Page 91 of The Vespertine Treaty

"No, you won't," she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "Because that would hurt Ophelia. And despite how hard you try to pretend you’re just a cold-hearted Prince of Death protecting an asset... I see you."

She tapped her temple.

"I see the truth, Cain. You care about her. You hate it, you fight it, but you care. You're terrified right now."

I stared at her. I wanted to kill her. I wanted to strangle the truth out of the air. I hated Enlighters. They stripped you naked without touching you. But my hands remained at my sides, clenched into fists.

"She is my possession," I said, the words sounding hollow even to me.

Aemelia snorted, a derisive, unladylike sound. "Keep telling yourself that, sweetheart. Maybe eventually, you'll believe it."

She turned her back on me—a dismissal no one had dared give me in, well, never—and walked to a large table covered in maps and strange, floating silver instruments.

"Malathor has her," she said, her tone shifting to business. "He's an Obscurer, and a strong one. He’s cloaked their location. I can't pinpoint the exact coordinates."

"Then you are useless to me," I said coldly.

"Shut up and watch," she muttered. "Gods, you're impatient. No wonder she hates your guts.”

That piece of information, although not new to me, made a certain part of my chest hurt even more.

She slammed her hand down on the map. An orb floating above the parchment began to spin, glowing with a fierce, white light. It was pure Aenite magic—bright, revealing, searingly optimistic.

I narrowed my eyes. The light didn't hurt, but it was garish. It was too clean. It reminded me of everything I wasn't.

"He's hiding the house," she said, her brow furrowing in concentration. "But he can't hide the displacement. Magic like his leaves a Void. A negative space."

She cursed—a string of profanities that would have made a docker blush—and spun the orb faster.

"I can't see the house," she admitted, looking up, frustration etched into her features. "But I know the region. The Cenite Deadlands, near the cliffs. It's the only place with enough natural chaotic energy to mask what he's doing."

"The Cenite Deadlands," I repeated. It made sense. Isolated. Dangerous. Malathor’s ancestral hunting grounds.

"I'm coming with you," Aemelia said, grabbing a satchel and shoving a handful of crystals into it.

"No."

"Excuse me?" She glared at me. "She is my best friend. My sister. I am not sitting here while?—"

"You are staying here," I roared, the sound shaking the glass jars on the shelves. "You are her friend. You are her sister. If I go there, I am going to wage war. I cannot watch your back and hunt him at the same time."

"I can handle myself!"

"And if you die?" I stepped closer, looming over her, letting the full weight of my presence press down on her. "If I bring Ophelia back a corpse of her stubborn sister, will she thank me? Will she forgive me? Or will she break further?”

Aemelia stopped. Her mouth opened, then closed. The fight drained out of her shoulders. She knew I was right. Ophelia was already fragile; losing her only family would destroy whatever was left of her spirit.

"Fine," she spat, throwing the bag onto the table. "Fine. You overbearing ass."

She grabbed a small, clear crystal orb from the table—no bigger than a marble—and shoved it into my hand.

"Take this."

I looked at the object. It hummed with a low, steady vibration.

"It's an extension of my sight," Aemelia said, her voice rough with suppressed emotion. "Malathor will have illusions. Traps. Things you can't punch your way through. Use the orb. It will show you the truth, whatever else he tries to cloak. It will show you the path to her."

I closed my hand around the cold glass. It felt heavy.