I go still, every nerve suddenly alert. Void hounds are nightmare creatures, bred to track magical signatures and drain essence on command. Their hollow eyes can see through glamours, their teeth can tear through wards, and their bite leaves victims temporarily unable to cast. The perfect weapon against those who rely on raw magic.
“This is for your safety,” Alexander soothes. “These units will carry full authorization to detain anyone practicing unsanctioned magic within our walls. The hounds will ensure no one evades our protection. Let us remember, unrefined power is dangerous power. In Eclipsera, we do not punish the desperate, we teach them discipline. We choose civilization.”
The chamber erupts in polite applause; a chorus of clinking crystal and murmured approval. I watch them consume it—the fear, the spectacle, the illusion of safety. And then Alexander’s gaze locks on mine.
“And what fortune smiles upon us tonight, as we welcome both Ellis daughters to our table.”
My spine straightens under the weight of so many stares. Alexander’s voice curls with orchestrated delight, but every note is meant to pin me in place.
“Luna, whose dedication in our research division has already exceeded expectations, proving that true Eclipseran spirit runs deep in the Ellis bloodline.” He turns toward me now, his smile deepening. “And Aria, who honors us with her return at last.”
A fresh chill coils through me. He’s recasting everything—my arrival, my seating, Luna’s presence—as deliberate and planned. Dom’s last-minute rearrangement becomes part of Alexander’s illusion of unity. Luna’s sudden elevation reframed as legacy fulfilled. And me? I’m just another piece in his performance. A symbol returned to its proper place.
The projection shifts and there they are, captured in perfect detail. Mom stands in the center of the hall, radiant in burgundy silk. Her olive skin glows beneath the ballroom lights, dark waves tumbling down her back, cheekbones sharp enough to wound. The resemblance is stark. Her mouth, her stance, the curve of her jaw. I carry all of it. But her eyes were different—darker, deeper, and filled with secrets no one was meant to uncover.
Beside her, Father lifts the first stabilized blood ruby, its surface gleaming like distilled flame. His green eyes flash with triumph, his smile a blend of ambition and something far hungrier. The crowd surges around them, praise pouring from the Founding Families as he and Alexander shake hands, basking in the illusion of unity. They look so young and alive, certain of their place in the future they were building. Mom laughs, light and melodic, as Father draws her close, their victory etched into every line of their faces.
The image twists something sour inside me. They were barely past their first century when they died. Practically adolescents by our standards, when most expect to live well past two hundred.Sometimes I forget how young they truly were. How much life they should have had ahead of them.
“The Ellis legacy,” Alexander continues, “has always been synonymous with brilliance. Elyra and Cedric understood what so many beyond our borders fail to grasp—the true cost of advancement. Their insights redefined our understanding of blood magic for decades and yet . . .” He pauses, a veil of grief slipping across his features. “To lose such minds so young, with their greatest work mere breaths from completion, cut short before we could share it with the world.”
Sympathetic murmurs ripple through the crowd, and Ruby dabs at her eyes with a silk handkerchief, though I’ve seen her rehearse that gesture in the powder room mirror. Around the crescent table, the Founding Family members enact their own curated performances of grief: hands to hearts, glistening eyes, sighs released with perfect timing. I’ve played this game at countless memorials. Learned how to summon tears that never fall, to echo sorrow without surrendering to it.
But theirs is a grief of disruption. A mourning for unfinished patents, delayed innovation, and prestige lost. Mine still wakes me in the middle of the night, raw and real, even after everything.
Yes, my parents were brilliant. Yes, they were consumed by their work. But they also taught me my first incantation, let me sleep curled under lab tables when nights ran too long, carried burnt fingers and pride from failed spells that still made them laugh. They weren’t perfect, but they were mine. And watching this room mourn legacy over love makes something inside me curdle.
“But tonight, we celebrate continuation, not loss.” Alexander gestures, and servants emerge with velvet-lined boxes. Inside each, a ruby hairpin glimmers. Delicate, precise replicas of my parents’ original stabilized ruby, etched with their initials in gold. The crowd exhales, cooing at the tribute as though sentiment can be mass-produced.
“I have no doubt,” Alexander adds, as illusionary flames spiral into the air above, weaving in patterns that pull gasps from the hall, “that the next century of Ellis contributions will eclipse even those who came before. After all, some flames burn brightest when properly guided.”
Dom’s fingers press warning patterns into my knee. His other hand stays wrapped around mine, warm and firm against the chill building in my chest. I catch his sideways glances, the tightness in his jaw. He’s bracing for me to break again, the way I did at the funeral. But I’m not that version of myself anymore. I don’t shatter.
I sharpen.
Alexander raises his glass, but not before drawing Luna into a soft embrace. She collapses against him, tears flowing as the crowd looks on in admiration, clutching the memorial and glowing under his gaze. On his other side, Vivienne offers a smile so thin it could slice. The perfect portrait of mentor, protégé, and the quietly withering wife.
“To Elyra and Cedric Ellis,” Alexander’s voice carries across the hall. “Visionaries lost too soon. And to their daughters, our honored guests, who will undoubtedly push boundaries their parents never dreamed possible.”
I lift my glass mechanically, a muscle memory from years of these events, but inside, something dark and dangerous coils tightly. Because, beneath all his pretty words and perfect illusions, I know the truth. Alexander Darkmoor is connected to their deaths. I feel it in my marrow, even if I can’t prove it yet.
From the other side of the crescent table, Rowe’s gaze locks with mine. While Dom waits for a fracture, Rowe simply sees the weight I carry. We stare through the field of false tears and fabricated loss. For a moment, there’s silence between us, real and grounding, but it doesn’t last.
Dom’s lips brush my bare shoulder, teeth grazing ever so slightly against my skin, and the heat jolts me back. I turn, severing the thread between Rowe and me. When I glance over again, his gazeis already elsewhere, jaw clenched, hands tight in his lap as Vivienne speaks beside him, though I doubt he hears a word of it.
“Quite the performance,” Dom’s breath stirs the loose strands of my hair. “Though I must say, watching our dear Rowe trying not to combust is far more entertaining.” His voice curls at the edges, low and indulgent. “The way he can’t decide whether to look at you or pretend you don’t exist . . .”
His lips graze the curve of my ear, and I hate how my pulse spikes.
“Tell me, love,” he whispers, “do you think he gets off on it? Watching us? We could always invite him to join. A gesture of good faith, so to speak.”
“Your jealousy act needs work, darling.” I turn to meet his eyes. “Though I’ll admit, watching the Underground’s infamous puppet master try to stake his claim is amusing in its own way.”
“Jealous?” His laugh is low and wicked. “I’m the one who has you here, wearing my favorite shade of fuck-me crimson. Tell me, do you still think about that night in my office?” His breath warms my skin. “Because I do. Every time I see that color, I remember how it looked smeared across your thighs. How you begged—”
My nails dig into his thigh beneath the table and his pupils blow wide with something feral, pleasure slurring his edges. A rough sound catches in his throat, and heat coils low in my spine. That’s always been our rhythm. My resistance feeds him, his dominance sharpens me. Together we provoke, we burn, and we survive the wreckage.
Ruby’s voice cuts clean through the tension. “Dominic, I was so disappointed to hear your parents couldn’t attend this evening.”
