Chapter 2 #2
They returned to their drinks, already forgetting the girl who gathered herself from the floor with shaking hands, who retreated toward the kitchens clutching the wing they had nearly torn.
No one intervened. No one even looked uncomfortable.
This was simply how things were.
"That," Sarp said quietly, "is what we are supposed to believe makes us better than the Shadow Court. Because we dress our cruelty in ceremony and call it divine mercy."
"I know."
"Do you?" He studied me. "The shadow realms are painted as nightmare lands of corruption and suffering. But I have often wondered how much worse they could truly be than what we do here, in the blessed light, and call virtue."
"Careful, Sarp. That talk is treason."
"So is half of what rattles around in your head." He drained his cup. "Now. Let us discuss how to destroy Ferit Ercel."
"He says terrible things constantly. No one cares."
"No one cares when he insults servants and half-bloods and Iskylarians.
" Sarp's eyes glinted. "But what if he insulted someone who mattered?
High Lord Volkan, for instance. Who happens to be responsible for border security?
Who has been publicly criticized for being too soft on shadow infiltration. "
Understanding dawned. "If Ferit were heard speaking against Volkan's competence..."
"In public. Before witnesses. While clearly intoxicated." Sarp spread his hands. "That would be treason, would it not? Questioning a High Lord's fitness for duty? Suggesting the Divine Council itself might be compromised?"
"Ferit would never say such things unprompted."
"He would if properly encouraged. If someone fed his paranoia about shadow infiltration.
If someone suggested that the real reason half-bloods are treated so gently is because the High Lords themselves have been compromised.
" Sarp smiled. "Ferit already believes Ada is shadow-tainted.
It would take very little to convince him the corruption runs higher. "
"You want to manipulate him, so he starts spilling shit about Volkan. Fucking genius plan."
"I want to hand him enough rope to hang himself. All we need is the right moment, the right audience, and enough liquor to loosen his tongue past the point of caution."
"The Golden Bazaar." I saw it suddenly—the shape of the plan, elegant in its simplicity. "The market is three days hence. Volkan always walks the stalls at midday. If Ferit were there, drunk enough to be reckless—"
"And if someone happened to mention, within his hearing, that Volkan had just blocked another proposal to increase purification requirements—"
"His paranoia would do the rest."
Sarp raised his cup. "To the destruction of Ferit Ercel. May his downfall be spectacular."
I met his toast.
The plan was set.
My mother was waiting when I returned to Lord Kaya's household and when I saw her my chest filled with warmth.
She sat in the single chair beside the narrow window, her profile lit by the last rays of sunset, and even after one hundred and sixty-eight years I still caught my breath at her beauty.
It was not the soft prettiness favored by Light Court ladies—it was something fiercer, more ancient, the kind of beauty that started wars and drew the attention of gods.
My mother was exceptionally beautiful—the kind that made men turn their heads and forget what they were saying.
Amber eyes, dark hair, features that would stay sharp and unlined for millennia.
But it was the way she looked at you that people actually remembered.
She looked no older than thirty—would look no older than thirty for millennia yet—but something in how she held herself spoke of ages survived.
Whatever had drawn a god's attention to her, it had not been fragility.
"You have blood on your hand."
I glanced at my palm, at the cuts already healing. "Training accident."
"I don’t think it was a training accident." She rose with fluid grace, crossing to examine my hand with fingers that were gentle but unyielding. "You gripped something until it broke." Her eyes lifted to mine. "What happened?"
"Nothing worth discussing."
"Everything about you is worth discussing." She released my hand but did not step back. "You come home with blood on your skin and murder in your eyes. What are you planning?"
"Justice."
"Justice." She tasted the word like poison. "Is that what you call it? Aydan told me what she saw during the purification ceremony, Hakan. When they brought out that servant girl and you watched Ada try to save her. She told me that you couldn’t take your eyes of Gün Ata’s daughter."
"And you believed her? You know Ada and I used to be close."
"Used to?" She tilted her head, studying me. She knew perfectly well what had happened between us—had watched it happen. Why bring it up now? "What changed, Hakan?"
I met her gaze. "I grew up. Started wanting things I couldn't have. It was better for both of us that I stayed away—dangerous to be that close to the Divine Light's daughter when I couldn't think of her as just a friend anymore."
My mother's expression didn't change, but something flickered in her eyes. Understanding, maybe. Or approval that I'd had the sense to walk away.
The silence stretched between us, stilted and uncomfortable. Then she shifted, stepping closer. "How are you feeling? Any... unusual sensations? Headaches? Dreams?"
The abrupt change caught me off guard. "I'm fine."
"Don't lie to me." Her voice sharpened. "I've protected you for one hundred and sixty-eight years. Moved us from village to village, court to court. I know when something is wrong."
"Mother, what are you—"
"Your father's bloodline runs strong." She cut me off, amber eyes intense. "Light Court magic can manifest in unexpected ways. If you're experiencing anything strange, I need to know."
My father. Milan. The wanderer with the crooked smile who'd taught me to hold a sword and brought lamb pastries from the northern road and called me son with an ease that never wavered.
Light Court blood on his side, my mother always said.
That was where my magic came from. That was why it sometimes surged in ways the Academy hadn't taught me.
But Milan's magic had never frightened him.
Milan's magic didn't singe bedsheets or pool like black water in the corners of dark rooms. And my mother's face when she said your father's bloodline — the way her eyes tightened, the way her voice flattened into something rehearsed — didn't look like a woman talking about the man she loved.
It looked like a woman reciting a story she needed me to believe.
"I'm fine," I repeated.
