The Grand Hall of Aethelgard was designed to make a man feel small. The ceiling was a transparent dome of reinforced crystal, showcasing the star-dusted void of the night sky above. Beneath it, three thousand dignitaries, warlords, and elemental arch-dukes feasted at tables carved from solid moonstone.
To Elian, standing in the shadows with a silver pitcher of spiced wine in his hands, it looked less like a dinner party and more like a pit of vipers waiting for the sun to warm them.
The noise was deafening—a roar of laughter, clinking crystal, and the low hum of the ambient magic used to keep the floating candles aloft. The air smelled of roasted peacock, truffle oil, and expensive perfume, a cloying mixture that made Elian's empty stomach churn.
He adjusted the collar of his black uniform. The silver Silencer was tight against his throat, a cold reminder of his station. He was invisible. A prop. A ghost in the machine.
"Refill," a heavy-set Duke grunted, shoving an empty goblet toward Elian without looking at him.
Elian stepped forward, pouring the ruby-red liquid with practiced steadiness. He wanted to pour it into the Duke's lap. He wanted to summon a flare and melt the gold chain around the man's fat neck.
Count to ten, Vane's voice echoed in his head.
Elian poured until the wine reached the brim, bowed his head, and retreated into the shadows.
From his vantage point, he could see the High Table. It sat on a raised dais, separated from the rabble. Queen Valeriana sat in the center, a statue of ice and diamonds. She wasn't eating. She was watching the room with eyes that looked dead.
To her right sat Prince Lysander. The Fake Heir.
He looked terrible. Despite the layers of makeup and the elaborate gold-embroidered tunic, he was pale and shaking. His left arm—the one Elian had burned—was encased in a sling of white silk. He was drinking heavily, his eyes darting around the room with paranoid intensity.
And standing behind the Prince's chair, like a shadow carved from obsidian, was Vane.
The Commander was motionless, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword. His face was a mask of boredom, but Elian knew better. He felt Vane's gaze flick toward him every few seconds, a subtle check-in. Are you safe? Are you calm?
It was the only thing keeping Elian from bolting.
"You there," a shrill voice cut through the din.
Elian froze. He knew that voice.
Prince Lysander was pointing a trembling finger directly at him.
"The Wolf's pet," Lysander sneered, his voice slurring slightly from the wine. "Bring the pitcher here. This swill they served me is sour."
The table went quiet. Vane stiffened imperceptibly.
Elian hesitated for a fraction of a second, then walked up the steps of the dais. He kept his eyes fixed on the floor, feeling the weight of three thousand pairs of eyes on him. He approached the Prince, bowing low.
"Pour," Lysander commanded, thrusting his goblet out.
Elian began to pour.
As the wine flowed, Lysander leaned forward. "My arm hurts today," he whispered, loud enough for the nearby nobles to hear. "A terrible accident. A burn."
Elian didn't react. He filled the cup.
"They say heat is best treated with heat," Lysander murmured. A cruel, childish spark lit up his watery blue eyes.
Under the table, hidden from the view of the court but visible to Elian, Lysander snapped his fingers. A small, concentrated flame—no bigger than a match head, but intensely hot—fizzled into existence at the tip of his finger.
He pressed the flame against the back of Elian's hand holding the pitcher.
The pain was sharp and sudden. The smell of singed hair and cooking skin wafted up.
Elian's breath hitched. His hand jerked, but he didn't drop the pitcher. He couldn't. If he dropped it, he drew attention. If he drew attention, the Queen would look.
Don't react, he told himself. Do not let the fire answer.
The flame on Lysander's finger died, but the Prince wasn't done. He pressed his hot ring against the burn.
"Steady, boy," Lysander taunted, smiling sweetly. "You're spilling."
Tears pricked Elian's eyes. The hum in his chest roared. It wanted to lash out. It wanted to incinerate the Prince's face.
One. Two. Three.
Elian bit the inside of his cheek until he tasted blood. He finished pouring the wine, lifted the pitcher, and took a step back. He bowed again.
Lysander looked disappointed. He had wanted a scream. He had wanted a flare of magic to prove his suspicion.
"Boring," Lysander muttered, picking up his cup. "Get out of my sight."
Elian turned to leave, his hand throbbing.
"Wait."
It was the Queen.
Elian stopped. He felt Vane shift behind him, a coil of tension ready to snap.
Queen Valeriana leaned forward, her gaze fixing on Elian's burned hand. "You are injured, servant."
Elian bowed his head lower. He couldn't speak. The collar ensured it.
"Vane," the Queen said, her voice like a gavel. "Your servant lacks grace. He allowed the Prince to burn him."
"He is clumsy, Majesty," Vane said smoothly. His voice was calm, but Elian could hear the murderous undertone. "I will discipline him later."
