She never had a chance to say goodbye before she was stationed on the outskirts of Valisea. He had just entered the sun temple, following in his mother’s fire footsteps. The next day, the Veil Worshippers attacked her patrol and murdered her.
But as much as he hated those cultists—as much as he was thankful the shadow-cursed no longer existed—he still had a shred of honor in his chest. As deep as it could be seated for those creatures, but still there. It was that honor, not the ridiculous superstitions or legends of shadow curses and monsters, that would prevent him from disrespecting those Veil artifacts.
Cason bit down his response as an earth-kind broke past his perimeter. The man moved fast, deliberately swift, but not making any attack movements toward Serill. Cason stood quickly, his hand still firm on his sword, his fingers itching to call his storm magic at a second’s notice.
The man handed the Prince of Severina a sealed letter, watching Cason carefully; sizing him up, perhaps, as if he was considering attacking the fire wielder. The captain recognized Lord Gerrart’s seal on the letter, but his attention was drawn back to the crowd. No one seemed to pay attention to them, still lost in the music or their alcohol and the dancing that never ended.
Only Serill standing and placing his hand on Cason’s arm calmed him. He glanced at the prince who had suddenly gone pale.
“Lord Gerrart is asking for us to return.”
Cason raised his eyebrow. “I do hope he’s not inviting you to join his activities with Lady Lorana.”
Serill only shook his head. “He thinks he’s been robbed by a celvusa.”
* * *
The office had been obliterated,and that might have been an understatement. It didn’t even look like the pristine office—and part museum—that Cason had seen earlier today.
No part of Lord Gerrart’s study had survived the massacre. If it was wood, it was splintered. If it was breakable, it was broken. If it could be destroyed, it was shredded beyond recognition. Even the books had been ripped and torn from existence, littering every inch of the remaining room.
And the man. Gods, he was a legend in Rooke for his skills. He was a legend in Anfroy, even, where successful attacks on Valisea were considered the highest honor a soldier could achieve. Lord Gerrart was the fiercest and most cunning earth-kind Cason had ever known. The ground shook with his strength, like he was built from the mountains themselves, but the man sitting in his chair—the only thing that had survived—was as pale as snow. Hollow. Trembling in fear.
The Lord that had left the Earth Festival with his courtesan had been stumbling drunk, but Gerrart was stone-cold sober now.
“Celvusa.”
It was the last thing he had mumbled when they arrived, and now Serill was trying desperately to extract more information out of him.
Cason never had much respect for the Lord, minus his skills on the battlefield, but seeing how easily he had been fooled was enough to erase that completely.
The robbery was obviously meant to play off Gerrart’s fear of the mythical shadow beast. Cason had seen the scrapes left in every windowsill around the home that had been laced with hellthorn, including the window that had protected the prince’s room. Deep carvings into the woodwork, enough to break the seals and convince the superstitious Lord that he was being hunted by a creature from the shadow-cursed legends.
No shadow-cursed beast or person—assuming, for the sake of argument, that both still existed—could have done that with the amount of hellthorn in the wood, which meant someone had faked the entire scene. And, judging by the destruction, someone earth-blessed with an affinity for strength. The cuts in the floor were deeper than the windows, and could have been made by any of the weapons Gerrart had displayed on his wall. In fact, some of those weaponshadbeen used to carve the desk and bookcases, even smash the safe hidden under the floorboards of the desk. Every part of the destruction had been deliberate, including the use of finola poison to knock out the staff without being seen.
The wreckage wasn’t because the robber was looking for something specific. It was meant to send a message.
The person who had done this knew all the ins and outs of the office, which meant they had been here before. They knew Gerrart, and they knew his fears. They had even concocted the black liquid that dripped around the edges of the broken window. The shatter patterns and size of the hole were odd, as if something large had burst through from the outside, but that could also be recreated by a large rock from an earth-kind.
Cason knelt next to a puddle of black liquid near some shredded floorboards, breathing deep. Odorless, even against his senses. Whoever had created this liquid knew what they were doing. Just more proof that this had been a planned attack.
“Who had access to your office?” Cason asked, standing up to face Gerrart.
The man shook his head. “Myself and one maid, plus the two of you this morning, but the lock on the door was broken.”
Cason raised his brow at the gaping hole where the office doors used to be. Why pick the lock if you were just going to destroy the door? A casualty from the rock that also destroyed the window?
He studied the room again. “Where was the Veil artifact?”
Gerrart lifted a shaking hand, pointing to the top of the stairs. “A hidden safe. Not even my maid knows about it.”
And no one knew about the small Veil fabrics and coins Serill had in their room, yet those were stolen as well.
The captain maneuvered his way up the stairs as Serill followed, careful to not stir any of the books or papers that had settled on the steps. This part of the office had been the least destroyed, though there was still damage.
His eyes were drawn first to the scrapes on the bookcases and the gutting of book spines. Deep, not powerful, yet enough to make Gerrart believe the celvusa had stalked this hallway. The robber wanted him to know that his safe was the target. He wanted to prove a point.
What point, though?
