurched sideways. Idonea's pulse stumbled once. No, no, no.

The father who left when she was ten. The one who broke Nellith’s heart. She loathed him. From his dark hair that curled loosely above his brow, to his slightly crooked nose, and light brown skin, and even his deep, amber eyes that crinkled at the corner when he smiled. Hated every part of him.

And Lysander was a Severant, a daemonbreaker. A specialised suborder created to hunt and bind daemons, and Rivens, too.

Alcaeus’ uniform was very similar to the Templars, except with a single embellished pauldron in gold.

The High Hierophant stood from his chair. “She is, is she?” Idonea wished the High Hierophant's face was visible. His voice remained controlled, as if not surprised.

Alcaeus nodded. “This is Idonea, and as she is twenty-five winters, unmarried, her responsibility falls to me.”

“And you don’t think it’s interesting that you were back in the capital at the same time your daughter shows up?”

“No, I don’t,” Alcaeus said. “I’d call it fate.”

“What makes you think I’d let you take a Riven without being at least shackled, Brother?”

Her eyes widened. “He can’t take me.”

Lysander moved as the others spoke; each step brought him closer to her position on the floor.

“Brother Alcaeus,” the High Hierophant said, “see, she prefers shackles to your custody.”

Idonea’s father shook his head. “She does not know of what she speaks,” he said. “Her mind’s been poisoned by her mother. She hasn’t had a role model. Let me take her with me. Let me shape her into a witch that walks the path of light rather than the darkness she practises.”

With a hand wave from the High Hierophant, the Templar released his grip from her arm. She glared at Alcaeus and wished she didn’t have the metal cuffs on.

“What if you cannot bring her away from the darkness?”

“Then you may shackle her as required by the Accords,” Alcaeus said.

“Very well,” the High Hierophant said with a nod. “The girl is yours. Take care, Brother Alcaeus, for you’ve taken a dragon into your nest.”

Idonea smiled, mirth blooming from how accurate his words were.

Lysander offered his right hand. Her gaze met his eye, his scent again a familiar reminder of her home. His forearm was corded with muscle, while his left remained obscured under a loose sleeve.

“Let me help you, witchling.” Teasing tinged his words.