Neveah woke to three sharp knocks at her door. She tried to sit up, but her body wouldn’t respond; her eyes were open, yet she could barely see. This was the backlash of using her ability without inhibition.

  “Neveah?” Hadassah’s voice came from outside, soft but insistent. “I’m really sorry to bother you, but I don’t have anything to wear today.”

  Still unable to move, Neveah could only lie there, willing herself not to curse her situation.

  “Want me to handle it?” asked a voice beside her. The man lying next to her seemed unaware of her discomfort but was already up, waiting for her response.

  It dawned on her slowly: she’d brought someone home. She stifled a groan, resisting the urge to tell him to leave immediately. She should have remembered the inevitable after-effects of her powers before inviting someone over. Normally, she was careful, seeing the future was tasking, but somehow she ended up bringing a pretty boy home.

  “In my wardrobe,” she managed, her voice low, “there’s a purple dress. Give it to her. And the gold fox set for jewellery. Thank you…um…”

  He paused, eyebrow raised. “Did you just forget my name?”

  She forced herself to stay calm, not in the mood for a sulking man. “No, I didn’t; you’re Cyrus, right?” she replied dryly. “As you can see, I’m not exactly at my best right now.”

  He relaxed, nodding, and went to do as he was told.

  Hadassah waited patiently, the soft light of morning lighting the open hallways, and for the first time in a while she could notice the birds chirping. The door eventually opened to reveal a man, tall and slender, with long blonde hair and mesmerising emerald-green eyes. His lips had curved into a lazy smile that gave him an enchanting, fox-like charm. Standing there completely unclothed, he held out a clothing set to her, seemingly oblivious to her shock.

  “She said I should give you these,” he said, his voice eager to return. Hadassah was too stunned to respond, her mouth opening to speak only for the door to close abruptly in her face.

  ‘Who… was that?’ She stood rooted in place, processing the odd encounter. After a few stunned moments, she shook her head and decided it would be best to pretend she hadn’t seen anything. Clutching the clothing set, she returned to her room, trying to rid her mind of the unexpected image, no matter how beautiful.

  Once back in her room, she set the dress on the table where Rahn was seated, practising his writing. His hands were steady; he barely made any mistakes, and he did write her name so beautifully that she wanted to hang them all over her walls. “Neveah always has the most beautiful clothes,” she commented, admiring the fabric. “Honestly, it’s simply stunning.”

  Of all the enchanting and unique faces she had met since leaving Valdemar, Neveah was still the most ravishing. Whenever Hadassah saw her, she would have to ask herself if Neveah was actually a real person.

  Rahn didn’t look up from his work, though his thoughts wandered briefly. He couldn’t deny that Neveah was beautiful, but in his eyes, Hadassah didn’t lose to her or anyone.

  Hadassah watched him, and then, as if struck by a sudden thought, she stood up. “Come on, let’s dance,” she announced brightly, looking at him expectantly.

  Rahn looked up at her, startled. He did not know how to dance; how was he expected to dance with her?

  “I’ll teach you,” she reassured after seeing the panic on his face, offering him her hand with a grin. “I learned recently, and I don’t want to forget it!” She needed to practice so she could dance at the next banquet; it looked like fun, and at least she knew some basic steps now.

  He hesitated but couldn’t bring himself to refuse her. Standing up, he took her hand carefully so as not to wound her with his claws. She placed one hand on his shoulder and instructed him where to put his hands. His hand trembled as they settled on her waist.

  As they moved together, Rahn tried his best to follow her lead, but his body felt stiff, each step slightly off, and the closeness between them left him feeling uncharacteristically awkward. He stumbled often, and every time he realised he’d stepped on her feet, he’d jump back, his cool skin gradually warming with embarrassment. She only laughed at how jumpy he was, seeming to find his discomfort endearing. For once, Hadassah met someone who was even worse at dancing than her, and she seemed delighted by it.

  But Rahn couldn’t concentrate, his mind torn between the steps and the overwhelming nearness of her. Her laughter was so light, so warm, her smile more radiant than he’d ever seen, and it felt… intimate. He’d never experienced anything like it before—this sense of fulfilment.

