The room was tense with silence.
Aleric hadn't moved, but the guards didn't dare approach. The raven still circled above like a blade waiting to drop.
Emilia tilted her head, her voice still smooth. "They said you vanished. Twelve years ago. During the purge."
She stepped forward, slowly.
"They said Aleric Veylan was burned with the others."
Cale's breath caught at the name.
Aleric said nothing.
"They whispered you were alive. A shadow moving behind back alleys. A ghost wrapped in courtly silk. That you were hiding little sparks of Veyrathi blood wherever you could find it."
She smirked. "I suppose they were right."
Aleric's gaze didn't waver. "It was never about hiding. Only… waiting."
"For what?" Emilia asked, amused. "The world that butchered your kind to come crawling back?"
He smiled, thin. "For the moment you overplayed your hand."
Her expression flickered, just once.
Then settled back into polished arrogance.
"As a noble, you are still bound to the kingdom's decree," she said coolly. "That boy is Veyrathi. You know what that means."
"I do."
"Then hand him over."
"No."
Emilia exhaled, almost disappointed. "Even after everything, you'd still protect them?"
"I'd protect hope."
Emilia's jaw tightened. "So you stand with traitors and ghosts now? With the Hollow Creed rising, do you think that matters anymore?"
There it was.
Cale heard the name even through the blood buzzing in his ears.
Hollow… Creed?
Aleric tilted his head slightly. "So you no longer pretend."
"I've never needed to."
Her hand lifted.
And from her palm bloomed a twisting mass of black flame — flame that hissed as if alive, smoke curling with faces that weren't hers.
Cale tried to move.
His arms wouldn't respond.
Emis was a quiet throb in his wrist.
Aleric stepped forward.
Mira, the raven, shrieked — and a dozen black feathers shot forward like knives.
The two forces collided—black flame, black feathers—and the air cracked from the impact.
Light and smoke and power exploded across the room.
Cale was thrown back. His vision spun. His shoulder hit the floor hard.
He saw Aleric raise one hand, directing the raven with a snap of his fingers.
He saw Emilia's coat rip as the feathers carved through her illusion.
He saw—
Nothing.
The darkness swallowed him.
____________
Cale woke up to the pain.
Not sharp — more like a heavy, slow-burning ache that wrapped around his ribs, shoulders, legs, everything. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt more.
He groaned and blinked against the low golden light streaming in through velvet curtains.
The ceiling above him was arched and carved from blackwood, with delicate ironwork tracing curling patterns like thorns across the beams. Shadows danced gently from the flame of a wall-mounted lamp.
It took him a second to register:
He was not in the forest.
Not in Rabir.
Not in a cell.
He was in… a bed.
A big one. Covered in black-stitched velvet, so soft he felt like he was sinking.
He winced and pushed himself up with a grunt. Bandages pulled tight around his chest. His arms were marked with splotches of purple and yellow — bruises from guards who clearly hadn't skipped arm day.
Cale scanned the room.
The walls were lined with tall bookshelves — all full. A desk sat near the window, covered in papers, a single ornate silver ink pot resting in its center. The fireplace was unlit but perfectly cleaned. Every piece of furniture — from the armoire to the claw-footed chair in the corner — was dark wood and polished so clean it nearly glowed.
The windows were tall and narrow, arched at the top, the curtains a bloodred velvet tied neatly back.
The whole place felt like a noble's version of a vampire den.
"…Where the hell am I?" Cale muttered.
And then it hit him.
The house in Rabir.
Iven.
The guards.
The black flame.
The man.
Aleric Veylan.
Cale's breath caught. He turned his head—and froze.
There, sitting calmly on the armrest beside the bed, were Emis and Mira.
Emis, curled like a smug little panther, lazily grooming his front paw.
Mira, tall and poised, looked like she'd just come from a funeral and had opinions about the service.
"You drool in your sleep," Mira said smoothly, her red eyes fixed on Cale.
Cale blinked. "What?"
"Vile. Sloppy. Pathetic," she added.
"Don't be dramatic," Emis yawned. "He only drooled once. Maybe twice."
"Three times," Mira corrected.
"You're counting now?"
"I count everything."
Cale stared. "Are… you two talking to each other?"
Mira turned back toward Emis with a ruffle of feathers. "When was the last time your little rat host stood upright without screaming?"
"Excuse me—" Cale started.
Emis licked his paw again. "At least mine has promise. Clairvoyance. Intelligence. Actual ambition."
"Oh yes, a spark of divine insight is so useful when you faint after walking five minutes uphill."
Cale slumped back into the pillows and groaned. "I hate this. I hate both of you."
Neither Yvelin responded.
