Chapter 5
ARK
He woke to the familiar pull of morning light at the edges of the blackout curtains—enough to know the night was over. Two days of near-total darkness had done their work. His power hummed beneath his skin, steady and restored.
For a Nocturne Demon, true restoration wasn’t found in sleep alone, but in the absorption of deep shadows—the profound, silent dark where his power could pool and knit itself back together. The sun was already up, but he’d had enough dark to feel like himself again.
He sat up and raked a hand through his hair.
The familiar scents of parchment and embers grounded him.
The transition to wakefulness was a deliberate process of reasserting order.
Chaos frayed the edges of Nocturne power, made their connection to the void unstable.
The precise placement of every object in his townhouse wasn’t just aesthetic.
It was a grounding ritual, a network of calm, controlled points that kept his own potent power from turning inward.
His gaze swept the room—hearth swept clean, papers aligned, curtains drawn with precision. Books organized by height. Inkwells capped. Pens parallel. Even the fire was banked, not left to burn out. Everything was in its place.
Except for one thing.
His gaze flicked to the box from The Witching Flour he’d placed on a sideboard—a silent, persistent anomaly in his otherwise perfectly ordered world. Empty. Nothing inside but crumbs Rhodes couldn’t pick over. He had meant to toss it out. A minor oversight, nothing more.
He put his robe on and moved past it, but not before his eyes tracked back to it one last time.
The kitchen smelled like pine. The wards, attuned to his morning preferences, had already steeped the fresh pine needles in hot water.
He poured himself a cup. The first sip was clean, brisk, laced with a subtle bite.
Warmth seeped into him, the pine’s earthy energy settling into his limbs, sharpening his senses, steadying him.
He took the cup into his study. Morning light filtered through the arched window, casting long beams across the dark wood. Beyond the terrace railing, Angelene stretched beneath the pale sky, the city stirring to life.
He sat at his desk and took a quill, dipped it in the inkwell, and wrote:
Good morning, Cassia.
Since we are newly engaged, it seems only proper that I begin learning your habits—your preferences, your whims, the little things that make you . . . you. Unfortunately, I must start with an important revelation about myself: I am, regrettably, a morning person.
Ark paused for a moment, quill hovering over the parchment, lips twitching.
Which means you may suffer the occasional early missive, such as this one.
My sincerest condolences.
—Ark
He hesitated before he sent the message.
He never reached out first, especially not in the morning, not unless he needed to convey important matters of business to Rhodes or Caius.
His days were always structured, his time his own.
He rarely entertained distractions, and certainly not before breakfast.
Yet here he was, sending the first correspondence.
With a flick of his fingers, the ink quivered, then lifted off the paper.
The script unraveled into dark tendrils, twisting and coiling before coalescing into the sleek, translucent shape of a raven—a little flourish his friends had fondly dubbed ‘Shadow Quill.’ The raven tilted its head, its body nothing more than liquid shadow, then flared its wings and vanished, darting off in search of her.
Magic missives required the recipient’s magical signature—an imprint as distinct as a fingerprint.
He’d secured Cassia’s the moment their bargain was sealed, when a thread of her magic had snapped into place between them.
A necessary step for any future coordination, he’d told himself. Strategic. Nothing more.
Ark leaned back in his chair. Now, he must wait. She would sense the incoming message, feel the brush of his magical signature, and choose to welcome it or let it dissipate into nothing.
He was on his way to the shower when he felt a soft pulse at the edge of his senses. Her response had arrived. He stopped and let it in. The scent of pumpkin rolls and icing sugar flooded his townhouse, warm and sweet. He followed it back to his desk.
A single long-stemmed calla lily lay there. Before his widened eyes, an elegant, flowing script began to write itself across the snow-white petal.
Joke’s on you, Sir. Your Chosen is a baker who wakes up before dawn. I was elbow-deep in bread dough before you even fluttered your lashes.
He turned the flower between his fingers, watching more ink settle into the delicate petal—a second message.
You are free to message me as early as you want. I welcome the company as I work.
—Cassia
His lips curved. Bold. He dipped his quill once more.
Do you often invite a besotted Chosen to intrude upon your mornings?
The ink shimmered on the parchment, vanishing in a blur of black feathers as the message took flight. He waited, turning the lily between his fingers, and soon, another line inscribed itself along the petal’s edge.
Only the ones I’ve utterly bewitched.
Ark chuckled. He leaned back in his chair, fingers drumming against the desk. Then, after a moment’s thought, he set the quill to paper again.
Consider me bewitched indeed.
That aside, I’ve been thinking . . . To make our grand love story convincing, we should keep it as close to the truth as possible. Which means, naturally, I fell in love with you the moment I saw you standing in The Ivory Club’s lobby.
A few minutes later, another line traced itself along the petal’s edge.
How romantic. But I distinctly recall walking away. You chased after me. Rescued me even, like a proper knight in shining armour. That was the moment I fell in love with you.
His smirk deepened as he wrote another missive.
I prefer to think of it as ensuring you didn’t get yourself arrested. A gallant act, nonetheless.
The shadow raven darted off. Then, a new script curled along the lily’s petal.
