The candles were relit by trembling hands. Servants moved like phantoms, scrubbing blood from the marble as discreetly as possible, but the scent clung to the room like smoke after a fire. The ballroom had not emptied, despite Yvaine's orders. Too many eyes still lingered. Too many whispers coiled in corners.
Aurelian stood at the edge of it all, a cold knot forming beneath his ribs. He could still feel the pressure of Sera's fingers on his arm, still hear the choked gasp of the dying boy. It should have been a toast. A vow. Now it was a battlefield dressed in velvet.
Ezra returned just after midnight.
"No sign of the server," he said, voice low. "He slipped out during the chaos. And the name he gave on the roster?" Ezra held out the parchment. "Doesn't exist. Forged from top to bottom. Ink's still fresh."
Aurelian cursed under his breath. "Inside help. Maybe more than one."
Ezra's eyes flicked toward the dais, where Yvaine stood with the Vantrell matriarch, Alira, both of them locked in brittle conversation. "If we push now, the Houses fracture. And whoever planned this wins."
"We can't push," Aurelian said. "We pull."
Ezra's brow furrowed. "Pull what?"
"Favors."
⸻
They met behind closed doors, in the gallery above the library, away from the servants and the silver-tongued guests. Sera was already there, arms crossed, mask discarded, her expression unreadable. Alira Vantrell joined soon after, followed by High Ensign Kael of House Mordane—uninvited, but never unwelcome when blood was involved.
"What is this?" Alira asked, her voice taut. "You summon us like underlings. You presume we—"
"We presume nothing," Aurelian cut in. "Except that someone wants this treaty buried, and they're willing to kill to do it."
Kael glanced at Sera. "And you think it's coming from within one of the Houses?"
Sera didn't flinch. "The poisoner wasn't working alone. Someone granted access. Someone gave them the mark of our kitchens."
Alira exhaled sharply. "You're accusing my people."
"I'm stating the obvious," Sera said flatly. "This was a Vantrell event. Every hand in this room wore your crest tonight."
Alira turned to Aurelian. "And what of House Rhime? You come armed with spies and blades and ghosts from the codex. Who's to say this isn't your doing?"
Aurelian didn't rise to it. He only stepped forward, voice calm, even. "Because if it were my doing, Lady Alira, you wouldn't still be standing."
A beat of silence followed.
Kael smiled faintly. "He has a point."
Sera stepped between them. "Enough. This isn't the war. Not yet."
"Then what is it?" Alira demanded.
"It's the price," Aurelian answered.
They all looked at him.
He continued, "Someone wants this alliance broken before it's forged. Not with fire, but with fear. So we give them what they want—temporarily. A staged delay. A show of discord. We pull back, feign doubt, let them grow bold. Then we strike."
Kael gave a slow nod. "You want to bait them."
"I want to see who blinks," Aurelian replied.
Alira's lips thinned. "And what of the boy?"
Sera's voice softened. "We bury him with honors. And we remember his name louder than they want us to."
⸻
The negotiations began the next morning, under gray skies and colder expressions.
House Vantrell's courtyard—once a place of song and summer rites—had been transformed into a neutral ground. No colors. No banners. Just two long tables flanked by guards who stood too close to their weapons.
Aurelian sat across from a man he'd spent his childhood hating.
Lord Tyren Vale of House Cindrel.
His hair had gone silver, though the rest of him remained sharp-edged—cheekbones like blades, a voice that cut softer than silk and deeper than steel. He had once served as Rhime's rival in the War of Twelve, and Aurelian's father had never spoken his name without cursing the gods.
"Charming weather," Vale said dryly.
"I wasn't expecting you to come yourself," Aurelian replied.
"Neither was I. But when your mother calls in an old debt…"
Aurelian stilled. "She reached out to you?"
Vale's smile was thin. "She has more influence than you know."
That was what Aurelian feared most.
"I assume you've heard what happened."
"I've heard," Vale said. "A toast turned to a death knell. And now you want House Cindrel to back the treaty despite the risk."
"We want your neutrality while we isolate the threat."
"Neutrality isn't cheap."
Aurelian folded his hands. "Name your price."
Tyren leaned forward. "Land. Not a lot. Just enough to secure the old border by Marrow Creek. And trade rights for two seasons. You know the river routes are drying. We need what Rhime can spare."
It was a calculated ask—insulting, but not impossible.
Aurelian didn't answer right away. "I'll need time."
Tyren stood. "Of course you will. All young leaders do."
As the old man walked away, Ezra emerged from the shadows nearby.
"He brought more than diplomats," Ezra murmured. "Saw a few mercs in Cindrel colors. Quiet steel, too."
Aurelian's jaw clenched. "Everyone's arming themselves."
"We should too."
"No," Aurelian said. "We listen. We watch. If this is going to cost us peace, I want to know exactly who's profiting."
⸻
But blood never spills where it's expected.
That night, it was not a lord or a diplomat who died.
It was a servant girl. Found in the Rhime east wing, throat slit, mouth sewn shut with silver thread.
No witnesses. No trail. Just the grotesque precision of someone making a statement.
Aurelian stood over her body with Sera and Ezra in the still hour before dawn. Rain tapped against the windows like nails.
"She was one of ours," Ezra said softly. "No known ties. Loyal."
Sera knelt beside the girl, brushing the soaked strands of hair from her face. "They want silence."
Aurelian didn't speak. He crouched, reaching into the girl's palm. There, curled in cold fingers, was a token.
A coin.
Old. Worn.
On one side: the twin-headed serpent of the Marov line.
On the other: a single word.
"REMEMBER."
Aurelian stared at it.
Sera rose. "We have to move first."
"No," Aurelian whispered.
They looked at him.
"We don't move first," he said. "We let them think we're too afraid to."
Ezra frowned. "What are you planning?"
"Something worse than fear."
⸻
By midmorning, the girl's death had spread through the estate like wildfire. Guards doubled. Doors locked. Every noble in the wings packed in silence, waiting for someone to point a finger.
But Aurelian issued no statement. No accusation. He walked the halls as if nothing had happened, mask off, expression unreadable.
By nightfall, whispers began to rise. That Rhime was too weak to respond. That they'd lost control. That the peace was breaking.
And just before midnight, when the estate had gone mostly quiet, Aurelian sent a message—delivered by hawk, sealed in the black wax of House Rhime.
To the last known scion of House Marov.
He only wrote four words:
"You have our attention."
⸻
In the darkness beyond the estate, in the woods veiled by fog and memory, a rider paused beneath the eaves of a ruined chapel. She opened the note. Read it twice.
Then smiled.
"Finally," she murmured, striking a flame beneath her hood. The candle she lit bore the same mark as the coin—the twin serpent.
And far behind her, somewhere in the hollow roots of the broken world, the old blood stirred.