Page 5 of The Vespertine Treaty

“I’m not going to break, Em. I’m an Ashworth, and we specialise in enduring chaos,” I declared, the words a fierce, quiet promise. “If he thinks he has me, a broken doll he can play with. Well, he has miscalculated the cost of my light. And he has no idea of what I’m truly capable of. I will survive this, as I have survivedworse. And if there's a way to turn his power against him, I will find it.”

Aemelia’s energy flared into a brilliant, determined magenta. "Then let’s begin with the schematics." We immediately hunched over her map, switching the sheet of paper, our entire moods becoming a tense dance of pragmatism and wild speculation.

Aemelia walked to the small, cluttered desk tucked into the alcove. I stared as she pulled a shimmering, palm-sized orb of fused crystal from one of the lower drawers—a specialised tool used by her kind to channel and anchor truth. I watched, as I always did, with a fascination bordering on reverence; Aemelia's fierce, methodical work ethic was as much a source of power as her untamed magic. She held the orb in her palms, her aura spiking as she began to infuse the crystal with intent, anchoring a network of observation deep within the city’s unseen magical currents.

Aemelia finally released the crystal, which now pulsed with a faint internal light. “Right. Now, this little thingamabob can scout the underbelly of our beloved quarters to find anything that could be relevant. One can hope it works better this time.”

"I need to know everything about him. Like you said, nobody even knows what he looks like," I replied, my eyes fixed on the distant black spire in the west, one I knew was attached to the Alistair House. "His habits, his fears. I need the Cenite texts. Everything emotional has a pattern, a backstory, a core vulnerability. I need to find the flaw within the Void."

“I'll try to find an angle through the Consortium directly,” Aemelia vowed. “I’ll use any excuse Consul Althea gives me to get close to their private archives. I hate that place, Ophelia. Mytruth-weaving magic always goes haywire around High Cenite Consul Malathor—like his presence is actively trying to twist the light itself.”

The raw force of Aemelia's loyalty was the warmest, most terrifying magic I had ever known.

CHAPTER 3

OPHELIA

The following days passed in a blur, and the morning of the Vespertine Treaty was a grey, anaemic horror. It was the fifth day of the solar cycle already. Much to my mother's despair, I felt a very unladylike urge to break everything left in our cursed house, groan, and throw punches at everyone standing in my way.

I remained in the parlour, my modest robes, one heavy, tarnished green silk, clutched in my hands. Like in the rest of the manor, the air here was thick and cold, scented with the dust of ages and the faint, coppery tang of magical decay. I had just finished mending a tear in the sleeve— a quiet, furious act of defiance against the decay of my house. I was the Life Touch Heir; even if the family's magic was a scar, I could still mend. But the mending was a lie; the silk would hold, but the wound beneath remained. Almost, since I had to rely entirely on my sewing kit.

"He’s going to be useless, you know,"Poppy’s mental voice was a dry, unsparing truth."All that charming talk of protection. We’re on our own, Ophelia."

I didn't argue. Caspian’s promise was a beautiful, fragile glass that would shatter at the first sign of real danger. “I know,” I whispered back, the words hanging in the cold, thick air.

The rustle of silk and firm footsteps announced the presence I had hoped to avoid. My mother, flawless in her own celebration robes, her posture rigid with performed elegance, descended upon me, her robin familiar flying around her, chirping. My dear mother’s aura, usually a shimmering veneer of shallow composure, pulsed today with a sickening, triumphant greed. It was almost eerily how much we looked alike. I had the same long crimson hair that curled almost the exact same way.

We shared the same deep, demanding green eyes and the same delicate, soft features. We both possessed pale skin scattered with soft freckles across the bridge of the nose, culminating in pouty lips the colour of crushed strawberries, early in the summer. She was tall, and I was quite tall as well, but the similarity was a source of constant, quiet torment.

Yet, her breasts were significantly, offensively larger than mine—a symbol of the overt femininity she so often weaponised. I, in turn, carried the shame of an ample, unwelcome curve to my hips and the small of my back, a shape that felt perpetually too visible, and too available. I always felt intensely uncomfortable in the company of males, who invariably reduced me to a warm body to lure into their beds—a fate my mother had embraced, but one I fought with every shred of my resolve.That is until Caspian.

