Chapter 7

• That night, Myriella waited until the castle had fallen silent.
• Then she changed into the ragged clothes of a commoner and slipped out through a servants' passage.
• She made her way to the Mages' Guild, to the one person she trusted without reservation.
• Her master, Jorgen.
• She entered his study quietly and settled into the chair by the fire. Jorgen poured her a glass of wine without asking.
• She took it in both hands.
• “Master…”
• She hesitated.
• “They say the woman the Emperor brought back is a witch.”
• Jorgen's hand stopped halfway to his lips.
• “Not one of ours,” Myriella continued. “Not of the Circle.”
• She lowered her voice.
• “A heretic.”
• Jorgen froze.
• The log in the fireplace cracked, and the shadows of the bookshelves trembled across the walls. The study, usually filled with the familiar scents of dust, parchment, and dried herbs, suddenly seemed heavy with something else.
• “Heretic,” he repeated at last.
• He set his wine down with a quiet, deliberate click.
• “That is a dangerous word, Princess. Especially when spoken by someone standing so close to the throne.”
• His eyes settled on her.
• “You say she is not one of us. That she has never belonged to the Circle. How certain are you?”
• “There are no records of her in the archives,” Myriella replied quietly. The cold glass chilled her fingers. “No known school. No known lineage of magic.”
• She paused.
• “She simply appeared.”
• Jorgen listened without interrupting.
• “And after she appeared, his headaches began. He is changing, Master. It's as though something is eating him from the inside…”
• Her fingers tightened around the glass.
• “…and she is the only thing that makes the pain stop.”
• Jorgen slowly stroked his beard.
• “There are magics that leave no trace in the archives. Old ones. Forgotten ones.”
• He rose, his shadow falling across the desk.
• “Or deliberately erased.”
• He turned toward her.
• “Headaches can be caused by many things. Poison. A curse. Exhaustion.”
• His gaze sharpened.
• “But?”
• “But if she is a witch…”
• His voice became quieter.
• “…then she needs a source. An anchor. Something binding her to the Emperor beyond ordinary affection.”
• He paused.
• “Hair. Blood. A vow.”
• Myriella's eyes narrowed.
• “Find the anchor, and you may find the proof.”
• “And perhaps a way to sever the connection.”
• Jorgen's expression hardened.
• “But be careful, Myriella. Hunting a witch is the sort of game in which the hunter can easily become the prey.”
• Myriella raised an eyebrow.
• “Master, you spent ten years teaching me battle magic.”
• A faint smile touched her lips.
• “Should I really be afraid of a heretic?”
• Jorgen gave a dry chuckle.
• “Battle magic teaches you to fight what you can see. Spells flying through the air. Steel flashing in the sunlight.”
• He looked at her.
• “A heretic will not fight you that way, Myriella.”
• He stepped closer.
• “She will eat your shadow while you search for her in the light. She will whisper into the ears of your allies while you sleep. She will turn your confidence into poison.”
• He walked to the window and pulled aside the heavy curtain.
• Moonlight spilled into the room, catching the dust suspended in the air.
• “I taught you strength.”
• He looked out into the night.
• “But I never taught you fear.”
• His reflection stared back at them from the dark glass.
• “And fear is her weapon.”
• He turned.
• “The Emperor's fear of losing himself. The court's fear of watching the old order collapse.”
• His eyes settled on Myriella.
• “Yours.”
• She felt the chill from the wineglass sink deeper into her bones.
• The certainty that had burned inside her moments ago cracked.
• “What should I do?”
• Jorgen did not turn from the window.
• “What I never taught you.”
• His voice was quiet.
• “Become a shadow.”
• Myriella waited.
• “Look for weakness, not strength. For silence between words, not spells.”
• He finally turned toward her.
• “Start with the Emperor's chambers. The servants who clean them. Leftover food. Discarded belongings.”
• His expression was grim.
• “An anchor will not be lying on an altar.”
• “It will be hidden among the rubbish.”
• Myriella took a sip of wine.
• “What if I do nothing, Master?”
• Her eyes moved to Jorgen.
• “The Emperor is weak. Sick. A puppet in the hands of a foreign woman.”
• She lowered the glass.
• “If this continues, people will begin to panic.”
• Jorgen slowly turned from the window.
• “If you do nothing,” he said, each word measured, “someone else will.”
• He walked back toward the desk.
• “Panic is merely the first wind before the storm.”
• His gaze hardened.
• “And storms do not merely sweep away weak kings. They sweep away entire dynasties.”
• A chill ran down Myriella's spine.
• She set the glass down.
• “The Council?”
• “The Council. The generals. Lords hungry for a marriage alliance.”
• Jorgen waved a hand dismissively.
• “They will not wait for a foreign woman to give birth to an heir, nor will they wait for the Emperor to lose what remains of his mind.”
• “They will act.”
• He stepped closer.
• “And their actions are rarely quiet.”
• “You think I can simply hide in the shadows?”
• “The shadows are the first thing a civil war consumes.”
• His eyes flicked toward her.
• “Your title. Your blood. They will either become your shield…”
• A pause.
• “…or your target.”
• “Then there is no way out?”
• “There is always a way out.”
• A cold, familiar spark appeared in his eyes.
• “But it requires cunning, not strength.”
• He leaned against the desk.
• “You can wait. But waiting does not mean doing nothing.”
• “Gather information. Find allies among those who fear the coming storm as much as you do.”
• His expression became almost amused.
• “And remember—if you want to catch a witch, sometimes you must first make her feel safe.”
• Myriella rose.
• “Jorgen.”
• He looked at her.
• “What if the Council chooses me?”
• Jorgen went still.
• Silence filled the study like fog before dawn.