Serene’s street was quieter than Taya remembered.

  Her home sat where it always had, but the windows were shattered and boarded from the inside. A faint smear of red paint trailed down the door. Whatever writing had once been there had become illegible.

  “What happened here?” Taya asked, already moving faster.

  Jarard didn’t answer.

  Taya reached the door and knocked hard, the sound carrying down the street.

  “Serene?” she called. “Thera?”

  Silence.

  She knocked again, her hand tightening.

  “Henry? Theon?” Her voice caught. She stepped back, eyes darting to the blocked windows. “Is anyone home?”

  She kicked the door. The impact jolted up her leg, staggering her back.

  “Taya—” Jarard started, reaching for her arm.

  Another kick cut him off.

  She turned to him. “Break it down.”

  The door opened.

  Jarard moved before she could think.

  Taya saw his hand flash to his hilt, steel scraping free as his stance shifted. Jarard’s jaw clenched, his gaze fixed ahead.

  A man stood in the doorway. Dark, hollow eyes stared out from beneath tangled black hair. His caramel skin glistened with sweat, too dark for the average Steerian, his breath heavy and loud.

  Taya’s own breath caught in her throat.

  “Get behind me, Taya,” Jarard ordered, his sarcasm far gone. “Now.”

  The man’s eyes shifted to Jarard, unhurried.

  Taya took a small step back, her attention never leaving the man.

  Then, she took a step forward. “Who are you?” she asked.

  He leaned against the doorframe, his stare unwavering. The seconds stretched as they waited for him to reply.

  “You shouldn’t be kicking at people’s doors,” he said. “Could get you in trouble.”

  “Where’s the family who lives here?” Taya said, looking past his figure into the dark house.

  “They’re dead,” the man said.

  Taya stared.

  “What?” she asked.

  “City guards came.”

  Taya’s heart began to pound.

  “They found them.”

  Her pulse quickened, nausea rooting deep in her stomach.

  “Killed them. Said they were afflicted.”

  Jarard’s grip on his sword loosened as he glanced down at the city guard crest stitched to his surcoat. He hesitated to look back at Taya.

  “No. You’re lying.” Taya said, her voice cracking under the weight.

  “The girl who sold me the house lived. That’s it.”

  “Serene? Where is she?” Taya blurted, quicker than she could think. “She can clear this up.”

  He paused.

  “Don’t know.” He shrugged. “After what she saw, I imagine she fled the capital.”

  “Serene!” she yelled. “Are you in there?”

  He turned and stepped into the house.

  “Are they really dead?” Taya shouted, her words slipping into Barlosi before she realized it. “I can’t believe that.”

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  Jarard stiffened at the shift.

  “Ask your guard,” the man answered in the same tongue, his back to her. “Or, take it up with the Court. Not me.”

  The door shut.

  Quiet.

  She stared at the house a minute longer, as if committing it to memory.

  She straightened, wiping at the tears before they could fall. Without looking at Jarard, she turned and began walking back the way they had come.

  He followed in an uneasy silence, searching for the right words to say, but none would come..

  After a few blocks, Taya asked, “How many?”

  “What?” Jarard replied.

  “How many have been executed since the riot?”

  He hesitated. “I don’t know for certain, but from what I've heard… over two hundred.”

  “And it was legal,” she said, almost in disbelief.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Killing them. It was legal. Those who ordered it, those who carried it out—none of them will have to answer for it.”

  “Taya…”

  She didn’t speak for the rest of the journey toward the castle.

  They neared the castle gates, the skies dyed orange as the sun set in the distance.

  “Taya,” Jarard said, soft as the wind at their backs. “Are you—”

  “I’m fine.”

  Jarard knew better than to push, so he let it go.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “I wish to go to the castle library,” she said.

  “Of course. Would you like me to—”

  “Alone.” She cut him off.

  Jarard nodded. “I’ll inform Lord Damian we’ve returned.”

  “Please,” she said, her voice just above a whisper. “Keep this between us.”

  He didn’t reply, but she knew he wouldn’t betray her.

  The inner keep library could be smelled before it could be seen—old parchment, cured leather, fresh ink. She entered and walked to the far side of the room.

  Her hand hovered over the shelf littered with books of laws and codes before drifting lower. She pulled free a worn copy of The Chronicle of Thios, one of the first books Henry and Thera had given her.

  The cover was cracked along the spine, cool beneath her fingers.

  Henry had placed it in her hands when she was ten years of age. Thera sat beside her that night, guiding her through the longer words with quiet patience.

  She turned the pages as if they could shatter at any point, stopping at the chapter titled, Thios’s Migration From Daelora.

  The illustration of sailing ships caught her breath. Serene used to trace the ships with her finger and swear they would follow the same route one day. Theon would laugh as if he had already sailed it.

  A tear dropped onto the page.

  She straightened, blinking the rest away.

  The book closed.

  She held it tight against her chest, lingering for longer than intended, then slid it back into place.

  Her gaze lifted.

  Codexes and statute books stared back at her.

  Above those, a darker layer of dust clung to thicker spines, set just out of reach.

  Taya narrowed her eyes.

  Philosophy. Frameworks.

  She had never handled them before. None had ever crossed her desk.

  Still, she dragged a chair over.

  Reaching for the tomes and manuals, Taya stretched, pulling titles down at random.

  On the Selection of Sovereigns.

  The Narrow Crown.

  Inheritance of a Kingdom.

  They felt older than expected. Older than the Court of All.

  She flipped one open.

  The ink was faded, the letters written tighter than modern literature.

  The ascent shapes the ruler; the crown merely reveals him.

  She read it once.

  Then twice.

  The chair creaked beneath her weight as the castle bells tolled, a signal Nia’s Watch had begun.

  Act Three

  Dim light lit the corridors as she dragged herself to her room. She stood outside the door for minutes, drawing slow, steady breaths. She smoothed the pain from her face and straightened her posture.

  When their parents vanished, Randal had asked the same questions again and again, as if asking would change the answer. His voice had broken into sobs.

  He slept in her arms.

  She watched.

  With one last breath, she entered.

  Randal lay on his cot, chest rising with each inhale.

  Taya sat at the edge of his bed and nudged him awake.

  “What is it?” Randal murmured.

  “Are you awake enough to talk?” she asked.

  “Aye.” Randal pushed himself upright, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. His gaze settled on her face. “Is everything alright?”

  Taya looked away from him as she spoke.

  “Henry,” she started. “Thera.”

  Randal leaned closer.

  “Theon. They’re gone.”

  He blinked.

  “Do you mean…?”

  Taya nodded, preparing for him to collapse.

  His face sank, growing still.

  “How?”

  “Afflicted.”

  Randal tightened his jaw, tears brimming in his eyes.

  “Serene?” he asked.

  “Missing,” she said, afraid her voice might break.

  He stared at the wall for a while before lying back down.

  She waited for the questions to spill the way they once had.

  But they didn’t.

  She turned away.

  In the dark, where he couldn’t see her, she let her tears fall.