The words still the entire table. Even Mylo looks up. Aila mutters something under her breath, and Giorgi stops chewing.
Griffon vultures are bigger, faster, stronger—and native to Dulcamar. The winged beast is the main symbol on their banners.
I meet my uncle’s eyes across the table. His expression sharpens as I untie the seal.
Inside is a black, leather cord. At its center hangs a narrow strip of metal—long, forked at one end, the surface etched with subtle, curling lines. It looks simple at first, but something about the weight of it in my hand feels… off. As if it hums with purpose I don’t understand.
Beneath the cord is a small scrap of parchment.For the future prince.
I stare at the message, then the pendant, then back again.
“Do you recognize this?” I ask, holding it up for my uncle to see.
His face pales.
“Come, Celeste,” he says, pushing up from the bench with deliberate care. “We should talk. Alone.”
With that, the warmth of home is gone.
Uncle Kormak’s office is dim, dustier than I remember. A low fire flickers in the hearth, recently stoked, and the scent of old parchmentand beeswax polish permeates every corner. The thick, stone walls muffle the clamor of the Garrison beyond, and here, in this quiet place, the weight of what I’m holding sinks deeper into my palms.
He moves slowly behind the desk, brushing off a few scattered papers, righting a tipped-over inkwell, settling back into the shape of the man he used to be before the fever stole the color from his cheeks and the sharpness from his eyes.
He doesn’t sit. Instead, he turns to face me fully, his jaw tight, his expression unreadable. “Do you remember how your father felt about sirens?”
The question drops like a stone in my chest. I nod once. “Yes.”
But the word scrapes my throat raw.
What I don’t say is that it was something I hated about him. That I’d overheard his slurs and cold commands. That I’d seen the way he’d bristle when any mention of Messanya reached the court. That he’d called their songs deceitful, their bloodline tainted, as if power that took the shape of beauty could never be trusted.
That he’d imprisoned Dante’s mother.
That he most likely had her killed.
Uncle Kormak nods slightly, eyes narrowing on the object in my hand. “That pendant, that collar… it’s a restraint. A kind of shackle, though not in the way you’d expect.”
I study the metal again. I’d thought the shape strange, like the head of a fork. Elegant, almost. Now it feels sinister.
“It was crafted by black market artisans,” he continues. “Years ago. Axel started using them when he imprisoned the sirens here, in Delasurvia. He couldn’t risk their magic influencing his soldiers, so he had these made. The metal’s tuned to react to vocal frequency. When a siren tries to hum or sing to access their glamour, the metal sends a vibrational shock into the throat of the siren and stops their magic.”
“A vibrational shock?”
“Like a tuning fork against bone. The frequency reverberates through the throat. Violently. It silences them and causes just enough pain to make them think twice before trying again.”
I clench the leather cord tighter between my fingers. “So it’s torture.”
“Yes,” he says without hesitation. “But masked as precaution. It’s only ever used on prisoners. Because outside of chains and cells, it’s… control. Abuse.”
My skin prickles with heat, a fury rising in my chest that I don’t know where to aim. “I’ve never seen one before.”
He leans on the desk, his voice low. “You wouldn’t have. They’re meant to shame, not warn.”
The weight of the message begins to settle into place.
“It’s a threat,” I say, the words barely above a whisper. “To Dante.”
Uncle Kormak nods once. “Knowing that a griffon vulture delivered it, I can only assume it came from the tsar.”
