Chapter 28
CHAPTER
Azrian
The throne room stretched like a black mirror. Emperor Tharion sat motionless, every line of his posture radiating control. A bitter taste flooded Azrian’s mouth. It couldn’t be a coincidence that the Emperor wished to see him so shortly after he met with the Handler, and that didn’t bode well.
“Come, Azrian.”
The command carried across the marble floor with quiet force, familiar endearment— son —notably absent. Azrian noted as such automatically, the same way he catalogued threats, before approaching the dais with measured steps and stopping three swords’ lengths away.
“How can I be of service, Your Majesty?”
The Emperor’s fingers drummed once against the stone armrest. “You have been elusive the past few weeks. Should I take it as a sign your Season is proceeding according to plan?”
Azrian kept his expression neutral even as his pulse quickened. “I have been to every Gilt event under the sun, Sir. I would hardly consider that elusive.”
“A clever non-answer, if I have ever heard one. You always were a master at using truth to lie.”
Heat gathered beneath Azrian’s skin. He kept his hands loose at his sides, fingers slightly curled. “It is no lie. I have been observing and neutralizing threats, just as you requested.”
“Certainly. You have fulfilled that specific duty quite well. But what of the other task I gave you?”
Azrian’s throat worked once, a barely perceptible swallow. “I don’t follow, Sir.”
“Have you heard the good news?”
The shift in the Emperor’s tone, like a snake finding stillness before striking, raised the hairs on Azrian’s neck. “News churns aplenty during the Season.”
“Your dear Mr. Thornevail has apparently found himself a bride. You must be excited to finally have him join your Shadow spies.”
The memory of Caelen coming to him in the depths of night, eyes bright with something between joy and terror as he whispered of his engagement to Miss Celastra, sat like shattered glass in Azrian’s mind, sharp-edged and impossible to ignore. But Azrian couldn’t show that hesitation to the Emperor.
“Oh, yes. That.” He modulated his voice to remain neutral and level. “I have indeed heard and shared my congratulations with the happy couple. He shall make a remarkable Shadow weaver.”
“Yes, yes.”
The Emperor rose, each step off the dais deliberate as an executioner approaching the gallows. Through his cycles, Azrian had learned to read Tharion’s moods the way sailors read the skies, and in the moment, the gathering clouds spoke of incoming thunderstorms.
“I wonder, Hand, how is it that Mr. Thornevail managed to find himself a match and arrange a vow so swiftly, and yet you carry a mark that spells out your fate for you, but have yet to extend Miss Almarien a proposal?”
Azrian’s spine turned to iron as the Emperor’s footsteps danced around him in a lazy circuit. “Your Majesty—”
Tharion’s hand settled on Azrian’s shoulder, fingers spread like a spider.
“I understand your… distaste for this specific task. In your eyes, you have no need for another blood vow. Your affinity is awakened, and your service leaves you no space for entanglements. But you have to understand, son, the entirety of the Gilt witnessed your marks. If you do not marry her after such a display, it will undermine our whole system. Sometimes, we have to sacrifice our own wishes for the good of the Empire.”
The good of the Empire. Was a murderer on the loose, killing marked couples, for the good of the Empire? Was hunting and torturing the Children of the First Flame, blaming them for the Fade, when they may have been telling the truth all along, for the good of the Empire?
“Certainly, Your Majesty, you know that in my cycles of service, I’ve always prioritized the Empire’s wishes.”
It wasn’t a lie. For cycles, he’d acted for what he believed was the good of the Empire—or rather, what the Emperor told him was for the good of the Empire. He’d found no distinction between the two at the time.
Now, he was no longer certain they had ever been the same.
“Of course. And I have no doubt you shall do so this time, as well.” The Emperor paused, a cold smile spreading on his lips. “Which is why I have taken the liberty to schedule your blood vow to Miss Almarien myself.”
The throne room tilted. Azrian’s vision tunneled, the edges going black as he processed the checkmate the Emperor delivered with surgical precision.
His magic pressed against his skin, begging to be let out, to put an end to their problems with a few strategically woven threads. But his face revealed nothing.
“Mind you, I do not wish to interfere with your young Shadow weaver’s ceremony, either.
I would not be so cruel as to force you out of each other’s celebrations.
” The saccharine magnanimity in Tharion’s voice made Azrian’s teeth ache.
