Part I: The Weight of Blood and Duty
Cassian sank into the bed, limbs splayed and tension clinging to him like a second skin. His meeting with Leontius had been the crest of a long-rising wave, and now that it had broken, all he felt was the ache left in its wake. He stared at the chandelier above, its warm orange glow refracting through the crystal like the last light of a battlefield.
"What am I going to do?" he murmured to no one, the words raw and quiet.
He thought of his father—of the quiet weariness in his eyes, the sickly pallor beneath his skin. No one else seemed to notice, content to blame it on age. But Cassian remembered. He remembered how his father had died, and the memory clawed at him like thorns. He clenched the sheets in his fists. He had to find the cure. Soon.
As for Leontius, perhaps something good could still grow from the brittle soil between them. He wasn't ready to give up.
Sleep found him only in fragments. He woke to the soft shuffling of feet in his room, a pounding headache and a feverish heat coiled beneath his skin. He cursed under his breath. He hadn't even noticed Jamie enter. That was unlike him.
"Young Master, good morning," Jamie said, already selecting his clothes for the day. "Are you ready to head to the capital?"
Cassian grunted a vague, "Good morning," too tired to manage more. Jamie, ever intuitive, understood.
The rest passed in a blur. A warm bath. Soft hands dressing him. The quiet pressure of duty wrapping around him like another layer of clothing. Breakfast came quickly, Jamie holding the door for him with a whispered, "Have a nice breakfast too, Jamie."
The dining hall fell silent the moment he entered.
His father sat at the table's head, face unreadable, silver hair catching the morning light like strands of moonlight. His eyes softened briefly, offering Cassian a small nod. Leontius sat stiffly beside him, golden hair tousled in its usual fashion, eyes sharp with unreadable emotion. Duchess Adriane, poised and cold, let her disdain gleam openly.
Tension wove itself into every bite. When it ended, Cassian was grateful.
"Father," he said as the dishes were cleared. "May I have a word?"
His father nodded. "Of course."
Leontius and the duchess rose, one clicking her tongue in annoyance, the other giving a small nod of acknowledgment before they left.
The door shut. Cassian exhaled, his shoulders loosening. He moved to sit beside his father.
"Are you keeping yourself safe?" his father asked gently, fingers curling around Cassian's arm.
Cassian nodded, afraid that if he spoke, his voice would crack. His father didn't press. Silence settled, warm and heavy. A silence that knew what wasn't said.
When it was time, Cassian joined the others outside. Three carriages, each bearing House Caerwyn's sigil, waited. He climbed into the first, joined by Leontius and the enigmatic Number One.
The journey passed quietly. Leontius stared out the window, absorbing the Capital's growing sprawl. Cassian sat back, occasionally glancing at the silent stranger beside them, his instincts humming but inconclusive.
The palace loomed, all grandeur and silent threat—a monument of Imperial authority. Cassian's breath caught for a heartbeat. So different from the ruins of Old Virelynn.
As they stepped out, a liveried butler approached.
"Young Master Caerwyn," he bowed, "His Majesty requests a private audience. Please follow me."
Cassian nodded, hiding his surprise. He glanced at his companions, exchanged a few nods, and followed.
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