Russell Knight stood at the highest balcony of the Knight estate, his gloved hands resting lightly on the stone railing. The fog rolled in thick this morning, wrapping the grounds in a stillness he usually found calming.
But not today.
Today, it only reminded him how unclear everything had become.
He watched the eastern tree line—the forest that marked the boundary between Knight land and the "untamed" territory, as his father once called it. Once, the Knights had maintained full control of this region. Their dominion had been absolute. But times had shifted. And Devin—Devin had stopped listening.
Russell's jaw tightened.
Little brother. Always the bright one. Always the favored one. But lately... impossible to manage.
He still remembered the days when Devin followed orders like ritual. Missions. Drills. Behavior. Flawless. Disciplined.
But now?
Now he disappeared for hours, days even. Spoke less during family meetings. Questioned orders. Hesitated.
Something had to be the cause of Devin's change.
Russell had confronted him once—three weeks ago.
"You're losing focus," he had said flatly.
And Devin, looking like a boy still at war with himself, had replied with words that echoed now like thunder:
"Maybe our focus is the problem."
Russell hadn't known whether to strike him or grieve him.
He was beginning to think he no longer understood his own brother. The weight of leadership had settled on his shoulders too early—ever since their father had begun retreating from public view. But Devin… Devin had always been the potential threat and the potential savior.
Now, he was a liability.
A wild card in a game the founding families couldn't afford to lose.
And worst of all? Russell could no longer control him.
A knock broke the silence.
One of the Knight aides entered—eyes lowered, tone composed. "My lord. A report from the eastern district."
Russell turned without speaking, waiting.
"There have been… fifteen deaths. Confirmed. All human."
He stilled.
The Ash Breath.
Of course, they wouldn't call it that publicly. To most, it would appear as a strange sickness—lungs turning black, dreams riddled with whispers, bodies turning cold before the soul even passed.
Russell said nothing for a long time.
Fifteen lives.
Gone.
He wanted to care.
He should care.
But all he felt was a dull, sharp thing buried in his chest—a memory more than a feeling.
He remembered the Knight doctrine drilled into them from childhood:
"We protect the bloodlines. The founding families first. The rest… are not our responsibility."
And this? This plague? It didn't target the founding lines. Not yet.
So he looked away.
So why does Devin throw himself into it like it's his calling? Like he's some hero meant to bleed for people who would never remember his name?
He didn't understand it.
But he was done watching it spiral.
Russell turned to the aide, his tone cold, measured.
"Find him."
"My lord?"
"Devin. Now. I don't care where he is or who he's with—bring him back. I want his full report. And if he's disobeyed orders again… I want to know."
The aide bowed and left quickly, boots echoing down the marble corridor.
Russell stared once more out into the mist.
This town is rotting, he thought. And my brother is planting himself in its soil.
He wasn't sure whether he wanted to pull Devin out…
Or bury him deeper before he got them all killed.
The Knight bloodline was thicker than even Devin understood.
After the aide left, Russell remained still for a long time, his gaze returning to the northern side of the estate—where the Barnes estate shimmered faintly under a pale enchantment dome.
The Barnes family.
The Silva Barnes problem.
It wasn't love. It never had been. Russell had no illusions about that—not for Devin, not for himself, not for any of them. The founding families didn't marry for romance. They married for power, for preservation, for the security of Source lineage—the magical bloodlines their world depended on.
And the Barnes line was old. Untamed. Fiercely proud. A perfect match on parchment.
Russell had helped arrange it himself, under their father's instruction.
The marriage contract was not a question.
It was a fact.
Signed. Sealed. Bound with a source-link ritual that would begin activation on the equinox.
And yet…
He'd seen the way Devin looked at Silva. Or rather, how he refused to look at her. As though even acknowledging her might give the arrangement power over him.
Devin hadn't spoken a word of protest—but Russell didn't need words.
He'd felt it in his brother's silences. In the tension of his shoulders when Silva entered the room. In the slight shift in his voice whenever the match was mentioned.
Devin disliked her.
Deeply.
But that didn't matter.
"You don't need to like each other," Russell recalled telling him once. "You just need to link."
Because once a Source-bond was established between Silva and Devin—through ceremony and shared energy—there would be no room for emotion. No way out.
No Elora.
And maybe that was the point.
Russell's jaw tightened.
He knew about the girl.
Of course he did.
He had informants. Scrying glyphs. Eyes in the right corners of town.
Yes the girl new to Hawthorne with her grandmother Mira
A very powerful healer.
The bond Devin had begun forming with the Peters truly—was growing.
Based on the reports he acquired.
He knew his brother so well not to give an unimportant person a time of the day.
He also knew one thing not to underestimate his little brother, ofcourse Devin grew under his shadow since his mother's death and their father's detachment.
He trained Devin entirely, swords, learning and reading, family rules,strategies and all.
He also knows a Devin no one else knows.
He knows how brutal, cold and shrewd Devin could be.
No one would believe.
So he was not a fool to believe Devin didn't know he was keeping tabs on him.
And if Russell could ensure Devin was fully linked to Silva first—if the contract completed—then everything Devin was feeling now would be irrelevant.
Unbreakable.
It would be done.
And maybe that was the only way to save him.
From himself.
Russell stepped back from the balcony, the fog parting just enough for the outline of the Barnes crest to shimmer in the distance.
She will be his link, he thought coldly.
Whether he wants her or not.
This was Devin's own weight of the blood line to carry.