That night, while Maden slept beneath towers stitched with gold and arrogance, someone was very much awake. Deep beneath the Mage Tower—far below the marble halls and polite lies—candles burned with the wrong color of flame.
Not orange. Not blue. Black-violet. Hungry. Breathing. A man knelt inside a warded chamber carved with sigils so old they made my qi itch from across the palace. His robes were torn at the hem, once belonging to the High Circle, now stained with ash and blood. His fingers shook as he pressed them against a basin of liquid mana—memories, stolen and distilled.
"They brought her here," he hissed, voice fractured, layered with something not entirely human.
The basin rippled. Images surfaced.
Lady Seraphine. Me.
Raya's golden scales blotting out the sky.
Chubby's shadow swallowing noble carriages whole.
His teeth clenched so hard I heard the crack.
"She was not part of the equation," he snarled. "Not her. Not the beast. Not the wretch with borrowed strength."