Watching her was like looking in a mirror two decades from now, staring at the ruin I was determined never to become.

“My darling girl,” she said, her voice honeyed but sharp-edged, sounding like glass rubbing against silk. “Alistair! I still can'tbelieve you snatched the most powerful house. Our name will surely be restored now! You must be absolutely thrilled!” She grabbed my hands with a suffocating enthusiasm. I could hear Poppy scoff and mumble something like,"Read the chamber, you crazy lady."I pulled my hands back instinctively, the overwhelming, sticky emotion of her victory making my skin crawl.

I swallowed, the freshly mended robe slipping from my fingers. “Not really. I… didn't ask for this. I do not want this, and you know it, Mother,” I whispered.

The words cut through the air like a blade. My mother’s sweet veneer cracked, replaced by a rigid, furious pride. Her performance was over.

“Don’twantthis?” my mother spat, stepping back, her hand recoiling as if my words had physically burned her. “‘Silly old me, for a second there, I forgot this was all about what Ophelia wants.” She seethed, mocking me; her words assaulting my entire being. “Want' is a luxury for girls who aren't blighted. “Want” is something a lady worthy of something might aspire to. You are atool, Ophelia Josephine, the only one this family has left. Do you think Caspian Valeriuseversaw you? He saw another pathetic, fallen bird he thought he could 'save.' Your pretty, useless Empathy is weak, and you are lucky the Alistair heir is willing to take you at all. He must be buying our name, and you are the pathetic, blighted creature included in the sale!” She turned on her heel and left the room, the silence finally taking over her rage. I ran to my room.

My chest tightened, a raw, screaming, yet familiar, ache. I had promised myself many times over; I had sworn it, staring into the cracked mirror in my room, that I would not let her break meagain. And yet, here I stood, rigid and silent, my body trembling as I let her poison seep in.Again.

My rational mind, the cold, calculating observer, saw the truth: the female I shared my blood with was vile, her words a carefully constructed toxin aimed at the marrow. But the logical assessment was a shield, and shields were useless against the enemy within. Deep inside, the small, desperate core of little Ophelia, the child who had been denied the solace of a mother's hand still clawed for recognition. That child believed that if she just cried softer, tried harder, or simply ceased to be the blight upon the Ashworth line, she would finally be loved. She would finally beworthyof that love.

I knew the history she refused to speak of, the poisonous root of her hatred. Lady Cecilia had not walked into House Ashworth; she had been sold into it—a pristine, high-value mare traded to clear a debt her parents had accrued. My father, a male whose blood was already souring with the blight, had taken what he paid for with brutal, entitled efficiency.

I was not born of love. I was born of a scream in the dark.

To her, I was never a child. I was a living, breathing monument to her violation. She could not punish the male who broke her—he was too powerful, too volatile—so she punished the result. In her twisted, fractured logic, I was her own personal blight. I was the parasite that had fed on her light and left her in the shadows.

She had taken the horror of her own victimhood and sharpened it into a weapon, becoming the abuser she despised.

That child had endured far worse than words. She carried the phantom memory of her father's rage, a sudden, blinding storm of violence that she learned to meet with rigid silence. Theblows were not just physical; they were a cruel, cold discipline, and the child convinced herself they were justly administered, a necessary penance for the crime of being born. The cold marble of the drawing-room floor still seemed to press against her cheek whenever she heard a shout, a devastating reminder that even pain was a ritual she was unworthy to escape.

The pain of that denial was still colossal, the clear conclusion that time does not heal everything. I was the convenient repository for every crime of my ancestors, every failure of my father, every instance of my mother's lack of luck, and the creeping magical decay itself. I was the living epitaph of our house’s collapse, blamed for sins committed decades before my birth.

The tears came anyway, hot and burning, and I hated myself for them. I loathed the magnificent, pathetic weakness of that yearning. I detested that after all these years, her voice was still the only one in the universe that could strip away my power, my resolve, and make me feel utterly, exquisitely worthless. Once again, I wasnothing.