Page 105 of The Vespertine Treaty

"I understand," she whispered, a ghost of a smile painting her face as she clutched the pouch like a lifeline. "Thank you, Cain." I turned away, needing to leave before she could see the crack in my armour.

But right before I could reach the door, her small voice took one final stab at my blackened soul. "If it’s alright, I would like to move back into my chambers tomorrow." I didn't trust myself to speak. I just gave a stiff nod over my shoulder and exited the room.

Moments later, from the hallway, I could swear I felt the surge of her Empathy—pure, overwhelming relief. I heard the muffledsound of her sobbing, guarding the door until her sobs turned into the even breathing of sleep.

The peace was broken the following evening by the arrival of Consul Althea.

She swept into the main hall, her official robes trailing like mist. Perched on her shoulder was Vesper, her massive Amethyst owl whose purple eyes blinked with ancient wisdom.

"You look terrible, Cain," Althea noted, her voice unimpressed and clear. "Being a husband seems to be draining you."

"State your business, Althea," I said, not rising from my chair. "I am in no mood for Consortium politics."

"The Consortium is in chaos," she said calmly. "Malathor has vanished. There are rumours... disturbing ones. They say the Death Heir finally snapped." She looked at me, her gaze piercing. "They say you tore a fortress apart for a female you claimed to hate."

"Malathor attempted to steal from me," I said, my voice flat. "I simply corrected his error."

Althea sighed, stroking Vesper’s feathers. "The seat is empty, Cain. There is talk of ascending a new Consul. With your lineage, and display of power... it could be you."

"I do not want the seat," I barked, a flash of genuine anger surfacing. "I do not care about the balance, or the realm, or your petty titles. I just wanted my wife back."

The admission hung in the air, heavy and undeniable.

Althea smiled, a small, rare thing. "She has changed you. You are... warmer. It is terrifying." She paused. "I assume Malathor is dead?"

"No," I said, standing up. "Death is a mercy. And Malathor does not deserve my mercy."

I walked toward the dungeon stairs. "Come. I will show you where I keep the trash."

Althea followed me down into the bowels of the estate, past the wards I had reinforced with my own blood.

In the deepest cell, Malathor hung from chains of cold iron. He was alive, but only just. His mind was shattered, his body a canvas of ruin. In the corner, Evar, his raven, cowered in a small cage, shivering as Rhana paced around it, batting the metal bars with her tail, and a playful, predatory delight.

Althea looked at the broken Consul, then at me. "You are torturing him."

"Every day," I confirmed, my voice devoid of emotion. I stepped forward, my hand glowing with the sickly violet light of the Death-Touch. "My father taught me that the Death-Touch is a dial, Althea. A spectrum of agony. I am currently teaching Malathor the nuances of setting three."

I reached out, and Malathor screamed—a sound that had long since lost its humanity.

Althea didn't look away. She watched the justice being served, her face hard.

"He betrayed the Treaty," she said softly. "He betrayed us all." She turned to me, placing a hand on my arm. "I will not take thisfrom you, Cain. Keep him. Break him. But know this... the world will come for you eventually."

"Let them come," I said, the violet light reflecting in my eyes as Rhana growled in approval. "I have found something worth burning the world for."

CHAPTER 36

OPHELIA

The second day after Cain brought me back to Alistair Estate.

I woke up, and for the first time in a very long time, I wasn't disappointed to be alive.

That was the strangest part. Usually, waking up in there—or even before that, in my father’s house—felt like a sentence. A return to the cage. But when I opened my eyes and saw the heavy velvet canopy of my bed, the only thing I felt was a greedy, desperate need to breathe.

I was safe.

The realisation didn't come all at once. It came in fragments. The smell of lavender from the sheets. The weight of the duvet, heavy and expensive, nothing like the damp straw that had scratched my skin raw. The warmth of Poppy, a small furnace of golden fur curled against the curve of my stomach, her heartbeat syncing with mine.