I met her gaze. "I grew up. Started wanting things I couldn't have. It was better for both of us that I stayed away—dangerous to be that close to the Divine Light's daughter when I couldn't think of her as just a friend anymore."
My mother's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or approval that I'd had the sense to walk away.
The silence stretched between us, stilted and uncomfortable. Then she shifted, stepping closer. "How are you feeling? Any... unusual sensations? Headaches? Dreams?"
The abrupt change caught me off guard. "I'm fine."
"Don't lie to me." Her voice sharpened. "I've protected you for one hundred and sixty-eight years. Moved us from village to village, court to court. I know when something is wrong."
"Mother, what are you?—"
"Your father's bloodline runs strong." She cut me off, amber eyes intense. "Light Court magic can manifest in unexpected ways. If you're experiencing anything strange, I need to know."
My father. Milan. The wanderer with the crooked smile who'd taught me to hold a sword and brought lamb pastries from the northern road and called me son with an ease that never wavered. Light Court blood on his side, my mother always said. That was where my magic came from. That was why it sometimes surged in ways the Academy hadn't taught me.
But Milan's magic had never frightened him. Milan's magic didn't singe bedsheets or pool like black water in the corners of dark rooms. And my mother's face when she saidyour father's bloodline— the way her eyes tightened, the way her voiceflattened into something rehearsed — didn't look like a woman talking about the man she loved.
It looked like a woman reciting a story she needed me to believe.
"I'm fine," I repeated.
She studied me for a long moment, then sighed. "Promise me you'll be careful. The court is dangerous, especially now. Keep your head down. Don't draw attention."
"Mother—"
"Promise me, Hakan."
I covered her hands with mine. "I promise."
She released me, stepping back, the moment of vulnerability passing. "Rest. Whatever vengeance you are planning will require a clear head."
She left before I could respond.
That night, the dream came.
Darkness surrounded me—not empty but alive, pulsing with power that called to something deep in my core. I raised my hands, and shadow poured from them like water. Black tendrils that coiled around my fingers, twined up my arms, wrapped themselves around me like an embrace.
This is what you are, a voice whispered.This is what you were born to be.
No. I belong to the light.
Laughter, cold and ancient.
You belong to nothing but the shadows in your blood. You cannot hide forever, my son. The darkness will always find its own.
I woke with a gasp, my blankets smoldering, the smell of char thick in the air.
Dawn light streamed through the window. My hands still trembled with the echo of power.
I rose. Stripped the ruined bedding. Dressed for the day ahead.
Three days remained.
The morning of Ferit's destruction dawned bright and golden.
Sarp had done his work well. For two days, he had attached himself to Ferit's circle—buying drinks, laughing at jokes, feeding the lordling's paranoid theories about shadow infiltration with carefully planted suggestions. By the time the sun rose on the third day, Ferit was convinced that half the Divine Council had been compromised by shadow magic, that the purification ceremonies were deliberately weakened to allow tainted blood to flourish, that High Lord Volkan himself was either a traitor or a fool.
All Ferit needed was an audience.
