Cessalie's fingers kept worrying the edge of the book, her calm expression slipping in small, restless movements. A question rose in her mind. It had nothing to do with the pages in front of her. It had lived there for years, buried and unspoken, because asking it at home would have earned her another punishment.
She took a slow breath. The hesitation was still there, tight in her chest. But when she looked at him, she realized he wasn't going to punish her
"What exactly is the royal court?" she asked, her voice lower than before.
Davian tilted his head slightly, one brow lifting in amusement. "You're curious about that?"
She nodded, keeping her gaze fixed on the book. "I've heard my father and brother mention it… during dinners. Mostly complaints about how the court keeps rejecting the Draevin duchy."
Hew exhaled through his nose. "Yes. Ever since the Crown Prince took his place in it, things have changed."
Her eyes lifted to his, curiosity sharpening. "The Crown Prince? He sits in the court?"
Davian nodded. "He does."
Cessalie frowned slightly, piecing it together. "Isn't he… eleven or twelve?"
"He is almost twelve," Davian replied thoughtfully. "But don't let the age fool you. He's clever. He grew up being groomed for the throne, and it shows. He's built his own circle of supporters who are loyal to him, not the king. There's tension between them… has been for a while now." Davian paused for a beat, then added with certainty, "I'd bet on the prince. His voice stirs people. Makes them listen."
Cessalie looked back down at the open pages of the book, her thumb brushing over the faded text. A twelve-year-old with more voice than her. Than anyone like her.
"And the royal court itself?" she pressed, leaning forward slightly.
Davian's gaze lingered on her. "It's the heart of the kingdom's decisions. Laws, reforms, punishments, appointments… all of it runs through the court. It's not just the king. The Crown Prince sits there. A circle of nobles, advisors, and representatives from the major duchies."
She nodded slowly, still absorbing it. "And the Draevin duchy… doesn't belong to that circle anymore?"
"It used to," Davian confirmed. "Your grandfather held a seat. But after his death… and with the way your father runs things now… the court keeps its distance."
Cessalie's face stayed neutral, but a small knot twisted in her chest. Elsar—Elysande's father used to be a strict man, but he never let injustice slide. Cyrion's brother was the same. There was dignity back then. Things were… better.
She kept her voice steady. "And the Crown Prince? He already holds authority?"
Davian nodded again. "He is young, but perceptive. The court listens to him, maybe more than they do the king."
He leaned back straightening his back, pressing palms against the bed on either sides of him.
"The royal court has exactly twenty-one seats," he explained. "Twelve for the high-ranking nobles like dukes. Each representing a region. Five are reserved for military officials. One for the Crown Prince, one for the High Sanctifier, one for the Royal Advisor and the last seat…" His eyes met hers. "Belongs to the monarch."
She listened closely.
"And the queen?" ahe asked softly. "Does she have a seat?"
Davian shook his head, not surprised by the question. "No. Queens aren't part of the court."
Cessalie's lips parted slightly. "Why?"
He hesitated for a moment, then said it the way someone might repeat something they've heard too many times. "They say if a woman walks into the royal court, we'll lose our strength. That her presence would 'soften' the room, make men fight less bravely, sppeak less fiercely."
"As if courage is something that vanishes in front of silk and skin."
She looked down at the edge of her sleeve and smoothed it between her fingers.
"It's nonsense," Davian added after a beat. "But it's the kind that's old. Old enough to be treated like law."
Of course it was.
Of course a woman could birth a soldier, raise him, teach him what bravery is, but not stand in the same room where he would speak for his people.
Davian noticed how her silence shifted, how the quiet wasn't soft anymore. It was rigid now, held tight like a blade sheathed too long.
He exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his hair. "You don't like that, do you?"
"I don't understand it," she said, her voice barely above a breath. "Why are women only precious when they're silent?"
He didn't answer right away., only studied her for a long moment before leaning forward, elbows on his knees, like he was finally willing to say something that wasn't meant for courtrooms or battlefields.
"Because if they spoke," he said, "men would have to listen."
Cessalie was confused, Was that what he believed? Or just something he'd learned watching others?
He kept going, "Most men in the court were raised on pride. They think they belong there just because of their name. And they're terrified of sharing space with someone they've only ever viewed as decoration."
Cessalie looked at him from under her lashes, cautious, uncertain of his perspective. How could a man, who is grown up under such teaching, be so different either?
"Do you believe that too?"
His answer came instantly. "No." His lips curved just slightly, not quite a smile. "Some of the sharpest minds I've ever met belong to women. Yours, included."
No one had ever said something like that to her. Not without some cruel add-on, not without making it sound like an accident. How could such man exist in such a world? She wasn't sure if it was deception.
She looked away, unsure what to do with the warmth curling in my chest.
