The first thing Cale noticed about Theros was how bright it was.
Even under a cloudy sky, the buildings shone. Cream-colored stone, silver-veined roads, towers that reached like spears into the heavens. The city looked less like a capital and more like something imagined—a story carved from ivory and dream.
Cale stood on the edge of the main avenue, cloak pulled tight as people surged around him.
He'd seen towns. He'd seen Port Hane. But this was different.
Vendors called out in three languages. Spices perfumed the air so thickly he could taste them. Children ran between carriages pulled by beasts he couldn't name. Above him, banners flapped from window ledges like spilled paint.
He couldn't stop staring.
Emis, perched lazily on his shoulder, swatted his ear.
"Close your mouth. You're not catching flies."
"There are so many people," Cale muttered.
"Yes,"Emis replied. "It is a city."
Cale tore his gaze from a stall selling fruit that looked like glass and tried to refocus.
But everywhere he turned there was something new—a man painting with fire in thin air, a child skipping rope with what looked like wind-threads, a noblewoman drinking from a floating cup.
He felt small. And not just because everyone was taller.
He touched his mark unconsciously.
Emis leaned closer, voice lower. "You came here for a reason. Don't lose yourself in the glitter."
Cale nodded, swallowing. "Right. We're here for Rosanna."
Emis purred. "And whatever else Theros decides to throw at us."
Cale adjusted his satchel, squared his shoulders, and stepped into the crowd.
The capital had opened its gates.
And now, it was time to find his place inside it.
______________
The villa was far too quiet.
Lady Emilia paced across the silk-carpeted floor, her bare feet soundless against the intricate patterns. Her usually pristine hair hung in loose curls over her shoulders. The famed red lipstick was gone. Her dress was wrinkled, thrown on without ceremony. Even her perfume—the one known to trail behind her like silk—had dulled.
She looked wrong without her polish.
Nervous.
The view from the balcony showed a paradise of manicured trees and golden fountains, the villa nestled among the upper rings of Theros, where only the wealthiest and most untouchable held court. But for Emilia, this was no sanctuary.
The King's sixtieth birthday was in two days.
She had promised a tribute.
The tribute.
The boy. The Veyrathi.
But he was gone. Buried under layers of silence. She had sent her hounds to every province, every port, every alley. Nothing. No trail. No sightings. No whisper.
And she knew who was behind it.
Aleric.
Always so careful. So immaculate. But even he couldn't hide a boy forever.
She gritted her teeth and paced faster. Her thoughts spiraled. If she failed, her liege wouldn't simply be disappointed. He'd be infuriated. And that was far more dangerous.
The last time someone failed him, the screams echoed through the lower ruins for hours.
Then—a sound.
A screech. Warped. Wet. Unnatural.
A shadow scraped through the half-open window.
It was a bat. Or what used to be one. Its wings were ragged, limbs too long, its mouth open in a soundless shriek. A miniaturized Vorrak, twisted and sharp, no larger than a cat.
It flapped once, then settled on the marble floor. Its body pulsed faintly with void-light.
Emilia dropped to one knee.
"News?" she asked, breathless. "Tell me."
The creature let out a shrill echo.
She pressed her palm to its misshapen chest, eyes narrowing as the sound filtered directly into her mind—an old Vorrak trick for delivering information.
She saw a name. A street. A landmark. A scent.
Her lips curled into a smile.
"So," she whispered, stroking the creature's warped spine, "he's in the capital."
The smile widened.
"Let the hunt begin."
_______________
The ballroom was gilded in gold and crystal. Laughter echoed off mirrored walls. Seren stood in the middle of it all, hands clasped, eyes polite, mouth set in a faint, practiced smile.
She was losing her mind.
Another party. Another host she barely remembered. The wine was too sweet, the music too elegant. Everyone was smiling, their voices like warm velvet. But their eyes? Sharp. Always sharp.
Every conversation was a performance. Every compliment had an agenda. Seren had been thrown into these events like a sacrificial lamb into a court of wolves, and tonight, the wolves wore pearls.
She couldn't take it.
She politely excused herself. Made her way through the maze of dancers and diplomats and finely dressed guests, weaving until she found a small, side corridor.
At the end of it—a balcony.
Empty.
She stepped outside, took a breath of night air, and closed her eyes.
Peace.
Or so she thought.
"Lady Seren," said a smooth voice.
Her eyes snapped open.
The older man with the limp—the one from the council halls—was leaning against the balustrade, cane resting near his side.
"My apologies," he said, smiling warmly. "I didn't mean to intrude. But it seems we both needed air."
She hesitated, then nodded politely. "My lord."
He didn't press her for conversation. Not immediately. He waited. Then, after a silence, he said:
"Elder Veneska is not someone to be trusted."
Seren turned sharply. "I don't think I understand."
"Please," he said, voice still warm. "Let us not pretend. You are not oblivious, Lady Seren."
"I assure you, I was being honest."
The man sighed. "Then allow me to enlighten you. The Veneska family has long-standing ties with the noble House Valmere. Their eldest son… is soon to stand for Council appointment."
Seren blinked. "That doesn't convict Elder Veneska of anything."
"No," the man agreed. "But power is seldom seized in a single leap. She plays the long game. Gathers influence. Wins your trust. Uses that trust to place pawns where she needs them. Then... well. You can imagine the rest."
Before Seren could reply, another voice cut clean through the moment.
"The rest he's talking about," said the newcomer, "is him planting doubt between you and the one person in the Council who actually seems to care about your well-being."
Both Seren and the older man turned.
A golden-haired boy stood at the entrance to the balcony. Younger, tall, dressed in the formal layers of nobility, but his posture was relaxed, almost lazy. He wore a bright, charming smile that somehow managed to feel both amused and sharp.
"Good evening, Lord Remien," he said to the man with the limp. "Still whispering conspiracy at parties?"
Seren blinked. "You..."
The boy turned his smile on her.
"Regan Caerleth. A pleasure to see you, Lady Seren. I believe we have friends in common."
He extended a hand.
She took it, stunned.
Regan winked. "Fancy seeing you here. Let's get you out of the crosshairs, shall we?"
And just like that, the party suddenly felt less heavy on her chest.
_________________
Regan hadn't meant to eavesdrop.
He really hadn't.
He'd been looking for fresh air. The ballroom was suffocating—too many faces, too many empty smiles. The weight of too many eyes wore on him, even if he was used to hiding behind his own mask.
So he searched for a terrace. A balcony. A garden. Somewhere he could breathe without pretending.
And that's when he heard the voices.
One he recognized instantly. Seren.
The other—he blinked. Lord Remien. The infamous whisperer of backrooms. A man whose limp was as legendary as his manipulation.
Regan should have walked away.
He really should have.
But something held him.
Maybe it was the way Remien leaned forward, voice too warm, too confident.
Maybe it was the way Seren stood—still, shoulders slightly drawn.
Maybe it was the memory.
Of her crying.
Alone.
Regan had told himself it wasn't his business.
But even he wasn't heartless.
So he stepped in.
Now, the two of them walked quietly along a narrow stone path, lantern light casting gold across the hedgerows. The garden behind the manor was quiet, far from the noise of the party.
Seren had said nothing.
Until now.
"Thanks," she murmured.
Regan offered a small smile. "It was nothing."
They walked a bit more.
Then Regan stopped.
She turned to face him.
His smile was gone.
"Be careful who you let in," he said quietly. "Not everyone who offers kindness means it."
Seren nodded, unsure of what to say.
Regan gave her one last look.
Then turned and walked away, disappearing into the quiet of the hedged path.
The party roared in the distance.
But here, for just a moment, there was silence.