"If you want freedom," Aurelia said, her voice low and edged with frustration, "then why are you stopping us from leaving now?"
Calvus didn't look away from Potens. His hand remained on the wolf's neck, fingers buried in the thick, dark fur. "I do not act rashly. If we move now, we will be noticed. The palace is awake."
"And what does that mean?" she pressed, leaning forward in the rough wooden chair. "Are the guards patrolling more? Has Tenebrarum given orders?"
"Not Tenebrarum," Calvus replied calmly. "The court. They are preparing for a royal visit." He finally turned his gaze to her, and in the dim light, his eyes held a strange, knowing gleam. "Matrona arrives before the next moon."
"Who is Matrona?"
The name slipped from her lips—not a question for Calvus, but a whisper to the ghosts in her own mind.
Matrona that was the name of her mother.
The woman who had sung her to sleep, whose face she could barely remember, whose absence was a hollow space inside her ribs.
How could that name belong here—in this den of wolves and whispers, on the tongue of a man who served demons?
For a moment, Calvus simply watched her, as if gauging her ignorance. Then he said, "You truly don't know? Matrona is Velmara's daughter."
The name hit the air like a struck bell.
Velmara.
The Witch of the Silver Coven. The woman whose blood was said to have built the Great Wall.
What would she be doing, connecting to this palace.
The legend mothers whispered about to frighten children into obedience.
Aurelia's mind raced deeper.
Velmara's daughter… what would she be doing here? In the heart of the Obsidian Court?
Calvus's lips curved, but it wasn't a smile. It was something colder, more calculating. "An alliance. Or so they claim. Marriage between Mortifer's son and Velmara's heir—to bind witch and demon, and secure the borders that have bled for a century."
Sorana stirred by the door, her silver-scarred cheek pale. "The court has been whispering today, my lady. They say Prince Magnus is to be her husband."
Aurelia did not know who Magnus was—some prince, some son of Mortifer, a name without a face.
She simply nodded, playing along, tucking the information away like a hidden blade.
But her mind did not still.
If Velmara—the Witch of the Silver Coven, the last great protector of humanity's borders—had agreed to an alliance with the Obsidian Court… then the humans were truly abandoned.
No—not abandoned.
Turely betrayed.
Velmara's magic had been the only thing standing between the dark creatures and the human realms for generations. Her blood was in the Wall. Her spells were in the air. Her name was a ward against the night.
And now she was offering her daughter in marriage to a demon prince.
The whole of humanity is lost, Aurelia realized, a cold clarity seeping into her bones.
Humans have no magic. No great armies. No walls left to hide behind. And now the one power that could shield us is shaking hands with the very monsters she once held at bay.
It wasn't just politics. It was surrender.
And in that surrender, every human life—every village, every child, every fragile hope—became expendable.
Calvus hadn't moved. He stood with Potens at his side, a man carved from the same stillness as the beast beside him, his expression unreadable as weathered stone.
"You understand now why we must wait," he said, his voice low but filling the hollow dark of the den. "The court will be distracted. But more than that—the magic Velmara's daughter brings will ripple through these stones. It will mask our movements. It will muffle our footsteps."
He paused, his gaze sharpening like a blade turned toward the light.
"And in that chaos, no one will notice one missing human… or the wolf who helps her flee."
Aurelia's throat tightened. Missing human.
He wasn't speaking in abstracts. He meant her clearly.
Her violet eyes shifted from Calvus to the wolf—still, watchful, a creature of coiled violence—then to Sorana's pale, silver-lined face.
Sorana's gaze was lowered, but Aurelia saw the slight tremor in her hands.
They were both trapped here.
She could barely take it. She had trusted Calvus —or tried to—allowed herself to believe he was her path out. But here he stood, feeding her pretty words about witches and distractions while something darker glinted beneath his words.
Without another thought, she pushed herself up from the wooden chair.
The motion sent her long white hair tumbling over one shoulder, the strands stark against the dark wool of her tunic.
The simple white dress she'd changed into—meant for escape, not court—clung to her frame, plain and rough, its hem still torn from Tenebrarum's earlier grip.
"I'm leaving."
"I'm not done," Calvus said, his voice not rising, but deepening, hardening. "Sit."
The command cut through the air, the kind of tone that didn't ask, but unexpected. It was a voice that wore authority like a second skin.
Aurelia froze. She knew Tenebrarum kept Calvus close, trusted him with weapons and whispers.
But this—this wasn't loyalty. This was a command.
Calvus was trying to control her.
He is not Tenebrarum, she reminded herself, defiance rising like a cold spike in her chest. How dear him say that.
But her body didn't move. Her legs refused to carry her toward the door.
Even Sorana had gone utterly still, her eyes widening slightly. She had heard it, too—the quiet, chilling certainty in that single word.
Calvus watched Aurelia, his expression unchanged, but his eyes held a warning that needed no words.
Try it, he whispered to himself. See what happens.
Potens expression changed immediately.
"Grrrrrr..." he released a deep, rumbling growl, low in his throat, as if responding to the shift in the air.
His mouth shifting slowly.
Aurelia could not sit.
But she did not leave, either.
She stood there in the den of wolves and men, her white hair a silver spill in the gloom, her plain dress a whisper of rebellion, realizing that the chains around her were not all made of iron.
Some were made of voice.
"Why should I stay!"
Her voice rose, sharp with a rudeness she didn't try to hide. It was arrogance born of fear—a shield held up too late.
Calvus did not answer with words.
He walked toward her, each step deliberate, unhurried.
The dim light caught the rich brown of his hair as it fell loose around his temples, softening the severity of his features. His eyes—a deep, warm coffee brown she hadn't truly noticed before—locked onto hers with an intensity that stole her breath.
It had been so long since she'd noticed him like this.
And now she did.
He came closer, until she could feel the heat of his body, could sense the rise and fall of his breath brushing over her skin.
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To be continued...