  His foot slipped over hers, and before either of them could catch themselves, they toppled to the floor together. She landed beside him, laughter spilling out as she glanced at him, her expression full of joy. Rahn’s cheeks flushed, utterly captivated by her laughter, her smile brightening the entire room.

  “See, dancing can be fun,” she teased, turning to face him.

  Just like in the steppes, they lay together on the bare floor, side by side. Back then, she’d pointed out stars to him, tracing constellations with her fingers, sharing stories from her world.

  For someone like him, with no memories except for the dark years he’d spent in solitude, she was a light that he’d never known could exist. She brought him into her world, her promise clear: he was hers, and she would never abandon him. He was her Harbinger, bound to her side in life and destined to be with her even in death. This thought filled him with pride and a deep devotion.

  It was just the two of them.

  She belonged to him, as he belonged solely to her.

  His hand reached up, instinctively drawn to her face, wanting to touch, to show her how much she meant to him. But then he felt it—a small emotion, unfamiliar and dark.

  It had settled in her heart like a shadow.

  She seemed unaware of it, but the feeling was like a parasite, rooting itself deeper within her.

  Panic began to swell in Rahn’s chest. When last had he peered so deeply into her emotions? He had fallen into a false sense of security and now he was finding something he had not felt before coming from her.

  He messed up.

  Who was it?

  Who could possibly have carved their way into her heart like this in the moment he let his guard down? The thought was sickening, terrifying.

  “Rahn? What’s wrong?” She asked, sensing the shift in his emotions.

  He quickly dragged himself under control, burying the confusion and jealousy. The ugly feeling faded as fast as it had come, and he shook his head to reassure her, forcing a calm expression. She frowned a little, concern flickering across her face, and it made his heart twist—he didn’t want her to see the disgusting feelings within him, if she questioned him, he would have no choice but to be honest. Then, as if the heavens were truly watching over him, a knock sounded at the door.

  Hadassah turned her attention towards the door, and Rahn let out a silent breath of relief.

  The door opened to Zarek; he was wearing leather today—no armour, no sword. His hair was damp and overgrown, his eyes lighting up at the sight of her.

  “I’m going to the library; at least before the expedition, I figured you’d want to come along.” He started with a bright smile.

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  With great effort, Neveah managed to pull herself up, but her legs gave way beneath her, and she collapsed to the floor with a soft thud. She cursed herself bitterly, slamming her fists against her legs as she tried to will herself up. Cyrus helped her up; her body was too weak to stand.

  “You can leave; you don’t have to stay here,” she said as she felt Cyrus’s eyes on her, as if she were an exhibition for him to watch.

  Cyrus sighed dramatically. “I hadn’t seen your pretty face in five minutes. I was getting withdrawals.”

  Neveah wasn’t amused. “You—” she began, but the words faltered as her body sagged against him. Her energy was completely drained.

  Seeing her struggle, Cyrus’s playful demeanour shifted, becoming more serious. “You look awful, princess.”

  “I know,” she muttered, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she weakly tried to shove him away. She was Neveah of Orlaith; she could not be weak to a man—a fox of all things. The Fox Spirit Tribe were not players in the political game; despite being one of the great tribes, all they did was pounce around with their pretty blonde hair and fragile bones, playing with the dead and indulging in ambrosia.

  He didn’t let her go, though. Instead, he helped her back to the bed, easing her down gently. “You shouldn’t be like this. You need to rest properly. I’ll draw you a bath.”

  “A bath?”

  Cyrus nodded, moving to the far side of the room. “Before you argue, just let me take care of you for one day. You’ll feel better afterward.”

  She wanted to refuse; he sounded like he was propositioning her, but she couldn’t deny that she needed help. Reluctantly, she nodded, her voice soft. “Fine. But don’t tell anyone about this.”

  Cyrus paused, glancing over his shoulder at her. “Promise.”

