Page 89 of The Vespertine Treaty

Rhana snapped her jaws one last time—a wet, terrifying sound—before slinking back to my side, though she kept one wary eye on the massive owl perched above us.

Vesper let out a clicking sound of disapproval, ruffled her violet-tinged feathers with haughty disdain, and remained on her perch, a silent sentry.

"I have no patience for pleasantries, Althea," I ground out, my voice echoing in the sudden silence of the hall. "I am looking for someone. And if I don't get answers, the structural integrity of this building will be the least of your concerns."

Althea didn't flinch. She descended the final steps, her gaze flicking to Vesper to ensure the bird held its position, and gestured sharply to a heavy iron door to her left—a soundproofed interrogation room used for private counsel. "Inside. Now."

I followed her, the shadows clinging to my coat like smoke. As soon as the door clicked shut, sealing us in the gloom, Althea turned to me.

"You're making a scene," she hissed. "Rumours are already flying that the Prince of Death has lost control."

"I haven't lost control," I lied, the lie tasting like ash. "I have lost a possession. And I want it back."

"Ophelia," she said. It wasn't a question.

I stiffened. "Careful, Consul."

I hated this. I hated needing her. Not because her magic hurt me—Aenite light was irritating, not lethal—but because Althea represented everything I despised about the Council: order, bureaucracy, and that self-righteous Aenite glow that made me want to grind my teeth.

My jaw actually ached with the effort of not insulting her. I was surrounded by Aenites lately, and the air around them always tasted too sweet, too hopeful. It was exhausting.

Althea sighed, rubbing her temples. "I have ears everywhere, Cain. You know this. My little birds hear things your shadows miss. One of my helpers... a young female in the Scholars District... she picked up chatter days ago." She looked up at me, her expression grim. "Malathor."

The name hit me like a spark in a powder keg.

Malathor. That preening, arrogant waste of magic. The male who thought he was owed the world because of his bloodline.

"He has been coveting her," Althea continued, her voice lowering. "Since the ball. Not just for her lineage, Cain. He feels... entitled. Rumour has it he finally made his move."

"Where is he?" The question was a growl.

"If I knew, I would tell you just to get you out of my building,” Althea snapped. "But he is using Obscurer magic. He’s gone dark. However..." She hesitated.

"My source. The helper. She knows the girl. She might be able to help you track her. Her name is Aemelia. You’ll find her in the Scholars District, near the old observatory."

Another Fucking Aenite. Fantastic.

First I had to beg scraps from a Consul, and now I was being sent to a Scholar. My entire rescue operation was dependent on the very bloodline I had spent my entire life keeping at arm's length. My teeth were definitely aching now.

I didn't say thank you. I turned and kicked the door open, the lock shattering under the force of my exit.

Aemelia.

Ophelia’s closest friend…

The ride to the Scholars District was a blur of wind and cobblestones.

I told myself this urgency was pride. That was the narrative I had constructed, the armour I wore. Ophelia was mine. I had bought her safety; I had housed her; I had fed her. Taking her was an insult to my power.

But as the cityscape blurred past, my mind betrayed me.

I wasn't thinking about my reputation. I was thinking about the silence.

The manor had been unbearable this morning. I hadn't realised how much noise such a small creature made. I missed the sound of her humming. I missed the way she would stomp her foot—just once, terrified but defiant—when I told her she couldn't enter the library.

I missed the little fires in her emerald eyes.Oh gods, I was turning into Friedrik.

She was the only person in decades who looked at me and didn't just see the monster. She saw the monster, acknowledged it, and then argued with it anyway.