The high-backed velvet chair felt more like a cage than a seat of honor. Valerian Morcant gripped the edge of the mahogany table, his knuckles turning a porcelain white that matched the fine bone china in front of him.“Val, seriously. You’re gonna snap the wood,” Caelum whispered, leaning in just enough that his shoulder brushed Valerian’s.Valerian didn’t look at him. He kept his eyes fixed on a singular floating speck of dust dancing in the light of the crystal chandelier. “I’m fine. I’m totally zen. I’m a mountain. Mountains don’t move.”“Mountains also don’t have magic that turns entire rooms into confetti when they get pissed off,” Caelum shot back, his voice low and rhythmic. “Deep breaths. In for four, out for eight. Remember what we practiced in the courtyard.”“The courtyard didn’t have three hundred people waiting for me to mess up,” Valerian muttered, finally letting go of the table. He wiped his palms on his trousers. “And the courtyard didn’t have him.”Caelum glanced do

The morning sun bled through the high, arched windows of the Morcant estate’s private conservatory, but Valerian didn’t feel the warmth. He felt the buzz. It was a low-frequency hum vibrating in his molars, a sign that the "glitter incident" from the night before hadn't fully drained his reserves. If anything, the magic felt agitated, like a caged animal that had tasted the air and didn't want to go back in.“You’re sweating, Valerian,” Master Leontius Grimward remarked, his voice like dry parchment scraping against a desk. He didn't look up from his ledger. “A Morcant doesn’t sweat over a simple manifestation exercise. Or have we moved past the era of dignity and into the era of... what did the Queen call it? ‘Luminous debris’?”Valerian wiped his brow, his fingers trembling. “It was an accident, Master Grimward. I was provoked.”“The elements don't care about your hurt feelings,” Leontius snapped, finally looking up. His eyes were milky with age but sharp enough to pin Valerian to h

The air in the alley didn’t just vibrate; it screamed. Valerian’s vision tunneled, the silver armor of the approaching guards warping into liquid mercury under the sheer pressure of his aura.“Valerian, wait!” Isolde’s voice cut through the roar. Her hand clamped down on his, her fingers digging into his palm. “Don't kill them! If you shed blood here, there’s no coming back!”“They’re trying to take you,” Valerian growled, his voice sounding like two grinding tectonic plates. “I’m not letting them touch you.”“Then don't let them!” Isolde shifted her grip, sliding her hand up to his wrist. “Ground it! Don't push out—pull in! Make the world stop, not break!”Valerian let out a jagged breath. He looked at the lead guard, whose sword was already mid-swing. Pull in, he thought. Be the sinkhole, not the mountain.The discharge was silent. A wave of translucent, honey-thick energy rippled outward. The guards didn't explode; they simply froze. One moment they were charging, and the next, the

The heavy iron bolt screamed as it was thrown back, and the door to the wine cellar flew open.Osric Blackthorne stood there, framed by the flickering orange light of a dozen torches held by the Royal Guard. Behind him, the hallway was a sea of polished silver armor and judgmental whispers. He didn't move at first; he just stared into the cramped, dusty room where a bottle of 1884 Port was currently hitting a high C, accompanied by the frantic, rhythmic tapping of three hundred corks against their glass necks."What in the name of the Seven Suns is this?" Osric’s voice was like a whip crack, slicing through the operatic swell. "Is that... is that a soprano? From a bottle of Valenthian Red?"Valerian slowly let go of Isolde’s hands, his face burning a color that rivaled the wine. "It’s a vintage. Very expressive. You wouldn't understand, Osric. You don’t exactly have a taste for the finer things.""I have a taste for sanity, Morcant," Osric stepped into the room, his boots crunching on

The static was still a low, jagged thrum behind Valerian’s eyes when the first light of dawn began to bleed through the heavy curtains. He hadn’t slept. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt the ghostly warmth of Isolde’s hands and the terrifying weight of Mirabelle’s words: She’s your executioner.A sharp, insistent rhythmic rapping at his door broke the suffocating silence of the room."Val? You decent? I’m coming in whether you’re dressed or not."Renald Curseborne didn't wait for an answer. He pushed the heavy oak door open, his usual easy-going smirk replaced by a look of frantic intensity. He was holding something wrapped in a piece of stained velvet.Valerian sat up, rubbing his face. "Renald? It’s barely dawn. If this is about the wine bottles from yesterday, I already told my father—""Forget the wine, Val. Look at this." Renald tossed the velvet bundle onto the bed. "Found it in the servants' quarters. Behind the coal chute in the West Wing."Valerian unwrapped the cloth. I