  There was something in his voice that made her trust him; she knew words meant nothing unless compulsion was in play, but she couldn’t even use that. She lay back against the bed, listening to him moving around the room, and the soft sound of water being poured as he prepared the bath. Even without her powers, she could sense his sincerity. For now, she would have to rely on him. Even if he was going to take advantage of her, as long as she did not die, she would deal with him in her own time.

  As the bath was prepared, Cyrus returned to her side, his touch gentle as he helped her out of her clothes. Neveah felt exposed, not physically. Her body was perfect; if everyone saw it, she would merely stand proudly, but being blind was stripping her of her dignity and capabilities; she hated it.

  Cyrus’s hands were respectful.

  Once she was settled into the warm water, the heat soothing her aching muscles and warmth started to seep into her bones.

  While she soaked, Cyrus moved around her room. The soft rustling of fabric was the only sound she could hear as he folded Neveah’s discarded clothes. Every now and then, his eyes flicked towards the bathroom door, where Neveah rested in the bath. He tried to keep his attention on his task, but it was impossible to ignore her presence—impossible not to be drawn to her. She was the most beautiful woman on land; even he couldn’t deny that.

  He held his mind to decorum and folded the silk garment in his hands. Neveah was strong, unyielding even in moments like these when her body betrayed her, when she was at her weakest. But she allowed him to be here, to see her like this. And for that, he was grateful, even if it was born from necessity and not trust.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  He had heard her name before he had the opportunity to see her face. She was Kaladin’s first student, deciding to travel with him rather than stay in Orlaith from when she was merely fourteen years old. Since then she had travelled the continent, studied the tribes under the heavens, and it was only by chance he came to the Vortigern at the same time as her.

  Neveah did not care for him; it was obvious. He knew men admired her, fawned over her beauty. To her, he was just another man who happened to be convenient at this moment.

  He felt his own heart was pathetic—how easily it had been tamed by one glance from her.

  The room had fallen silent, save for the occasional drip of water from the bath. He approached the door, his fingers brushing the smooth handle, his heart pounding in his chest.

  “Cyrus?” Her voice drifted through the small crack in the door.

  “I’m here,” he replied, slipping inside. The sight of her resting against the edge of the bath, her skin beautiful and deep, her pale hair clinging to her damp shoulders, struck him. She looked fragile, but even in this state, she was captivating.

  Still, he knew if he took one wrong step, she would eat him whole.

  Neveah shifted in the bath, her brows furrowing as she tried to stand up, steadying herself. Her fingers slipped on the edge of the tub, her breath catching as she nearly lost her balance.

  Without hesitation, Cyrus moved to her side, catching her arm before she could fall. “Careful,” he murmured, his voice low. “I’ve got you.”

  Neveah’s face scrunched in discomfort as she leaned against him. Cyrus wrapped the towel around her, his touch deliberate, as though he was irrationally afraid of breaking her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, almost as if her admission of gratitude had cost her to relinquish her pride.

  “You’ll feel better after some sleep,” he assured her.

  “Stay and keep watch,” she instructed, her words half-hearted. “But don’t get any ideas.”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he replied lightly, though the weight of his unspoken feelings lingered in the air.

  He dried her hair carefully and helped her slip into a clean set of clothes, and once he saw her to sleep, he finally took a step outside to find some food for her.

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  The library within the Vortigern tree was meticulously kept, yet an unnerving silence lingered, more haunting than usual. The once-powerful family of four had been reduced to a single survivor overnight, yet the beast court was indifferent. To them, the lives of the Vortigern family held little worth—they were, after all, just rabbits. Even the Dragon Queen showed no concern for the death of one of her lovers; if he was killed, he was simply too weak.

  Hadassah had to admit, it was jarring. She felt no personal attachment to the Vortigern family, yet seeing how easily the servants carried on, as if nothing had changed, made her feel oddly unsettled. It reminded her that, if she were to die, there would likely be no one to mourn her either. After all, all beasts die, even the common ones.

  So what was truly special about death?

  “I would love to accompany you, but I’m a bit preoccupied.” Verena’s voice broke her thoughts as she approached. Hadassah still struggled to adjust to Vivian’s new face. Though the transformation had brought more colour to her cheeks and softened her posture, the resemblance was unsettling.

