The marble halls of Bondrea’s citadel shimmered with the dull glow of morning candles, their flames bending in the drafts that slipped through old stone. The corridors carried a faint scent of burning wax mixed with the sharper tang of oil from the armored guards stationed at each archway. Servants hurried across the polished floor, skirts whispering, boots tapping, their murmurs rising and falling around the long smear of blood that cut across the marble like an accusation.

  By the time Candriela was brought before Lord Alexander, her armor was cracked, her cloak torn, and her cheek marked by a thin cut that had already dried black. Dirt clung to her boots, and her braid, once tightly woven, hung loose at the temple, strands dark with sweat and dust. The guards escorting her kept their grips tight, breathing harder than she did.

  Alexander sat at the head of the long council table, half-dressed in state garments, as though interrupted mid-preparation for something far more ceremonial than this encounter. A glass of watered wine rested loosely in his hand. Behind him, tall windows let in the pale, uncertain morning light that painted him in a muted glow. He studied her with quiet amusement as the guards released her arms.

  “My lady,” he said smoothly, leaning back. “What motivated such a dramatic entrance? My men claim you felled three of them before even stating your name.”

  Candriela wiped a smear of blood from her lip with the back of her hand, the gesture unbothered, almost habitual. “I asked to see you. They refused.”

  “That tends to happen when someone charges the gate with a sword.”

  “I didn’t come to fight,” she said. “I came to beg for help.”

  Alexander raised a brow, the amusement deepening into something more dangerous. “And yet, here you are… covered in other people’s blood. A strange way to ask for assistance.”

  Candriela’s shoulders tensed; the room seemed to contract around that tension. “I need to find my sister.”

  He sipped his drink, then set it down with a soft clink, letting the silence settle just long enough to assert control. “I see. I’m afraid that hardly concerns Bondrea.”

  “It does,” she said, stepping forward. Her boots left faint prints on the polished floor. “Because she’s under the control of the Valval Priesthood.”

  Alexander’s expression shifted, ever so slightly. The humor thinned from his tone like steam escaping a kettle. “That is an accusation with long consequences, Knight. I assume you have proof?”

  Candriela met his gaze with the steadiness of someone who had burned through fear days ago. “I don’t need proof. I have certainty.”

  He sighed lightly, fingers brushing the carved edge of the table. “And what role do you expect me to play in this certainty of yours?”

  “You still have ties to Jacobo,” she said. “To the Sanctum.”

  That caught him. The air between them thickened. Alexander’s eyes narrowed faintly, studying her with the kind of interest reserved for puzzles whose edges don’t quite fit. “You should choose your words more carefully,” he murmured. “But go on.”

  “I know what kind of man you are,” Candriela said, voice tightening. “Practical. You don’t believe in saints or demons, you believe in leverage. I came here because I can give you something you’d want.”

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  Alexander folded his hands, the gesture precise. “And what would that be?”

  Candriela’s breath hitched, only once. “My sister, Virea, isn’t just alive,” she said. “She’s like the girl you once met, Gemma. She can command the Light.”

  The room seemed to freeze. Even the candles stilled, as if listening.

  The guards exchanged uncertain glances. Alexander leaned forward slowly, elbows resting on the arm of his chair, the wine forgotten.

  “So that’s how they’ve done it,” he murmured. “The mutations, the new weapons, the Hollow soldiers… they’ve been feeding from a living source.” His lips curled faintly, not in joy, but in realization. “A woman of Light.”

  Candriela hesitated, fingers clenching at her sides. “You’ll help me, then?”

  Alexander stood, robes shifting around him with a low whisper. He walked toward her with measured steps, stopping just short of her reach. “I will. But not as you expect.”

  She straightened, wary, the cut on her cheek pulling slightly as her jaw tightened. “Meaning?”

  “You came here drenched in blood, shouting for an audience,” he said. “If I release you, Jacobo’s spies will know within the hour. If I make you my prisoner, however, then I can send you where you need to go without suspicion.”

  Candriela frowned, something fierce flickering in her eyes. “You’ll make me a prisoner?”

  “I’ll tell Jacobo you came to confess,” he said. “That you were seeking absolution. He’ll have you transferred to the Sanctum for questioning. I’ll attach one of my soldiers as escort, someone loyal to me, not to the Priesthood. He’ll report back.”

  “Who?”

  Alexander smiled faintly, the expression cool as polished steel. “Captain Orlen. A quiet man, but thorough. If you decide to slaughter everyone you meet in your reunion, I’d like someone there to let me know before the Sanctum burns. I’ll ride with him to deliver you and then I’ll return to Bondrea immediately.”

  Candriela’s jaw tightened until the muscle jumped. “You think I’d lose control?”

  “I think grief makes monsters of everyone,” he said. “Even the faithful.”

  She paced once, boots echoing sharply across the marble, leaving a trail of scuffed dust. “They’ll know. The moment I get near her, they’ll know who I am. They’ll arrest me before I see her face.”

  Alexander nodded as if he had already accounted for that. “Which is why I’ll send another, embedded in the Sanctum’s outer ranks. A contact who can open doors should you find yourself chained instead of welcomed.”

  “And this contact?”

  He smirked, amused again, though the room felt colder now. “If I told you, I’d have to kill you before you left the room. Consider it a gift of faith.”

  Candriela’s expression softened, not with trust, but with the resignation of someone whose options had collapsed to a single, narrow path. “And if this fails?”

  “Then at least you’ll die closer to your sister than anyone else has managed.”

  Her hands curled into fists, knuckles whitening beneath dried blood. But she swallowed the anger. “When do we leave?”

  “In two days,” he said. “You’ll rest in my cells until then. A prisoner must look the part.”

  He raised a hand toward the door. “Guards.”

  Two soldiers entered immediately, stepping into formation at her sides. Behind them, Lukas Drehn appeared in the doorway, his expression somewhere between concern and confusion, clearly aware he was witnessing something he wasn’t meant to understand.

  Alexander turned to Candriela. “Do not take it personally. Appearances are the currency of survival here.”

  As the guards bound her wrists, she looked at him with something close to disbelief: an incredulous bitterness. “You speak of survival like you still know what it means.”

  He smiled, cold but genuine, a man who had long ago made peace with the ugliness behind his own choices. “I’ve been surviving my whole life, Knight. The trick is pretending it’s victory.”

  She was led out, boots scraping faintly on stone, leaving a faint smear of blood on every other tile. Her cloak dragged behind her, catching on the edge of the door as it swung closed.

  When the doors shut, Lukas lingered, glancing toward the exit before approaching Alexander’s desk in cautious steps.

  “Sir,” he said quietly. “Is there anything I should… report?”

  Alexander didn’t look up from his papers, already shifting back into the long machinery of rulership. “Yes,” he murmured, pouring himself another drink. “There’s plenty to report.”

  He raised the glass, watching the pale liquid tremble against the rim.

  “Oh, you have no idea.”