Chapter 32
CAIN
Ididn't leave immediately.
I spent ten minutes in the courtyard, staring at the moon, forcing the berserker back into its cage. If I rode out now, fuelled only by rage, I would burn the entire city down before I found her.
I needed intelligence.
I looked down at Rhana, who was pacing around the hooves of my warhorse, her teeth bared at the shadows.
"The Consortium," I said to her, swinging into the saddle. "The snakes will know where the other snakes hide."
Rhana let out a low, agreeing snarl, her form rippling as she dissolved into the darkness to run alongside me.
The Consortium was a festering hive of politicians and liars, and right now, I wanted to burn it down with everyone inside.
I didn't walk through the gilded halls; I tore through them.
My magic rolled off me in waves of suffocating frost and shadow, darkening the enchanted lanterns that lined the high ceilings.
Beside me, Rhana was a blur of obsidian muscle and teeth.
My lethal familiar—a shadow-stalker, almost the size of a warhorse—was usually disciplined, but she fed off my emotions.
And right now, I was a tuning fork, vibrating with a frequency that didn't belong to me.
A clerk, foolish enough to be holding a stack of parchments in the middle of the corridor, didn't move fast enough.
Rhana didn't growl. She simply launched.
A collective gasp sucked the air out of the hallway as the massive beast pinned the male to the marble floor, her jaws snapping inches from his face. He screamed, dropping his papers, scrabbling backwards on the slick stone.
Suddenly, a screech pierced the air—high, shrill, and vibrating with magic.
A flash of violet feathers swooped down from the high rafters.
Vesper.
Consul Althea’s familiar, a Great Horned Owl the size of a shield, didn't land on the clerk.
The bird banked sharply, talons extended, and landed heavily on top of a marble pillar directly above Rhana.
The owl spread its massive wings, glowing with a faint, purple aura, and stared Rhana down with unblinking, golden-orange eyes.
"Control your beast, Cain! Before Vesper blinds her."
The voice was sharp, authoritative, and annoyingly familiar.
I stopped, looking down at the terrified clerk cowering beneath my shadow-stalker, then lifted my gaze to the female descending the grand staircase.
Consul Althea. She wore the silver and blue robes of her station, her face a mask of diplomatic steel, though I could see the pulse jumping in her throat. She feared me. They all did. But Althea was smart enough to hide it behind protocol.
She stood tall, her hand resting on the banister, radiating the kind of quiet, luminous authority that only a High Aenite Consul could wield.
"Rhana," I commanded softly. "Stand down."
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.
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.
"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.
"I will bring her back," I said. It was a vow.
Aemelia looked at me, her eyes wet but fierce, and nodded. "You better. Or I will spend the rest of my life finding a way to kill you, Cain. And I’m very, very patient."
I almost smiled. I liked her. She had teeth. No wonder she was so close with my spitfire of a wife.
“We should also prepare a healing room," I said, turning toward the door where Rhana waited, pacing anxiously. “Ophelia will need it when I get her back.”
I walked out into the cool air of the Scholars District, the orb pulsing in my hand like a second heartbeat.
The game was over. I had a direction. I had a target.
And gods help Malathor, because I was coming for him.