Page 90 of The Vespertine Treaty

If he has touched her...

The thought sent a wave of magic crashing out of me, shattering a streetlamp as I passed. If Malathor had laid a hand on her, death would be too kind a mercy. I would dismantle him. I would turn his mind into a prison of agony that lasted a thousand years.

I reached the address Althea had given me—a narrow, leaning townhouse squeezed between a bookbindery and an apothecary. The air smelled of ink and dried herbs.

I climbed the stairs, and didn't knock. I blew the door off its hinges.

I stormed into the entryway, Rhana surging past me, a killer seeking its target.

The female standing in the centre of the cluttered living room didn't scream. She didn't run. She stood her ground, her hand raised, palm out.

Rhana lunged, jaws wide?—

"STOP!"

The command crackled with power—not the dark, heavy power I wielded, but something sharp and bright. Truth.

Rhana skidded to a halt, confused, her claws gouging the wooden floorboards.

"I was wondering when you would show up, you absolute bastard," the female spat.

Aemelia.

She was small, disheveled, with ink stains on her fingers and hair that looked like it had been styled by a windstorm. She wore the robes of a Scholar, but the wild look in her eyes was anything but academic.

"You knew I was coming," I said, stepping over the threshold, the broken door crunching under my boot.

"I’m an Enlighter, your Maledicted Lordship," she scoffed, lowering her hand but keeping her glare fixed on me. "I see things. Intuition is part of the job description. Also, you're not exactly subtle. I could feel your ego coming from three streets away."

I bristled. Yet another Aenite female with a tongue too sharp for her own good. Was this a genetic trait or did they hold classes on how to be insufferable?

"Watch your tongue," I warned, my voice dropping an octave. "I am here for Ophelia. Althea says you know where she is."

"I don't know where she is," Aemelia shot back, stepping forward, fearless in the face of death. "Because someone took her scrying stone."

I froze.

"Oh, don't look surprised," she yelled, throwing her hands up. "We are sisters! Chosen sisters, you arrogant prick! We have been writing to each other for years until you locked her up in that castle of yours!"

Her accusation rattled me. I knew they were close, but I didn’t realise I kept her away from the only real family she ever had.

"If you hadn't taken her stone," Aemelia continued, her voice shaking with rage, "I could have warned her! I saw the signs. I heard the whispers about Malathor weeks ago! I tried to reach her, but your wards are so thick nothing gets through. You isolated her!"

She jabbed a finger at my chest.

"You wanted to keep her safe? You made her a sitting duck! This is your fault!"

The accusation struck centre mass.

It wasn't true. It couldn't be true. I had warded the estate to keep the world out, to keep her safe from the vultures who wanted her blood.

But if she had known... if she had been warned...

I had confiscated the stone to control her communications. To ensure she didn't contact Valerius. My jealousy had blinded me to the threat.

"Enough," I snarled, the shadows in the room spiking, turning the edges of the furniture into razor blades. "One more word, Aenite, and I will remove your tongue."

Aemelia didn't blink. She looked up at me, her eyes shimmering with a golden hue—the mark of her magic.