Mira fluffed her wings. "When you're done sulking, His Lordship will see you. Try to look less pitiful."
Emis stretched like he owned the bed. "He means Aleric. The terrifying bat-man you passed out in front of."
"Thanks," Cale muttered. "Great. Can't wait."
Cale exhaled hard and swung his legs off the bed.
Bad idea.
Pain flared across his side and into his spine like lightning, but he gritted his teeth and forced himself upright.
His bare feet touched a rug so soft he almost didn't feel it. It was some kind of deep crimson weave with black filigree, all swirling thorn patterns and gold thread. He looked down at himself — bandages, bruises, and absolutely nothing else.
"Well this is fun," he muttered.
"You'll find clothes folded on the chair," Mira said, clearly unimpressed by his modesty issues.
"And if you can't figure out how sleeves work, I'll fetch a tutor," Emis added.
Cale shot them both a glare, but limped over to the ornate chair near the armoire.
The clothes were perfectly folded — crisp black trousers, a high-collared dark tunic stitched with silver threads, and a sleeveless black coat with understated embroidery in the shape of winged sigils. Soft leather boots were tucked beneath.
He picked up the coat.
"Is this... velvet?"
"Obviously," Mira said. "Do try not to bleed on it. Again."
He got dressed slowly, wincing with each movement, but secretly appreciating the feel of the fabric — it was like wearing midnight. Everything fit perfectly, which only made him more unsettled.
"How did he know my size?"
"I estimated," Mira said simply.
"That's not creepy at all."
Once dressed, Cale looked toward the door.
It was already open.
"Come," Mira said, flapping up onto a hanging lantern and gliding down the hallway ahead.
Cale followed, Emis padding beside him like a tour guide that hated his job.
The manor was quiet.
No footsteps. No servants. Just silence and beauty, and an overwhelming sense of being watched by paintings that should not be watching.
Each hallway was a gallery — dark stone walls hung with enormous oil portraits: nobles in ancient armor, women with eyes like stars, landscapes of forests under red moons.
Cale passed a hall where the chandelier was made of blackened bone.
He paused.
"...Is that made of—?"
"Don't ask," Emis said.
They descended a staircase with wrought-iron railings shaped like twisting vines. The runner was crimson. The air smelled faintly of cedar smoke and old paper.
Finally, Mira led him to a pair of double doors carved with the Veyrathi spiral.
She perched on the frame above them and nodded.
"He's inside."
Cale swallowed hard.
Emis gave him a little nudge. "Try not to pass out again."
Cale pushed the door open.
The study was massive — bookshelves stretching from floor to ceiling, lined with old tomes and scrolls. A fire crackled in a black marble hearth. Tall windows framed by sheer curtains let in a dim gray light.
And at the center of it all, standing by a long obsidian desk, was Aleric Veylan.
He looked up.
"Ah," he said quietly. "You're awake."
Aleric stood by the desk, a single hand resting on its edge, the fire behind him casting his silhouette like a statue cut from obsidian.
"Please," he said softly, gesturing toward a nearby armchair, "sit."
Cale hesitated but did as told. The chair felt too soft, too clean. He didn't feel like he belonged in it.
Aleric studied him for a moment, then gave a slight nod.
"Have you slept well?"
Cale blinked. "I guess. I mean, I didn't die, so…"
Aleric allowed himself the barest smile. "And the clothing — it fits properly?"
Cale looked down at the velvet sleeve and muttered, "Yeah. Creepy well."
Another quiet nod. Then Aleric's tone shifted—still gentle, but lower.
"I was informed by your parents of your disappearance."
Cale's heart stopped.
"I was in the northern province when I received the message. They had no idea where you might've gone. Only that something had gone terribly wrong. Your father's letter was—" He paused, then met Cale's eyes. "Urgent. And afraid."
Cale stared at the carpet.
His throat tightened.
"I've been tracking rumors ever since," Aleric continued. "Missing children, strange sightings, quiet towns. I only found your trail near Port Hane."
Cale swallowed hard. His eyes stung suddenly.
He hadn't let himself think of his parents. Not really. He'd pushed the memory of home into some dark corner of his mind, buried under running, bleeding, hiding.
He hadn't thought of Lukas.
"Your brother's well," Aleric added gently, reading his face. "They kept him close. Out of reach of danger."
Cale squeezed his eyes shut.
The tension broke, a silent crack inside him.
"I didn't even say goodbye," he muttered. "One second I'm out shopping for vegetables and the next I'm in chains."
Aleric stepped away from the desk and sat across from him, folding one leg over the other.
"Tell me what happened," he said quietly. "From the beginning."