She studied me for a long moment, then sighed. "Promise me you'll be careful. The court is dangerous, especially now. Keep your head down. Don't draw attention."
"Mother—"
"Promise me, Hakan."
I covered her hands with mine. "I promise."
She released me, stepping back, the moment of vulnerability passing. "Rest. Whatever vengeance you are planning will require a clear head."
She left before I could respond.
That night, the dream came.
Darkness surrounded me—not empty but alive, pulsing with power that called to something deep in my core. I raised my hands, and shadow poured from them like water. Black tendrils that coiled around my fingers, twined up my arms, wrapped themselves around me like an embrace.
This is what you are, a voice whispered. This is what you were born to be.
No. I belong to the light.
Laughter, cold and ancient.
You belong to nothing but the shadows in your blood. You cannot hide forever, my son. The darkness will always find its own.
I woke with a gasp, my blankets smoldering, the smell of char thick in the air.
Dawn light streamed through the window. My hands still trembled with the echo of power.
I rose. Stripped the ruined bedding. Dressed for the day ahead.
Three days remained.
The morning of Ferit's destruction dawned bright and golden.
Sarp had done his work well. For two days, he had attached himself to Ferit's circle—buying drinks, laughing at jokes, feeding the lordling's paranoid theories about shadow infiltration with carefully planted suggestions.
By the time the sun rose on the third day, Ferit was convinced that half the Divine Council had been compromised by shadow magic, that the purification ceremonies were deliberately weakened to allow tainted blood to flourish, that High Lord Volkan himself was either a traitor or a fool.
All Ferit needed was an audience.
The Golden Bazaar gleamed beneath the midday sun, its stalls draped in silk and its fountains singing with blessed water. Merchants called their wares. Nobles browsed with the casual arrogance of those who had never wanted for anything. Servants moved along the edges, eyes downcast, invisible.
I positioned myself near the central fountain, a tome open in my lap as though I were merely a scholar taking advantage of the pleasant weather. Sarp had steered Ferit to the liquor merchant's stall an hour past, ensuring cup after cup found its way into the lordling's eager hands.
Now I watched.
Ferit swayed near the fountain, his face flushed, his voice growing louder with each passing minute. Sarp stood nearby with an expression of polite concern that hid vicious satisfaction.
"—and I am telling you, the ceremonies are a farce!" Ferit's words slurred together. "They purify servants and half-bloods, yes, but what of the real threat? What of the shadows that have crept into the highest halls of power?"
Passersby were beginning to stare. A few nobles paused their browsing, drawn by the spectacle.
"Ferit, perhaps you should—" one of his companions began.
"I should what? Stay silent while traitors compromise our security?
" Ferit laughed bitterly. "High Lord Volkan walks these streets every day, pretending to care about the realm's protection.
But where are the increased patrols he promised?
Where are the stricter border controls? Why do shadow sympathizers still walk freely among us? "
More heads turned. The crowd was growing.
"Volkan is either incompetent or complicit!" Ferit's voice rose to a shout. "The Divine Council has failed us! They speak of light and protection while shadows spread through our court like rot through—"
"Lord Ferit."
The drunk stumbled mid-sentence. He went gray. I followed his gaze and found Volkan already watching, silver robes immaculate, expression empty of anything as generous as anger. He had chosen this moment perfectly—had been waiting, I realized, for precisely this opportunity.
Or perhaps Sarp had ensured he would be present.
"High Lord." Ferit went pale, wine-flush draining to gray. "I was merely—"
"You were merely questioning my competence before half the market." Volkan's gaze swept over the gathered witnesses—the merchants, the nobles, the servants who had paused their work to watch. "You were suggesting the Divine Council itself has been compromised by shadow influence."
"I did not mean—I was not—"
"You were speaking of treason." The words fell like stones. "In public. Before witnesses. While clearly intoxicated."
"Someone set me up!" Ferit's voice cracked with desperation. "Someone got me drunk, put words in my mouth—this is a conspiracy, I swear it—"
"Take him." Volkan's voice was iron. "He will be questioned. Thoroughly."
Guards materialized from the crowd. They seized Ferit's arms, deaf to his protests, his pleas, his increasingly desperate screams that he had been betrayed, deceived, destroyed.
I watched them drag him away.
And felt the darkness in my blood sing with savage satisfaction.
Sarp appeared at my shoulder, his face carefully blank. "Well. That was rather more dramatic than anticipated."
"You planned it perfectly."
"I merely provided an opportunity. Ferit provided the rope." He glanced at me sideways.
"Ada was here. She saw the whole thing. And from the way she looked at you, I'd say she's already worked out who orchestrated it."
"Good."
"Good?" He stared at me. "She looked like she wanted to set you on fire."
"She already hates me." I closed my tome, rising from the fountain's edge. "What is one more reason added to the list?"
Sarp studied me with unusual seriousness. "You could tell her the truth. What Ferit said about her. Why did you do this."
"No."
"Hakan—"
"She does not need to know that her cousin called her a shadow court whore. She does not need that poison in her mind." I turned away. "I need to stay away from her, so I want her to hate me. Let her think I am a monster who destroys men for sport. It is easier that way."
"Easier for whom?"
I did not answer.
Because the truth was, I did not know anymore.
Three hours later, Ada found me in the market square. She accused me. Condemned me. Told me she hated me with a passion that made my blood sing and my walls tremble.
"The feeling is entirely mutual, princess," I told her.
And walked away with lies on my tongue and her voice in my ears and the absolute certainty that I would burn the entire world to ash before I let anyone speak of her that way again.
Even if it meant she would never know why.