  “It must be exhausting taking over your father’s duties overnight,” Hadassah said, noticing the dark shadows under Verena’s eyes.

  Verena’s lips twitched into a faint smile. “It’s easier than the life of a half-caste. Honestly, I’ve never tasted food so good before.” She laughed softly, though Hadassah found it hard to join her. She wondered, what kind of life did half-castes live in this world? Hadassah had been safe, loved even, in Valdemar, but here Verena had been left to fend for herself.

  Zarek had left the two to speak in private, and Verena led Hadassah to a cosy reading nook bathed in light from a large window.

  “I wanted to ask a favour,” Verena began, unbuckling the sword at her side and handing it to Hadassah. “Could you augment my sword before the expedition next week? Naturally, I’ll pay you. I still owe you for helping me. You truly didn’t have to.”

  Hadassah took the sword, studying its flawless blade. Verena’s sword was one of the finest she’d seen—sharp, unblemished by the blood it must have spilt.

  “There’s no need for repayment, Verena.”

  Verena frowned. “Why?”

  Hadassah placed the sword across her lap. “I don’t consider you a half-caste; I’m simply helping someone I want to help.” That wasn’t the truth, but it was all she was willing to say. Verena had little she could offer her—Hadassah didn’t desire a title or power; she only wanted to reach Veres and decide her path from there. Maybe she would return to Valdemar and beg the Fae Queen to let her live the rest of her life in peace, or perhaps she’d follow Kaladin.

  Kaladin.

  Right, he already had a human… Hadassah reminded herself not to let her hopes rise.

  He didn’t belong to her.

  Perhaps she should go and meet this other human herself. It comforted her to know she wasn’t alone in this world, even if only in species.

  “Hadassah, I know we haven’t known each other long, but you will never be a stranger in Vortigern.”

  Verena’s words were a warm surprise. “It’s hard to be a stranger after plotting your family’s murder together,” Hadassah replied lightly, though Verena’s smile, though weary, seemed freer now.

  After a pause, Hadassah spoke up. “Actually, I have a favour as well. Could you look after Erebus once the expedition is over? At least check up on him once in a while, just to make sure he is doing ok.”

  “Erebus? He’s going to Nerissa, right?” Verena asked, her brows drawing together.

  Hadassah nodded. “I want him to live a peaceful, happy life. I hope he finds another mate and starts a family. I can’t ask him to swear his loyalty to me just because of his daughter.”

  Esther’s father had pledged himself to her, but Hadassah knew she lacked the means and stability to protect or gain more allies. The more people she had under her care, the more responsibility she bore. Uncertain of her future, she trusted Verena with Erebus. “I don’t know what lies ahead, so I feel safer entrusting him to someone I can count on.”

  Verena’s expression was a mix of surprise and suspicion. “Why do you trust me? We’re barely business partners. Don’t you think I might betray you?”

  Hadassah smirked. “Even if you do, I won’t blame you.”

  Her words were unexpected, even to herself. Perhaps she felt some guilt for the life of comfort she’d led while others suffered in her place. She didn’t have the right to stand in judgement over them.

  Verena fell silent, her expression shifting as though she were seeing something she wished she hadn’t.

  “What’s your favourite colour?” Hadassah asked.

  “What?” Verena blinked, caught off guard.

  “I mean, if I augment your sword, I can make it a bit prettier,” Hadassah explained. “So, what’s your favourite colour? Or should I make it red?”

  Verena paused, her gaze drifting down to the red robes she wore. “I don’t like red. I find it a horrendous colour.”

  Hadassah raised an eyebrow, glancing over Verena’s attire, which was draped entirely in shades of crimson. “So, what colour then?”

  “I like blue,” Verena replied, her voice softening slightly.

  Their conversation didn’t last long after that, and Verena soon left Hadassah to her own devices, a flicker of something unreadable passing over her face as she walked away.

  Once Verena had left, Hadassah began to explore the library, finally free to roam undisturbed.

