Page 46 of The Vespertine Treaty

The words wrapped around me, a shield against the cold.

“The family I choose”,I sent, the words a silent prayer.

“The family I choose,” Aemelia agreed, her voice softening, dropping the frantic energy for something deeper, something unbreakable.“We’re not like them, Ophelia. We don’t have High Houses or ancient power. We have each other. And we’ve learned how to survive. We know how to bend without breaking. The Alistairs and the Valeriuses of this world, they don’t know what real power is. Real power is being able to laugh in the face of a calamity. Real power is having a friend who would burn the world down just to keep you warm.”

Burn the world down to keep you warm.

The phrase echoed in the room for a second, resonating with a ferocity that made the Scry Stone flicker violently.

Friedrik’s voice boomed again from the roof, carrying a rare note of genuine approval that vibrated through the glass. “That’s a good one! ‘Burn the world down to keep you warm’! Write that down, little Aenite! That’s insightful! That lad just doesn’t know how to dust the damn thing!”

Aemelia's words were a balm to my soul.

“She’s right”,Poppy whispered in my mind, her tone fierce. “That's a much better kind of power than what he has. He has power over death. You have power over life. Life is messier, harder to control... but it burns brighter.”

"I know," I whispered aloud, clutching the dying stone as if it were Aemelia’s hand.I know I can't break.

“Anytime, you brilliant, stubborn creature. Just promise me you'll reach out again. And if you hear anything, anything at all, about what he's up to… you tell me.”

“I will”,I vowed. “You stay safe on your consortium missions.”

The magical connection went dead. The light in the stone sputtered once, twice, and then vanished, leaving a dull, cracked piece of rock in my hand. The warmth of summer faded, replaced instantly by the creeping cold of the Alistair estate.

Silas turned from the door. The five minutes were up.

He approached the vanity, his movements silent. He looked at the dead stone in my hand, then met my eyes. There was no triumph in his gaze, only a weary resignation.

“The sweep is complete, My Lady,” he said, extending his hand again. “Contraband located.”

I placed the dead stone in his palm. It felt heavy, like handing over a piece of my own heart.

“Thank you, Silas,” I whispered.

He bowed, low and formal, tucking the stone into his coat. “I merely serve the House, Lady Alistair.”

He turned and left, taking my last voice with him. But the warmth remained, a lingering echo of Aemelia’s presence. Cain thought he had stripped me of my weapons by taking the stone, but he had only sharpened my resolve. I felt a quiet, simmering determination settle in my gut, displacing the fear. The library he forbade, the books of his House's secrets—that was the knowledge I needed to protect my soul and everyone else’s.

CHAPTER 18

OPHELIA

In the evening, the Alistair grand dining hall was a display of cruel, sterile power. It was not built for warmth or joy, but for the chilling, necessary business of the Consortium. Above us, three-story vaulted ceilings swallowed the low, avaricious hum of the gathered noble houses. The air was thick with the perfumes of wealth, cinnamon, rare orchid, and the metallic tang of unspent magic.

I was draped in black velvet and silver embroidery that weighed more than a suit of armour, standing next to a male who felt less like a husband and more like a pillar of granite. Cain was the gravitational centre of the room; the light didn't reach him, it simply bent around him. Every noble, every Consul, and every ambitious spouse had come to witness the newly forged chains.

My Empathy was a screaming nerve ending. The room pulsed with anxiety, thinly veiled cruelty, and the poisonous, political desire of Aeternia. I felt their judgment:weak, useless, a sacrifice.

Cain's hand clamped my lower back, guiding me through the crowd. It was not a touch of affection, but a mechanism ofcontrol, rigid and cold through the thick fabric. He was showing me off as a falconer displays his prized bird—a wild thing, newly caged, but still valuable.

“Maintain your posture, Life-Wielder,” he murmured, his voice too low for anyone but me to hear. “Every sway of your waist is a concession, and every smile you deny is a victory. You are a decoration, Ophelia, and I expect you to be flawless.”

I hated the truth of the order. I forced my spine straight, the silence of my compliance a bitter acid on my tongue.

We reached the central gathering of the Consuls. Before I could even register the faces, the true reason for the spectacle arrived.

A ripple ran through the crowd as Consul Malathor entered. His power felt like polished bronze—brutal, traditional, and entirely without self-doubt. Above his shoulder, perched like a living gargoyle, was his massive raven, its black feathers sharp against the gold light.

On his arm was a female with long purple hair, her gown a scandal of emerald silk, her beauty breathtaking and entirely transactional. She was older, her beauty sharp and perfectly maintained, and her expression held no pity for me, only the fierce, desperate survival of a creature who understands her price. I felt a cold surge of kinship with her, a terrifying recognition that we were both expensive collateral in males’ games.