The High Court of Veridon was a cathedral of shadows.
Vaulted ceilings soared above marble floors etched with ancient sigils, and every corner of the vast hall whispered with power. The great stained-glass windows—depicting saints long turned to dust—cast fragmented light over a sea of gathered nobility. Crimson banners draped from the pillars, each emblazoned with the crowned serpent: the sigil of House Varek.
But beneath all the grandeur, rot had taken root.
Lord Elyan of the West leaned closer to his peer, voice low and sharp. "The prince still breathes. And worse—he's bonded."
A ripple of unease passed through the gallery.
Across the chamber, seated on a throne carved from blackthorn wood and obsidian, King Varek raised a hand. The murmurs died instantly.
"Tell me," he said, voice smooth as oiled steel. "Why is it that none of my shadowguards have returned?"
No one answered.
"Have they failed?" he continued, rising from his throne. "Or is it that they were never loyal to begin with?"
His gaze fell on Lord Marek of the Eastern Reach—a man whose scarred face twitched ever so slightly under the weight of the king's scrutiny.
"My liege, the girl is protected," Marek offered. "An old witch—one of the forest kin. Their magic runs deep."
King Varek's smile was thin and cruel. "I am the forest now. I am its blood."
He descended the steps, boots echoing like war drums. As he passed the nobles, some bowed, others knelt, all wary of the growing magic that crackled like lightning beneath his skin.
"Let the boy run," Varek said at last. "Let him believe he's free. Let the girl think love is a shield."
He paused, glancing up toward the massive mural that loomed over the dais: a depiction of the original blood-binding, when Varek's ancestor had sacrificed a thousand souls to birth their dominion.
"We will bleed them both dry," he finished, "and then take what is ours."
Far from the capital, the wind howled over the mountain pass like a grieving god.
Aerin pulled her cloak tighter, watching as the horses struggled through the snow. Behind her, Cassius walked in silence, his steps heavy with something unspoken.
They hadn't spoken of the kiss.
Or the binding light that had pulsed between their palms when they touched.
The witch had offered no more guidance before vanishing into the fog, leaving only a warning: The price of blood is never paid in coin.
"What's up ahead?" Aerin asked, breaking the silence.
Cassius looked to the peaks. "An outpost. Old. Abandoned. It was once a royal watchtower."
She gave him a sharp glance. "You mean your royal watchtower."
His jaw flexed. "Yes."
They reached it by nightfall.
Crumbled stones marked the edges of the ruins, and a single tower still stood, defiant against time and wind. Inside, the hearth was miraculously intact, and soon a fire crackled, casting dancing shadows across the cracked walls.
Aerin settled beside the flame, stretching out her numb fingers. "This place… you've been here before?"
Cassius didn't answer immediately. Then he sat across from her, staring into the fire as if it could erase memory.
"I was nine," he said softly. "Sent here for disobedience."
Her brow furrowed. "What kind of father exiles his child to a ruin?"
"The kind who sees mercy as weakness."
He hesitated, then added, "I spoke out during court. Told him I thought executions were cruel. That enslaving the mageborn was wrong."
Aerin's eyes widened. "You were nine."
"And naïve," he said with a bitter smile. "I thought truth could win wars."
She didn't interrupt.
"That night, he dragged me to the throne room. Had the steward bind my mouth with spell-silver. I couldn't speak for days. Then he sent me here. Alone."
"In the winter?"
He nodded.
"I nearly died. Would've, if not for a fox spirit that haunted the ridge. She brought me fire. Left berries. The only kindness I've ever known from something not human."
Aerin leaned forward, voice soft. "Why are you telling me this now?"
"Because the bond is growing," he said. "And you'll see these memories eventually. I'd rather give them than have you take them."
Her heart ached.
Cassius wasn't just fighting his father. He was fighting the child he'd once been—the one still buried beneath scars and armor.
She crossed the hearth slowly, knelt beside him, and reached for his hand. When their fingers touched, the bond flared—but gently, like embers glowing in the dark.
"I see you," she whispered. "And I'll never look away."
Elsewhere, the fox spirit stood atop the cliff where the tower slept beneath snow.
Her eyes—gold and ancient—watched the flickering lights within.
"So it begins," she murmured, voice echoing like wind through trees. "The heir and the fulcrum. The fire and the thorn."
She turned, fur rippling with starlight, and vanished into mist.
Back in Veridon, King Varek stood alone in the catacombs beneath the palace.
He placed a single drop of blood on the stone altar. It hissed, then bloomed into shadow.
"Rise," he commanded.
From the darkness, a figure emerged.
Pale. Veiled. Bound in chains of bone.
"Find her," Varek said. "Bring me the girl. Alive."
The chained figure didn't speak.
It simply bowed—and disappeared into black smoke.