Smart, I said. The more people we shield or distance, the harder we make his targeting.
Exactly.
Being useful felt different than being charming. Pattern recognition, intelligence-gathering—these weren’t just tricks. They were ways to keep her safe.
Later, after the others had left, Marigold caught my arm in the corridor.
You’ve been sharing everything, she said—an observation, not a question. All your parents’ research. Every piece of intelligence.
That’s the deal, I said. No more hiding things because I think I know better.
It’s working.
Her fingers squeezed my arm briefly before she headed back toward Keane’s suite. Small gesture. Huge meaning.
I was earning my place here—not through charm or manipulation but through showing up with truth.
And maybe…just maybe…that version of me was worth keeping around.
6
Cyrus
RAYNOFF TOWER ROSE LIKE A blade jammed into the mountainside, angled for defense not comfort. My father had built it when he claimed the first council seat, choosing strategic advantage over accessibility and power over hospitality.
We were here for crisis coordination. The interim council had called an emergency summit to plan countermoves—tracking Raven, assessing the corrupted wellsprings, and figuring out deployment of those who could be trusted.
The conference room had filled while we were in transit. The interim council around the obsidian table—Hartwell, Voss, Irving. A handful of Shroud Guards Voss had personally vetted. My father at the head, not yet seated.
And Parker, standing near the windows.
She looked different, not recovered exactly. The shadows under her eyes that hadn’t been there before Alstone’s compound and probably never would be. But she was upright, focused, and carrying herself with authority that went beyond what a Shroud Guard’s posture usually held.
The rank insignia on her collar was new, a field promotion.
I didn’t comment on it. Neither did she. She just caught my eye across the room with a brief nod that said later before returning her attention to the maps on the table.
Marigold noticed too. I saw it in the small pause before she moved fully into the room— taking in the insignia, the fact that she was here at all.
I’d heard Parker had been pulled back from Levon’s library two days ago, where she’d gone after she was rescued. Raynoff had called her back early because he needed someone who could look at a Shroud Guard and know. Not just vet paperwork and alibi timelines, but actually know—the way you know things when you’ve been on the other side of what corruption does to a person. She’d been tortured. She understood from the inside what it felt like when someone’s magic had been redirected against them. That made her the most reliable instrument they had for identifying compromised guards, and it also meant she was probably the most exhausted person in the room.
My father stood, and the room fell silent. Military command lay in every line of his posture.
He’d changed since learning the truth about my mother’s death. He still carried himself like a general, still commanded every room he entered, but something was different in his amber eyes now, something that looked almost like regret.
The master is operating on multiple fronts simultaneously, Lord Raynoff said. Not a discussion, a briefing. Our intelligence confirms coordinated attacks across six continents. And Raven’s trail leading directly into enemy territory.
He gestured to the maps spread across the conference table—Keane’s obsessive documentation, color-coded and cross-referenced. This was everything we knew about the master’s network, which was both too much and not nearly enough.
We cannot defend everything from a single position, Father continued. The interim council has authorized a tactical split.
Not requested. Authorized.
I stood near the back, my arms crossed with Ember restless on my shoulder. My fire magic wanted to surge every time I looked at those maps. At the corruption spreading across continents. At Raven’s trail.
And at Marigold standing across the room with Keane and Elio. Close enough to see. Too far to touch. The distance between us felt wider than it had any right to be.
We hadn’t talked. Not really. I’d walked away from that humiliating reunion, and we’d barely exchanged more than tactical necessity since. It was easy to hide behind the crisis.