  Hadassah flipped through a book on rune theory, fully absorbed. She’d already pulled out a stack of books for the week, even selecting one for Rahn. Her brows were slightly furrowed in concentration, her fingers gliding over the pages as she scanned the text. When she’d found Zarek sitting with his back against one of the shelves on the floor, she had settled down across from him, seemingly content with the quiet companionship. Zarek, however, wasn’t so focused on the books. Instead, he found his gaze lingering on her.

  His mind was at war with itself.

  He struggled to keep his thoughts clear, but they kept getting muddled. The softness of her expression, the gentle slope of her neck, the way her fingers danced over the pages—it was all an exquisite kind of torture. He knew he was attracted to her, but at that moment, the full weight of his feelings became impossible to ignore.

  “Did you find the books you wanted?” Hadassah’s voice broke the silence, snapping him out of his trance.

  Zarek straightened up, clearing his throat. “Ah, yeah. Well, kind of,” he replied, his voice stumbling slightly. “Just… got a bit distracted, I guess.” He scratched the back of his head, feeling a blush creep up his cheeks.

  She tilted her head, raising an eyebrow with a faint smirk. “Really? By what?”

  “Um…” Zarek coughed, desperate to steer the conversation away from his wandering thoughts. “I was just thinking about the expedition. It’s the third one now, and I’m a bit worried… some of the artefacts there are quite deadly,” he managed.

  Hadassah gave him a skeptical look but shrugged, returning to her book. “Artefacts aren’t that scary if you understand how they work. Rune theory can be fascinating if you give it a chance. Most artefacts have obvious weaknesses; humans tend to make them that way just in case things go wrong,” she said, her fingers trailing down the page with reverence. “Though, I suppose it’s not everyone’s idea of… distraction.”

  A part of him wanted to respond, to tell her that he’d happily read through a hundred dusty tomes if it meant staying here with her, but he held his tongue.

  She looked up at him again, and he realised with a start that he’d been staring too long. “Are you really interested? I can explain it to you.”

  Reading wasn’t his strong suit, but he couldn’t pass up an excuse to stay close. “Yeah, sure. Why not?”

  She moved to sit beside him, their arms brushing slightly, and he felt his pulse quicken. She flipped open the book to a section on sword augmentation runes, her face lighting up as she explained the finer points. The magic that could make a blade sharper, faster, and more powerful—it all came alive through her enthusiasm. “One of the Generals of Emeris had this sword that could split a mountain in two; my dad used to talk about it all the time! He’d say I had to be there to see it, that the sight was magnificent!”

  She chattered on and on, her voice warm and animated. Zarek was struck by how at ease she seemed, talking about something she loved. He hadn’t realised just how passionate she could be about runes, considering how rare it was for anyone to read Emerian, let alone study it.

  Zarek leaned in, closer than he intended, nodding as she spoke, breathing in the faint scent of lavender. Neveah must have helped her style her hair for the banquet the night before. Her proximity sent a shiver through him, and he struggled to rein in his mind as it drifted to places it shouldn’t.

  “Zarek?” Hadassah’s exasperated voice cut through his thoughts, and he blinked, looking up to find her staring at him. “Are you even listening?”

  “Yeah! Yes,” he stammered, mentally scolding himself. “You were saying… something about runes?”

  She shook her head, rolling her eyes. “You’re hateful.” Her face fell slightly, clearly disappointed. He realised she’d let herself get excited, only to feel brushed aside.

  “I’m not,” he insisted weakly, scratching his head, though he knew he’d lost his chance to convince her.

  He could tell she didn’t fully believe him. In truth, Runes didn’t interest him nearly as much as she did, but still, he wouldn’t turn down this privilege to glimpse into her world. Seeing her so animated made him wonder if she’d been like this in Valdemar, talking her father’s ears off and filling the air with stories and laughter. He wanted to experience that version of her for a moment longer.

  ˋ?-?-?ˊ

  Verena sat alone in her room, her fingers stiff as they traced the phoenix crown on her vanity. She was dressed exquisitely in deep crimson; dark embroidery covered the fabric, showing the Vortigern tree’s sprawling visage. It was tied at her waist by a deep red belt, and her make-up was done to perfection.

