The grand doors of the audience chamber felt heavier than usual as Stolas pushed them open. The formal notification had been a single, wax-sealed scroll delivered by a stone-faced imp in Conclave livery. The message was simple: "The verdict of the Lunar Conclave is ready for receipt. Attend immediately."
He did not go to the front gates. He ordered the messenger to be brought to his private receiving room—a smaller, more intimate space lined with books and astral charts, a place where he held power. He would not be summoned to his own foyer like a servant.
He sat in his high-backed chair, the sealed scroll on the obsidian table before him. He did not open it. He waited, his claws steepled, the very picture of composed royalty. The frantic prince of the last week was gone, burned away in the indigo fire of Andromalius's intrusion. In his place was the Goetia.
Octavia and Darkness were in the observatory. Via had texted him a single, blurred photo: Darkness was sitting upright, wrapped in his blanket, staring intently at a simple puzzle box she'd given him. His expression was one of deep, frowning concentration, not blank confusion. The caption read: He's working it out. Slowly.
It was more progress than any magical intervention had yielded.
The door opened. The messenger imp entered, followed not by Magister Corvin, but by a different Conclave official—an older, weary-looking vulture demon with tattered ceremonial robes. Stolas recognized him: Magister Vorne, a career bureaucrat known for his neutrality, or more accurately, his cowardice.
"Prince Stolas," Vorne rasped, giving a shallow bow. "The Conclave has reached its decision regarding the anomaly designated 'Darkness.' You may read the finding." He gestured to the scroll, clearly hoping to leave quickly.
Stolas made no move to touch it. "Summarize it, Magister. I find legal jargon so draining before my first cup of tea."
Vorne blinked, uncomfortable. "Ah. Of course. The Conclave, after reviewing Magister Corvin's report and weighing the petition of Earl Andromalius… finds the current custodial situation… suboptimal."
A careful, bureaucratic word. Stolas remained silent, his gaze unwavering.
"However," Vorne continued, sweating slightly, "the incident of unsanctioned psychic intrusion upon your household, as registered by your palace's ward-logs, has been noted as an… aggressive overreach by the petitioning party. It complicates the matter."
"How fortunate that my wards are so thorough," Stolas said dryly.
"Indeed. Therefore, the Conclave's ruling is thus: Your custodianship is provisionally upheld, but placed under a Six-Moon Probation. During this time, the subject must demonstrate 'measurable stabilization.' Any major destructive incident, or any verified failure to control a public threat, will result in immediate forfeiture of custody to a Conclave-appointed keeper." Vorne dared a glance up. "Earl Andromalius has been… admonished for his methods, and his petition is temporarily suspended. He is not, however, barred from reapplying should your probation fail."
Stolas absorbed the information. It was a stay of execution, not a pardon. A political compromise that saved face for all parties—and left him dangling over the abyss. Andromalius was scolded but not stopped. The threat was merely postponed.
"I see," Stolas said finally. "And the definition of 'measurable stabilization'? Who determines that?"
"A Conclave evaluator will visit at the probation's midpoint and endpoint. The criteria will be… subjective." Vorne's meaning was clear: the fix was still in. They would be judged by a corrupt standard.
Stolas stood. "Thank you, Magister. You may convey my… understanding to the Conclave."
Vorne scurried out, relieved to be gone.
Alone, Stolas finally picked up the scroll. He broke the seal and read the cold, formal language confirming his precarious position. Then, with a precise flick of his wrist, he set the parchment alight with blue flame, letting it crumble to ash in a bronze bowl.
Probation. Evaluation. A ticking clock.
He returned to the observatory. The scene there was a stark contrast to the political frost. Octavia was on the floor, leaning against the divan. Darkness sat beside her, the puzzle box forgotten. He had one of her sketchbooks open, and was using a charcoal stick to carefully, meticulously black out every single one of the sketched demon's eyes in the image.
"He doesn't like them looking at him," Octavia explained softly. "It's… editing."
Stolas knelt before them. "The Conclave has spoken. We have six moons. After that, they will send someone to decide if he is 'stable.' If they decide he is not, they will take him."
Darkness's head snapped up. The charcoal stick snapped in his grip. The simple, focused calm shattered. The air pressure dropped. He understood "take." He looked from Stolas to Octavia, his four eyes wide with a dawning, horrified comprehension. The fight against the phantom was one thing. This was a sentence. A countdown.
"No," Octavia breathed. "They can't! He just woke up!"
"They can, and they will, unless we prove them wrong." Stolas looked directly at Darkness. "We must teach you. Not to hide your power, but to… speak with it. To show them you are not a storm, but a person who contains a storm. It will be hard. Harder than anything."
Darkness stared back. The fear in his eyes slowly morphed into something else. Something harder. He dropped the broken charcoal. He looked at his own claws, then at the ash stain on the floor from the burnt verdict. He made a low, grinding sound in his throat and pointed at the ash, then at himself, then at Octavia and Stolas. A clear, if wordless, series of connections. The bad paper. About me. About us.
Then he pointed his claw at the door, toward the unseen Conclave, and made a sharp, slicing motion through the air.
The intent was unmistakable. A vow.
They will not take me. We will cut their plan.
Stolas felt a surge of fierce pride. The child wasn't just reacting. He was strategizing. He was identifying the threat and aligning himself with his defenders. The Beast System wasn't just a power. It was an intellect, waking up.
"Alright," Stolas said, a real smile touching his features for the first time in days. "Lesson one. We start not with magic, but with meaning." He held up his hand, a small, controlled ball of star-fire glowing above his palm—a simple illumination spell. "This is 'light.' It is a tool. It does not have to be a weapon."
Darkness watched intently. He held up his own claw. A tiny, chaotic spark of raw electricity spat and fizzled between his talons, threatening to jump to the curtains.
"Gently," Octavia said, placing her hand cautiously below his, not touching. "Like the music. Steady."
Darkness frowned, his brow furrowing in immense effort. The wild spark sputtered. Then, slowly, it smoothed, lengthened, and stabilized into a small, perfect, humming arc of blue-white lightning, dancing harmlessly between his claws. It was controlled. Intentional.
He looked at Stolas's star-fire, then at his own lightning. He gave a short, firm nod.
Light.
Not just a power. A word. A concept he had chosen to master.
In that moment, Stolas knew the battle ahead would be brutal. The clock was ticking. Andromalius was wounded but not out. The Conclave was a nest of knives.
But he was no longer fighting it alone. He had a daughter with a will of iron. And he had a brother with the power to reshape reality, who had just decided that his family was worth learning a new language for.
The probation had begun. But so had their defiance. The real training—of the beast, and of the prince who would defend him—started now.