I do hope you’re not the type to embellish stories. That would be terribly untrustworthy in a Chosen.
He couldn’t help but laugh, his quill dancing over the parchment once more.
I never embellish. I simply craft narratives with better flourish. A necessary skill, don’t you think?
The lily’s petal was running out of room. Her reply appeared in smaller, stubbornly neat script along the stem.
Convenient excuse. But I’ll allow it.
Ark leaned back, tension gradually leaving his shoulders. He hadn’t expected this to be so enjoyable.
May I visit the orphanage this afternoon? I would like to see it for myself.
The reply came quicker than he’d expected.
You ask as though I could stop you.
A smile ghosted over his lips. He scratched another message.
You could.
But would you?
A pause, longer this time. Then, a single word appeared along the stem just beneath the last message:
No.
Ark adjusted his gloves against the cold, his boots crunching over the frost-laced cobblestones of Eldryn Gardens.
His glamour held—no horns, no markings—and other pedestrians passed him without a backward glance.
The path stretched toward the Human District where Starlight Orphanage waited.
The late afternoon sun hung low, casting long shadows across the park.
He pulled out his phone—one of the many human inventions he found genuinely useful. Magic missives were more personal, but their creation took energy that might be better spent on other tasks. He dialled a number and held it to his ear. The call barely rang twice.
“I knew you’d call today,” Oromon answered, his voice underscored by the low buzz of a saw and faint hammering. “How did the cleansing go?”
“The new sigil is in place and holding steady.” Ark watched his breath mist in the air. “We’ll give it a few weeks to settle, but I wanted to check your schedule. We’re looking at a restoration early next year.”
A thoughtful pause. Tools clinked in the background. “You want me to do the job?”
“You’re the best. Of course I want you to do the job.”
Any contractor could gut a building and make it look new, but Oromon could feel the pulse of a property and read the layers of Land and Memory Magic woven into its bones.
More than that, he knew how to preserve them, knew which structural elements could be replaced and which anchored the energy.
Most contractors wouldn’t even know to look.
Oromon would understand the house before he lifted a hammer.
“Damn right I’m the best.” A faint thunk sounded, as if he were tossing something onto a worktable. “Alright. I’ll send someone to look at the building. Full restoration?”
“Top to bottom.”
“Figured. It’s always the worst ones with you three.
” A faint rustle, then the sound of a door closing, muffling the workshop noise.
“Listen. Yulefrost is around the corner. We’re slammed this year, so I can’t be there to run interference with Mother.
Come stay with me in Valien. We’ll spend it together. Just you and me.”
Ark’s steps slowed slightly. How tempting it was. Oromon’s home was everything Angelene was not—a place of half-finished projects and warm, unpolished comfort, far from the city’s endless power plays.
“I wish I could.” And he meant it. “But I made a commitment to help someone. Don’t worry about Mother’s ball. I have a plan.”
Oromon made a thoughtful noise. “A plan, huh? Now I’m intrigued. What kind of a scheme are you running?”
“It’s not a scheme. Just an arrangement.”
He gave the short version while Oromon listened in silence. Then, after a long pause—“So, let me get this straight. You’re getting into a fake engagement to get Mother off your back? That’s . . . a lot of work.”
“It solves multiple problems with one move,” Ark explained, sidestepping his brother’s amusement. “I get breathing room from Mother and a front-row seat to whatever game Alderrath is playing. The orphanage not being evicted is a happy side effect.”
“You’ve never gone this far before. What makes this Kitchen Witch so special?”
Ark exhaled, adjusting his lapel as he veered west. “Alderrath’s visible frustration at her mere existence makes her exceptionally unique.”
A pause. Then a slow, knowing hum. “Interesting.”
“Don’t read into it. I’m assessing an asset, not courting one.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Ark shook his head. “I don’t have time for this.”
“Why? What are you doing?”
“I’m—” He raked his fingers through his hair, already bracing for it. “I’m on my way to meet her.”
Oromon let the silence stretch for a few beats. Then—“I rest my case.”
“It’s a site visit,” Ark insisted, the iron gates of Starlight coming into view at the end of the gardens. “I need to see the property.”
“Of course you do.”
He could almost see Oromon’s grin. An idea struck him—which would help Starlight and distract his brother.
“While I’m there—dig into Starlight’s records on your end, will you? See what you can find that might explain Alderrath’s plan for the place.”
“Consider it done. I’ll let you know what I turn up.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Anytime.” A pause, then, with deliberate mischief—“Try not to look too besotted during your . . . site inspection.”
Ark ended the call without a reply. A sharp gust of wind swept past, carrying the unmistakable, comforting scent of freshly baked bread from the orphanage.
He exhaled slowly and stopped at the edge of the gardens, his gaze fixed on the building ahead. A tool, a key to disrupting a rival—that was all Aura Cassia was supposed to be. A means to thwart his mother’s and Alderrath’s machinations. A distraction during the holiday season.
So why did the thought of walking through those gates feel less like a strategic maneuver and more like a line he wouldn’t be able to uncross?
He shook his head again.
Unexpected, indeed.