Constantine's POV
Constantine's jaw tightened as the Rex's words echoed in his mind.
Sacred Creatures.
He hadn't misheard. The Rex had said it plainly, as if invoking ancient power was no different from ordering wine at supper. But Constantine had read the old texts, the ones gathering dust in the archives that no one bothered to open anymore. He knew what those words meant. What they cost.
Benedict fell into step beside him as they exited the council hall. "You went quiet in there."
"The village near the Diseptum," Constantine said. "The one on the border."
Benedict raised a brow. "What about it?"
"There are rumors. Sightings." Constantine stopped walking and turned to face him. "I need you to go. Talk to the people living there. Find out if there are still accounts of the Sacred Creature of Fire."
Benedict studied him for a moment, then nodded. He knew better than to ask questions Constantine wouldn't answer. "I'll leave tonight."
Constantine watched him go, then turned toward the road that led back to the mansion.
The mansion loomed against the darkening sky, its windows like hollow eyes. Constantine pushed through the front doors without announcing himself.
He didn't get far.
Vanriche stood in the foyer, arms crossed, leaning against the bannister as if he'd been waiting. His dark hair was slicked back, his coat immaculate. Everything about him was precise. Controlled.
Constantine's footsteps slowed.
"Cousin," Vanriche said. The word dripped with something far from affection.
Constantine gave a curt nod and moved to walk past him.
"Tomorrow is the last day of the month."
Constantine stopped.
"You remember what that means," Vanriche continued, pushing off the bannister. "Lock yourself in. I don't want a repeat of what happened in the east wing."
Constantine said nothing. His fingers curled at his sides.
"I'll have food sent," Vanriche added, waving a hand dismissively. "Something to keep you... sustained."
"The women from the pub again?" Constantine's voice was flat. "I've grown tired of them."
Vanriche's eyes narrowed. "Spoiled. You've always been spoiled."
Something dark flickered across Constantine's face. He turned slowly, squaring his shoulders to face his cousin fully. "Spoiled," he repeated. "Is that what you call it?"
"What else would I call it? You're handed everything. Given allowances no one else in this house receives. And still, you complain."
Constantine stepped closer. His voice dropped, but the edge in it sharpened. "Maybe if you had treated me like family instead of a dog you keep chained in the cellar, things would have gone differently."
Vanriche's glare could have cut glass. "Enough."
"Is it?" Constantine didn't back down. "You've hated me since the day I arrived. Every scrap of decency I've had to claw for myself. So don't stand there and call me spoiled when you've never once—"
"I said enough." Vanriche's voice cracked like a whip.
Silence stretched between them, thick and suffocating.
Vanriche exhaled slowly, composing himself. When he spoke again, his tone was colder. More deliberate. "The Rex has made his intentions clear. He's no longer hiding it."
Constantine's anger didn't fade, but he forced himself to listen.
"He wants to find the remaining Wielders," Vanriche said. "One or two, however many still exist. Summon the Sacred Creature. And from it, acquire the Santelmo weapons."
Constantine's stomach turned. "He's insane."
"He's the Rex." Vanriche's expression didn't change. "Sanity is a luxury he doesn't need."
"And you're going along with this?"
Vanriche was quiet for a moment. Then: "He also spoke of Berfin."
Constantine frowned. "What about it?"
"Liberation." Vanriche met his gaze. "He intends to free it from the Empire."
The words hung in the air. Berfin had been under Imperial control for decades. The idea of liberating it was either revolutionary or suicidal. Possibly both.
Constantine searched his cousin's face for something—doubt, hesitation, anything. He found nothing.
"And what do you get out of this?" Constantine asked quietly. "What did he promise you?"
Vanriche's jaw tightened. For a fleeting second, something human passed through his eyes. Then it was gone.
"The house's rank has been elevated," he said. "Our standing at court is higher than it's been in three generations."
"That's not an answer."
Vanriche turned away, moving toward the staircase. "The marriage to Sakeia has been confirmed."
Constantine went still.
Sakeia. The only princess of the South of Kordiya. A political alliance that would bind their house to one of the most powerful bloodlines on the continent.
"Congratulations," Constantine said. The word tasted like ash.
Vanriche paused on the first step, his back to Constantine. "Lock yourself in tomorrow. I won't remind you again."
He climbed the stairs without another word, his footsteps fading into the silence of the upper floors.
Constantine stood alone in the foyer, the shadows lengthening around him. His hands were still clenched at his sides. The anger hadn't left—it never really did. It just sank deeper, settling into his bones like an old wound that refused to heal.
The Sacred Creatures. The Wielders. Santelmo weapons.
The Rex was playing with fire he couldn't control. And Vanriche, for all his cold pragmatism, was letting himself be pulled into the flames.
Constantine exhaled slowly and turned toward the west corridor, toward the room where he would seal himself in tomorrow night.
Whatever was coming, he couldn't stop it. Not yet.
But he could prepare.