Then Davian straightened again, his tone gentle. "If you ever wanted to visit the court… not as a formality, but to truly see how it works, I could ask. I'm close with the prince. They'd allow it."
Her head lifted. She looked into his eyes, flickering from one to another processing what he just said.
It was a kind offer. He meant well. Davian could offer her anything in this kingdom, and she could probably walk right through the doors if shehad his name to carry. And for a moment, she even felt tempted to use the name "Davian Aurelthrone" to get something.
But it didn't feel right.
She shook her head turning her head away from him. "No. Why would I visit a place that doesn't even want women inside it?"
"But… as my wife, you could—"
"I don't want to go somewhere just because I'm someone's wife." Her voice got firner now but not sharp.. "Someday, maybe… I would like to go there as me."
She turned and looked him dead in the eyes.
"As Cessalie, not anyone's guest or shadow."
He didn't try to argue or fix it. He just sat there, and then there he finally saw the part of cessalie she never said out loud.
The part that didn't want to be admired or protected. The part that wanted to stand.
Later that night, she sat by the dim candlelight, legs tucked beneath her as she flipped through the thick book Davian had left behind. The spine cracked faintly when she opened it, and the scent that rose from the pages was a mix of dry, brittle paper and something older like magic.
She assumed it would be boring with just dusty old rituals, potion recipes, superstitions with too many steps and not enough sense. But the more she read, the more her thoughts quieted.
These weren't just witches.
They were disciples.
Ten of them, chosen by Elara'thia, the so-called mother of witches. She distributed the powers into her disciples to keep it safe, divided and scattered. Each disciple had ruled over a domain, carried a legacy, and left behind a bloodline that still pulsed through the veins of this realm.
Two names held her attention longer than the rest: Nyxaë and Arael who formed Nyxarëal bloodline. They ruled over threshold—boundaries and in between states. They could rule space between life and death. Memory and forgetting. Mortal and Divine...they had magic of raw existence, where something begins and ends
They were powerful, intelligent, and frighteningly dangerous. They had married not just for love, but for ambition and together, they built the Nyxaréal bloodline, a lineage so potent that it stirred hatred in others.
Especially in the Zerane.
The envy didn't fade over time. If anything, it grew worse. Seventh descendant of the Zerane line, consumed by jealousy, summoned a spirit, not a minor one, but something born of the underworld. That spirit was unleashed upon the Nyxaréals, its only purpose to curse and destroy them.
But the Nyxaréals didn't fall.
They turned the curse around.
They didn't just survive, they reversed it and banished the spirit and bound it to the Zerane bloodline instead.
The consequences came fast.
The spirit clung to the Zeranes like a parasite. Their riches vanished. Their reputation crumbled until their name meant nothing. They fell from grace so violently that history barely remembered they had once stood tall.
To survive, they resorted to things no one dared record....things people only did when they were desperate, feral, and halfway to madness.
And the worst part?
They couldn't die, not until the curse was passed on.
The spirit refused to release them unless they gave it another body to infest. They had to reproduce. Only when a child was born could the parent finally die, but the curse would start anew, in the next generation. And then again. And again. An endless cycle.
It was cruel, monstrous and brilliant.
She stared at the worn page, barely breathing. The ink had faded with time, but the story burned in her mind like wildfire.
She wanted to meet them. What were they like? How could people with that much power live quietly, far from thrones and courts? They didn't seek control over others like so many did they built legacies in shadows.
She turned the page.
Zerane.
"What did it feel like to be born with something like that already inside you?" She repeatedly traced the word, "to be cursed before you were even given a name?"
The next few entries descended into darkness. The details were sharper, more brutal, and completely devoid of mercy.
The curse didn't just ruin their lives, it took over. It seeped beneath their skin, clawed into their thoughts, and spoke in voices only they could hear. It mangled their sense of self until even their own reflections felt like strangers. Their magic, once powerful and proud, became a trap.
Whenever they dared to summon even a thread of it, their bodies began to fail. Bones snapped like dry twigs, and their hearts faltered in their chests. Blood streamed from their eyes and ears until they lost sight, lost sound, lost feeling. Yet death never came. Their bodies mended themselves slowly and painfully, only for the torment to begin again.
Sleep offered no escape either. The curse followed them into dreams, slithering like smoke, poisoning even their rest.
Zerane blood came with a cost.
They were never alone, not even in their own bodies.
And the terrifying part?
The curse was always right.
She leaned back slightly, the page trembling in her hands, though she wasn't sure if it was the candle's draft or her own nerves.
There was no redemption or peace. No true end unless someone else was born to carry the burden. She couldn't decide if she pitied the Zeranes or feared them.
Maybe both.
But no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't tear her eyes away from the story.
The name Zerane clung to her skin like it was etched there.