“You shall be bonded three days following his blood vow, to allow each of you time to revel.”
Azrian recognized the calculation behind the gesture. It would raise the Gilt’s suspicion if he and Caelen did not attend each other’s ceremonies. Better to maintain the illusion of choice while tightening the noose. “That is… decorous, Your Majesty.”
“Yes, I think so, as well.” The Emperor’s chest swelled.
Then, his expression went cold as stone.
Even the echo of his voice deadened against the walls, swallowed by an oppressive stillness that hadn’t been there moments before.
“No attempts at delaying or refusal will be tolerated, Hand. See that the blood vow happens without trouble.”
The words carried a chilling finality, and the very marble beneath Azrian’s feet seemed to press upward, as if the palace itself turned against him.
Azrian had witnessed what happened to those who pushed the Emperor’s patience beyond its limits.
Often, he’d been the instrument of those consequences.
“Understood, Your Majesty.”
Azrian’s mind spun. Caelen and Miss Celastra had set the date of their vow just ahead of the Elemental Ball. Three days following meant Azrian and Miss Almarien had but a fortnight before their own vow.
Tharion nodded once. “You may go now.”
In the corridor beyond, he allowed himself exactly three seconds to feel the full weight of what had just occurred. Three seconds to acknowledge that their time had run out, crumbling their desperate plans and fragile hopes to ash.
Then he straightened his shoulders. It was time to hunt the people he’d once considered an enemy, and hope they’d truly prove to be a salvation.
Caelen opened the door before Azrian could knock, his expression shifting from welcome to concern in the span of a heartbeat. “You look as though you’ve just seen a ghost.”
“A ghost would’ve been less haunting than what I just experienced.”
Caelen stepped aside for him. “Come on in. We are still working on furnishing the house, but I do have spirits.”
His voice was light, but his eyes tracked Azrian’s every movement, as though searching for a wound.
The halls they entered were bare, echoing every footstep.
When he’d decided to gift the townhouse to Caelen, Azrian had thought it an appropriate offering for the man he’d come to call a brother.
It was meant as a sanctuary, a place where Caelen could build something of his own.
But the emptiness pressed in like a crypt, cool and silent.
Azrian barely made it ten steps before his mark throbbed. He stopped mid-stride, his hand unconsciously drifting to his neck. “Miss Almarien is here.”
Caelen’s eyebrows rose. “She’s helping Virelle catalogue our furniture needs. Marvelous what these marks can do, is it not?”
Azrian’s face scrunched. Marvelous might not have been his choice of words.
The study was as sparse as the rest of the house.
Just a desk and two chairs, the minimum required for function.
Caelen retrieved a bottle of Keshiran spirits from a shelf, the glass catching sunlight and sending amber shards onto the floor.
He took a swig and passed it to Azrian. The spirit burned, sharp and clean, scouring his throat and settling in his chest. For a time, neither spoke.
They passed the bottle, silent, ritualistic.
“The Emperor summoned me today.”
Caelen set the bottle down by his chair. “By your tone, I assume it was not a routine call?”
“Most definitely not. He—”
The door swung open. His mark pulsed more insistently. He found Miss Almarien in the doorway, and the world narrowed to her alone.
Entering behind her, Miss Celastra perched on the arm of Caelen’s chair with easy intimacy. Caelen’s expression melted like snow in Bloomtide as he stared at his bride. He traced lazy circles across the small of her back.
Miss Almarien remained hesitant in the doorway. “What are you doing here?”
“Please come in. There is something you must hear.”
Her gaze swept the room. She lingered on the closeness between Miss Celastra and Caelen, on the intimate way he touched her back. Her friend caught the look and arched a brow, before inclining her head towards Azrian himself.
Caelen’s intended may have been many things, but subtle certainly wasn’t one of them.
The color that rose in Miss Almarien’s cheeks made his chest tighten.
She crossed the room at last and settled herself on the desk’s edge, feet dangling above the floor.
Light from the window rimmed her hair in gold, a halo so fierce it made Azrian’s hands ache to reach for her.
Instead, he curled his fists and forced himself to focus.
“I visited the Emperor this morning.”
“Does he… suspect?”
“Not the whole of it. But he knows we’re stalling.”
She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. “Very well, then we must adjust our strategy. Find new ways to delay.”
Azrian’s jaw tightened. “I’m afraid that won’t work.”