  Her mind replayed a conversation she had previously , “In Emerian, there is no word for half-caste.”

  It had been a simple statement, one Verena couldn’t stop thinking about. There were no categories, no boundaries. Only strength and will. But the truth of her own world clawed its way back to her, and all she could see was blood—blood that should have stayed in her veins but had spilled by her own hand.

  She did not know what she hated more, her own birth or the fact she did not die that day when her sister pushed her off the library balcony. She wished she died then.

  At least she would not be cursed to be a corpse walking amongst the living.

  A shaky breath escaped her as she felt her composure crumbling. A pang of rage surged through her, and in a swift motion, she hurled a crystal chalice across the room. It shattered against the wall, glass scattering like the thoughts tormenting her. Then she screamed, her hands sweeping all the jewels on her table to the floor—she couldn’t stand to look at them. She reached for her curtains, tearing them, then grabbed a dagger and stabbed at her pillows, the chair cushions, the tapestries. She hated it all; there was so much red around her, the Vortigern colours.

  She hated it.

  She stumbled back to her vanity. Her reflection stared back at her—smeared makeup, dishevelled red robes, her hair loose and wild, strands falling messily around her face. She yanked off the pins, letting her hair fall further into disarray around her shoulders. She fumbled with her robes, tugging at the neck, loosening them without care, letting the red fabric drape haphazardly around her, revealing the white robes underneath.

  As she picked up the phoenix crown, her hand trembled. For a moment, she froze, staring at her reflection—a messy, broken figure. Slowly, she placed the crown on her head. This was what it had come to—dressed in red, the colour of the Vortigern, the colour of blood.

  The door opened suddenly, and Zeus stepped in, his usual smug expression faltering at the sight of her. He had come to tell her that the court was waiting, that her ascension was due any moment, but the words died on his lips as he took in her appearance.

  “Vivian,” he called her by the name she wanted to forget.

  He walked over to her, folding his fan. “This is what you wanted, is it not?”

  She didn’t respond, and he knelt at her feet, his head resting on her knees. “This is all for you. Don’t you like it?”

  Vivian stared at her reflection in the mirror: her white hair beautiful, her lips soft.

  She was a Vortigern.

  “I promised you, and I have fulfilled it. So I will promise you again, and I will fulfil it,” he said softly, his words meant only for her. She clenched her fists and stood up, forcefully pushing him back.

  He remained kneeling on the floor as she lifted her chin and walked past him. Her robes dragged behind her, her shoes left abandoned in the corner of her large room, her feet bare.

  Every step she took was painful; every breath felt like a stab in her chest.

  But this was all she wanted, was it not?

  She didn’t care if she looked mad; let the court see her this way. They’d witness what the weight of her new title truly looked like.

  There were no gasps at her appearance, only deep stares as she walked into the hall. The beasts bowed their heads as she walked past; those beneath her in status made full bows, and those who respected her nodded.

  Drucilla sat at the end, dressed formally in the purples of the sky deities. Her hair was pinned up elegantly, and she held a large sword in her hand.

  “I stand on behalf of my mother,” she announced as Verena knelt in front of her.

  Drucilla’s gaze lingered on her appearance, filled with malice, her lips twisted with disdain. She carried the spite of twenty years on her shoulders, and Drucilla couldn’t help but smile widely.

  Verena glanced to her side, her eyes landing on Hadassah. She didn’t know how to describe the feeling in her heart—anger?

  “You are now, Lord Vortigern,” Drucilla declared, and Verena felt a hand touch her head. “You are Vortigern.”

  This was what she had fought for, what she had endured all these years to achieve. She turned to her left, and Zeus was there, his eyes gleaming with cruel pride. Then she looked up at Drucilla, who stood like a saint bestowing a blessing.

  This was what she had to do.

  She had no reason to feel guilt.

  Death belonged to the weak; life to those who could retain it and she alone had the power to keep her life.

  That was the true symbol of Vortigern, the sprawling tree of life. She alone had inherited such an artefact, bound by blood, and so she alone was Vortigern.