The note crumpled in Brez’s fist. *He’s safe.* The words mocked her, hollow and cold. Sarya. Sweet, soft-spoken Sarya, who had always seemed as fragile as spun sugar. Miro was not safe; the conviction clamped down hard behind her ribs. The servant’s quarters offered no other clues, just empty air where her son should have been. Her gaze darted to the ornate, dust-veiled map of the Caldani estate pinned on the wall. A forgotten section, rarely used by staff or guests, lay on the extreme eastern flank: the Old Conservatory Wing, a sprawling maze of disused laboratories and archives. “Quieter place,” Sarya had written. A cold dread settled in her stomach. That wing was notorious for neglected burners and labyrinthine corridors. A perfect place to hide, or to vanish.
Brez burst from the servant’s hall, pacing her strides as she navigated the turns of the main manor, her boots muffled on the polished stone. She passed a bustling kitchen, the aroma of roasting game and sweet spice doing nothing to calm her stomach. Her mind replayed every moment with Sarya, searching for a sign, a trace of deceit she should have noticed. Nothing. Sarya had been a perfect confidante, a loyal shadow. Had it all been a lie? She pushed through a heavy, velvet-draped archway, entering a corridor where yellow wall sconces guttered, casting long shadows. The air grew heavy, smelling of dust and forgotten things. This was the East Wing.
She tried the handles one after another, iron latches rattling against cold frames. Empty storerooms, silent studies, a drawing-room shrouded in linen sheets—nothing. The silence was absolute, broken only by the rasp of her own breathing and the distant creak of ancient timbers. Miro was small, but his magic, when flared, was impossible to contain. If Sarya intended to hide him, she would need more than a simple room. She would need a place where the fluctuations of Aethium weren’t easily detected.
Then, a thin sound reached her ears: a low, keening whimper muffled by the stone partition. Miro. It came from deeper within the wing, from a wing of the conservatory she’d only ever heard mentioned in the novel’s schematics as the “Botanical Archives.” She moved faster now, propelled by a desperate urgency, her hand flying to the small, concealed dagger at her belt. The whimpers grew clearer, laced with a familiar, high-pitched plea. “Mama… cold…”
Brez shoved open a heavy, unlatched oak door that creaked inward, revealing a dimly lit, high-ceilinged room filled with abandoned botanical equipment. Globes of clouded glass, brittle specimen cases, and tarnished brass instruments cluttered the space. In the center, beneath a hissing brass lamp, Sarya knelt beside a low cot. Miro lay on it, pale and listless, his small arm extended. A thin, transparent tube ran from his vein into a small, crystal vial Sarya held in her hand, steadily filling with a luminescent, rose-gold fluid. Miro’s skin gleamed faintly, the tell-tale cobalt branching of the magical fever pulsing beneath his translucent skin, more pronounced now than ever before. He was too weak to even cry out properly, only managing soft, broken sounds.
“What in the blazes are you doing?” Brez’s voice was a low growl, raw with fury. Brez stepped forward, knuckles white around her wrench. Sarya, startled, dropped the vial. It shattered on the stone floor, the glowing fluid instantly dissolving into a faint, sweet-smelling mist that faded to nothingness. Sarya scrambled back, her expression shifting from surprise to a calculated, icy calm Brez had never seen. Her seemingly delicate hand, pushed back by her sudden movement, revealed a dark, intricate tattoo etched into the soft skin of her inner wrist: a cog wheel, crafted from what looked like razor-sharp obsidian shards. The mark of the Obsidian Cog ring—notorious for harvesting rare arcane bloodlines.
“Brezala.” Sarya’s voice was flat, devoid of its usual sweetness. “Or should I say, ‘Brez.’ Such a clever disguise. Not clever enough, I’m afraid.” She rose, her gaze sweeping over Brez with an unsettling familiarity. “He’s quite potent, your little one. Rare. The purest strain we’ve seen in generations.”
Brez moved, a blur of motion, reaching for the cot, shielding Miro’s trembling form with her body. “You monster! He’s just a child!”
Sarya laughed, a dry, humorless sound that scraped against Brez’s nerves. “A child who will save us all. Or, more precisely, ensure our cartel’s dominance. And you, my dear Brezala, are going to help me. You will win this exhibition. You will secure Caldani’s prize, whatever it may be. And you will hand it over to me.” Her eyes, once soft and sympathetic, were now sharp, glinting with a cold ambition. “Refuse, and I will not only reveal your true identity to Rhovis Caldani – imagine his delight at finding his runaway bride – but I will ensure my faction gets Miro. Not just a vial, Brezala. All of him. His entire bloodline, harvested until there’s nothing left but a husk.”
Brez felt a cold dread descend, heavier than any fear she’d known. The true face of her cohort stood bare, stripped of every gentle affectation. “You wouldn’t dare,” she spat, her hand tightening on the dagger.
“Oh, but I would,” Sarya purred, taking a step closer. “And you know it. Caldani is already suspicious. He hardly credits Gidgen’s ridiculous tale about a ‘sickly nephew.’ One whisper from me, and your entire charade crumbles. Your choice, Brezala. The prize, or your son’s life and your freedom.”
A sudden, jarring klaxon blared through the mansion, vibrating through the stone floor and rattling the dusty specimen cases. A deep, resonant voice, amplified by the mansion’s internal speaking tubes, boomed through the room. It was Rhovis. “Attention, all personnel. This is Rhovis Caldani. A security breach has been detected. The Caldani Grand Exhibition Grounds are now under full lockdown. All sectors are being swept for intruders. Remain where you are. Any unauthorized movement will be met with immediate force.”
Sarya froze, a flash of genuine alarm crossing her face. “He’s sweeping the mansion? Now?” She glanced at Miro, then at the heavy oak door. “We need to hide. Now!” She grabbed Brez’s arm, tugging her toward a tall, narrow closet tucked into a shadowed alcove. Brez, still reeling from Sarya’s betrayal and the sheer terror of the lockdown, found herself propelled forward, Miro’s small, feverish body clutched tight against her chest. The closet was cramped enough for one, let alone three. Sarya squeezed in first, pulling Brez and Miro after her, plunging them into oppressive darkness. The scent of mothballs and forgotten velvet filled their lungs. They stood pressed together, Miro’s shallow breaths rasping in Brez’s ear, Sarya’s body unnervingly close. The booming footsteps of Caldani enforcers grew louder, their heavy boots echoing in the corridor outside.
Through a thin crack in the closet door, Brez could see a sliver of the hallway. The wall burner sputtered. A dark, imposing figure appeared in the doorway of the Botanical Archives, his silhouette instantly recognizable. Rhovis Caldani. His deep voice cut through the silence. “Search every corner. And send a team to the upper floor. I want this intruder found.” As he stepped further into the room, his gaze sweeping over the overturned cot and the faint, lingering sheen on the floor where Sarya had dropped the Aethium vial, a glint of brass caught Brez’s eye. It lay precisely in the center of the hallway, directly in Rhovis’s path, reflecting the dim gaslight. Her personalized pocket watch. The one he had given her on the morning of their ill-fated wedding, long before she became Brez and he became the ruthless man who stood mere feet away.