"No need," the Queen said. She stood up. The room fell silent instantly. "We need entertainment."
She gestured to the center of the room. "The Eclipse approaches. We must test the strength of our protectors. Vane, step into the circle."
Vane didn't blink. "As you command, Majesty." He walked down the steps, his cape flowing behind him.
"And," the Queen added, a cruel smile touching her lips, "let him fight your servant."
The room gasped.
Elian's head snapped up. He forgot to look down. He stared straight at the Queen.
"Me?" Vane asked, pausing. "Majesty, he is a mute archivist. He is untrained. It would be a slaughter."
"Is he?" The Queen tilted her head. "He moves with the grace of a fighter. And he took a burn without flinching. Let us see what else he can take. Consider it... a stress test."
She sat back down. "To first blood. Or death. Whichever comes first."
Vane turned to look at Elian. His face was pale. He couldn't refuse a direct order from the Queen without committing treason. But if he fought Elian, he risked forcing Elian to reveal his magic to survive.
It was a trap. She suspected. And she was forcing the issue.
"Enter the circle, boy," Vane commanded, his voice hard. But his eyes were pleading. Trust me.
Elian walked down the stairs. His legs felt numb. He entered the open space in the center of the tables. Servants scurried away. The nobles leaned forward, eager for bloodsport.
Vane drew his sword. It was a blade of black Void-steel, sharp enough to cut the wind.
"Here," a guard called out, tossing a weapon to Elian.
It was a rusty, dull short-sword. A joke.
Elian caught it. He looked at Vane.
"Begin!" the Queen announced.
Vane moved instantly. He lunged, his sword aiming for Elian's throat.
Elian ducked, the black steel whistling over his head. He scrambled back, his boots slipping on the polished floor.
"Defend yourself!" Vane shouted, swinging again. This time, he turned the blade flat at the last second, slapping Elian's ribs rather than slicing them. It hurt, but it didn't cut.
He's acting, Elian realized. He's making it look real.
Elian raised his rusty sword, parrying a strike. The impact vibrated up his arm, jarring his burned hand.
"Fight back," Vane hissed under his breath as they locked blades. "Make it look good."
Elian grit his teeth. He shoved Vane back and swung low. Vane sidestepped, feinting a thrust to the heart, then spinning to kick Elian in the chest.
Elian flew backward, sliding across the floor. The crowd cheered. They loved watching the Wolf hunt.
Elian scrambled up. He was angry. Not at Vane, but at the Queen. At Lysander, who was laughing into his wine cup. At the whole damn system.
He charged. He didn't use magic. He used the streets.
He threw the rusty sword at Vane's face.
Vane flinched, deflecting the projectile. In that split second, Elian slid across the floor on his knees, grabbing a heavy silver platter from a nearby table and swinging it like a discus.
It slammed into Vane's armored shin.
Vane grunted, actually stumbling. The crowd gasped. A servant had hit the High Commander?
Vane recovered instantly, catching Elian by the throat and lifting him off the ground.
"Enough," Vane roared.
He held Elian there, dangling his feet inches off the ground. To the crowd, it looked like Vane was about to snap his neck.
But Vane's hand was positioned carefully to protect the windpipe.
"First blood!" Vane announced, turning his arm so the crowd could see a small cut on his cheek—likely from the rusty sword hilt grazing him. "The boy drew blood."
The Queen stood up slowly. She looked disappointed. She had wanted to see Elian panic and use magic. Instead, she saw a desperate servant fighting dirty.
"Disappointing," she sighed. "He fights like a rat."
"He is a rat, Majesty," Vane said, dropping Elian to the floor. "But he is my rat."
"Very well," the Queen waved her hand dismissively. "The entertainment is over. Clear the floor."
She stepped forward to the edge of the dais.
"My loyal subjects," she projected, her voice amplified by magic. "The time has come. The Void approaches. In seven days, at the height of the Eclipse, Prince Lysander will perform the Rite of Solstice."
She looked down at Lysander, then at Elian, who was gasping for breath on the floor.
"And this year," she added, her eyes glittering, "we will require a greater sacrifice than usual to ensure the sun returns."
She didn't say what the sacrifice was. She didn't have to.
Elian looked at Vane. Vane was staring at the Queen, his face a mask of horror.
Seven days.
Vane hauled Elian to his feet, gripping his arm tight.
"We're leaving," Vane whispered. "Now."
As they hurried out of the Great Hall, away from the laughter and the wine, Elian felt a new sensation. The hum in his chest had changed. It wasn't just angry anymore.
It was afraid.
Because for the first time, Elian realized the Siphon hadn't just been a way to feed the Prince. It was a practice run.
The Queen intended to drain someone dry during the Eclipse. And Elian had just volunteered for the position.