Theron walked the ornate corridors of the Caelvaris mansion with Kael at his side, their footsteps softened by the plush runner beneath them.

The passage leading toward the study was less a hallway than a solemn gallery of the family’s legacy, lined from end to end with relics that seemed to breathe of age, pride, and power. Framed portraits of archdukes and archduchesses watched from the walls with severe, knowing eyes, their gilded frames catching the light from the chandeliers above.

Between them stood glass cases displaying ancestral blades, ceremonial medals, and rune-etched tokens earned through centuries of service to Greenvale.

Everywhere Theron looked, the Caelvaris name had been preserved as if it were a sacred inheritance. The mansion itself seemed built to remind anyone who entered that this family had not merely lived in the kingdom; they had helped shape it.

Their greatest honors were displayed with almost devotional care: plaques commemorating military victories, seals of office, and lacquered tablets recording the many ways their fire-bending bloodline had served the crown.

The long corridor glowed with the warm reflections of crystal chandeliers overhead, each one cut so finely that the light splintered across the marble floor in soft golden shards. Beside them, luminous crystals were set into carved wall sconces, their steady radiance bathing the hall in a fire-like sheen that made everything appear richer, deeper, more expensive than it already was.

The air itself carried the weight of wealth and lineage. It smelled faintly of polished wood, old parchment, candle wax, and the lingering heat of the mansion’s enchanted hearths.

Lavish draperies hung in deep, royal folds near the windows, while the walls were paneled in dark, expensive wood that had been polished until it reflected the light in muted, honeyed tones.

Even the silence here felt curated—disciplined, proud, and absolute. It was the kind of place that did not merely house a powerful family. It announced them, in every crystal shimmer and every gilded edge, as though the mansion itself had been forged to honor the fire that ran in their veins.

Kael scoffed quietly at the sheer pomp displayed in a single corridor. The Archduchess made them walk through this to show the prowess and history of her family, but Kael could only roll his eyes.

For someone like him, the place was almost offensively perfect—too many shadows, too many recesses, too many places for a man to disappear and become nothing more than a rumor in the dark.

Foolish people!

"Sire," he murmured, leaning slightly closer to Theron. "You smell like ash and fire. Shouldn’t you change first?"

What his people had reported was clear enough. The cotton fields had been perfectly fine until a flash of light struck them. Not lightning, since there had been no thunder, no storm rolling in from the horizon.

Just light. Bright, unnatural, and merciless.

It had burned where it landed, and even the fire-bending guards stationed there had been unable to stop the blaze once it spread.

While everyone rushed to contain the fire in the fields, the storage houses had gone up as well, as though the flames had been waiting for the right moment to devour everything at once.

Kael might have been willing to believe it was some cruel act of the gods, if he wanted to. But then the reports he received had changed his perception.

No workers had been harmed. Not a single one. Only a handful of guards had suffered burns, and even those were minor. One of them had sworn, almost in disbelief, that something—someone—had pulled him away from the flames just before they swallowed him whole.

Kael’s eyes slid toward Theron.

The faint scent of smoke clung to him, contained and deliberate. And that was when the last piece fell into place.

Kael exhaled softly, almost amused despite himself.

Of course. Who else could reduce a family’s lifeblood to ash... and still ensure not a single innocent life was lost?

He didn’t press further. Didn’t question it. Because if this truly was Theron’s doing, then it wasn’t destruction.

It was a message.

They entered the Archduchess’s study.

For a house that had spent centuries preaching the sanctity of bloodline and legacy, the room itself felt like a quiet contradiction.

Since time immemorial, House Caelvaris had been ruled by its patriarchs—men who guarded lineage with near-fanatical devotion. There were stories whispered even now of an old lord who had nearly let the line die out rather than pass the mantle to his capable daughter. Instead, he had taken a young bride in his final years, forcing fate to yield him a son.

That was the kind of family this was.

And yet...

Now, the seat of power was occupied by a woman who did not even carry Caelvaris blood.

The Archduke came and went like a shadow—appearing only long enough to ensure the continuation of his line before retreating once more into the depths of the Arcanum, as though the living world held no further claim on him.

Kael suppressed a laugh.

The ancestors of House Caelvaris would have been outraged.

Then again... they were long reduced to ash.

Perhaps somewhere, scattered to the wind, even that ash trembled in quiet indignation.

Theron stepped forward, his presence cutting cleanly through the weight of the room—shoulders squared, gaze sharp, every inch the prince he so often refused to appear as.

Behind the great oak desk, Archduchess Leone rose to her feet and offered a flawless curtsey, precise and unyielding.

"Oh, please," Theron said lightly, almost lazily. "There’s no need for ceremony. I’m here as your future grandson-in-law, not as the Crown Prince."

The words were casual.

Too casual.

Kael’s eyes flicked to the Archduchess.

Her expression did not change.

It never did.

He had heard stories—that the last time anyone had seen her truly smile was on her wedding day. That even then, it had not lasted long. The Archduke, indifferent as ever, had not even properly cloaked her during the ceremony. He had simply draped it over her shoulders and walked away, as though fulfilling an obligation rather than honoring a union.

Something in her had hardened that day.

Since then, she had become something else entirely.

Not flesh. Not warmth.

Iron.

Cold, unbending iron that no flame, no matter how fierce, had ever managed to melt.

"My condolences," Theron started.

And the door banged open.

And in rushed Lady Rosalyn, her chest heaving. Seeing Theron there, she pointed at him and started screaming.

"What is he doing here? Grandma! He did it! He caused the fire!"