Vincenzo spoke in a firm, resolute voice that echoed across the grand hall, his eyes locked on Egnatius like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. "Considering your repeated failures in the investigation, the appropriate penalty is this: you are hereby relieved of all authority related to the Dark Witches affair. Effective immediately, you are barred from participating in any current or future proceedings regarding the Dark Witches conspiracy or related contingencies."
Gasps rippled across the chamber.
The High Conclave's Hall—an immense circular chamber of cold gray stone and towering arches—fell into uneasy silence. The flickering torchlight cast elongated shadows on the ancient columns, and the ever-present scent of parchment and old magic lingered in the air.
The Head Members, dressed in deep sapphire robes embroidered with gold insignias, exchanged uneasy glances. Stripping a Head Member of authority, especially in a case as pivotal as the Dark Witches conspiracy, was no small matter—it was a humiliation few survived politically.
Egnatius's face flushed deep crimson. The embroidery on his own robe—once a mark of pride—now looked mockingly bright beneath the weight of his disgrace.
"You can't just decide punishment as you please!" he barked, voice thick with humiliation.
Vincenzo leaned forward, clad in black with crimson velvet lining his collar and cuffs, he looked like a shadow touched by firelight, his signet ring catching the firelight. "Why not?" he asked smoothly. "You certainly punished someone innocent as you saw fit."
The words landed like a blow. Egnatius's mouth clamped shut, and his eyes dropped, unable to find a retort.
The fabric of the Lord's cloak rippling with his movement. His presence towered as he delivered his final blow:
"The rightful punishment for laying hands on the future Queen of Versimoil would be your permanent expulsion from the Conclave's inner circle. But I am showing restraint. You are merely disbanded from this investigation, as you have proven yourself—unequivocally—unfit to lead it."
Egnatius turned toward the other Head Members in desperation, scanning the chamber, silently begging for support. But none moved. Their silence said everything. They, too, knew Vincenzo was showing restraint. Were it not for that, Egnatius could have been stripped of his position—or worse, executed.
But Vincenzo didn't believe in easy justice.
No, humiliation was slower. More poisonous.
He knew that living with disgrace would hurt Egnatius far longer than a blade ever could. The brand of failure—of being cast down publicly—would follow him to his grave.
The chamber doors creaked open as the Announcer, robed in white with a silver chain of office, entered with a ceremonial scroll. The vote commenced. The Head Members, one by one, raised their staffs in approval.
Four votes in favor.
The ruling was passed.
The announcer declared the result to the full assembly in a solemn tone that carried across the vast stone hall. Then, as a physical enactment of the verdict, one of the seats around the round table was ceremoniously removed. A soft gasp spread across the staircase seating.
Egnatius, now stripped of dignity, was instructed to take his new place among the lesser Conclave members—those seated in tiers far above, without voices or power. He climbed the stairs with slow, stiff legs, the long hem of his robe dragging like a chain behind him.
Back at the Royal Castle, nestled deep within the mist-veiled hills of Versimoil, the evening light spilled through the tall arched windows of the treasured library. The room was a cavern of oak and velvet—walls lined with shelves rising three stories high, brimming with tomes bound in dragonhide and dusted in age. A massive chandelier hung from the ceiling like a frozen constellation, catching the last glimmers of twilight.
Anneliese was curled on a chaise longue upholstered in emerald velvet, tucked beneath a stained-glass window.
Hours passed.
Ink smudged her fingers. Her brow was furrowed in concentration as she tried to decipher the jagged, rune-like language. Eventually, her eyes drifted closed. Sleep crept in, and she dozed off with the book still resting on her chest.
She wore the same dark blue dress threaded with hints of black. It clung to her lightly, falling just above her ankles—the dark fabric flowing like twilight around her legs as she shifted in her sleep. Her brown hair had loosened over the hours, curling slightly where it brushed her shoulders.
By the time dusk fell, Vincenzo arrived.
He stepped silently through the arched doorway, the long tails of his coat brushing the polished floor. His presence stirred the air around him—dark, quiet, magnetic.
He paused when he saw her asleep, bathed in amber light from the chandelier above. "So bewitching… for a human," he thought. Then corrected himself: Not human. Not quite.
He walked over and gently eased the book from her fingers. Then he sat across from her in a high-backed armchair, flipping through the pages she'd been reading.
Moments later, she stirred. Her lashes fluttered open, and she looked around, blinking sleep from her eyes. Her gaze settled on him.
"Slept well?" he asked.
She nodded, sitting upright and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. "When did you get here?"
"About an hour ago. You were in dreamland, I presume," he said, glancing up from the book.
"Did you get a chance to read it?" he asked, gesturing toward the text.
"I tried," she admitted. "But it's harder than I thought."
He gave a slow nod. "It seems that way in the beginning. But once you're used to the cadence and structure, it gets easier."
"I hope so."
"Just focus on the symbols and word forms for now. I'll help you learn the important spells. You don't have to do it alone."
"Thank you," she said softly.
"You really don't have to thank me for everything," he teased.
She smiled faintly and nodded.
He stood and extended a hand. "You've been locked in here all day, haven't you? Probably missed lunch too. You must be starving. Come—let's eat."
The moment her eyes dipped toward his extended hand, she noticed a ring on his forefinger.
Gold. Heavy. Worn with age.
Set into it was a design that caught the firelight just right—a slender dagger with batlike wings spread wide, and beneath it, a single rose tangled in thorns. The engraving was impossibly detailed, as if the vines might move and draw blood. There was something raw about it—elegant, but not gentle.
She stared for a second longer than she meant to.
Vincenzo noticed.
"It's a relic..." he said quietly, lifting his hand so the firelight played across the ring. "Passed down through generations."
Nodding slowly, Anneliese reached up and placed her hand in his. Her fingers looked impossibly small against his own. He clasped her hand securely and intentionally pulled her up—swift and fast enough that she stumbled slightly. Her free hand landed flat on his chest to steady herself.
She looked up at him, eyes narrowed in accusation, then took two measured steps back to restore a polite distance.
The amused smirk that curved Vincenzo's lips lingered as they walked out together.
The dining hall, adorned in tapestries of the old kings and lit by a low row of floating candelabras, was quiet. The long mahogany table reflected the flicker of flame. Servants stepped forward briefly to serve, then retreated into the shadows as the two took their places.
Neither of them spoke during dinner.
The silence between them wasn't cold—it was filled with the weight of unspoken thoughts, of trust slowly being built, of something fragile forming between two people used to walls and weapons.
When dinner ended and Anneliese stood, bowing politely, she was just about to take her leave when Vincenzo's voice stopped her.
"Walk with me."
She paused mid-step, startled. She looked at him to see if he was serious.
He was.
"…Okay," she said softly, and followed him into the night.