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They’d stood together before I was born, as civil war swept through Sangratha, nearly tearing the realm apart. My father had negotiated peace and risen to become Sangratha’s new regent. He’d restored order, ended the war. The realm adored him. As a result, my family had always been the target of scrutiny. I’d grown up with the attention, but I’d never felt comfortable with it. Our words were dissected, our clothes and our friendships whispered over in salons and great halls. Every smile my mother gave, everything Marcus or Aenia or I did … It was all something the realm felt entitled to judge—or, worse, print stories about.

You’d think having a son like Marcus would have spelled trouble for a father who’d been labeled a Peacebringer, but to highbloods, Marcus’s wild behavior was more natural than the new way of restraint that my father preached. The realm loved Marcus. Newspapers and periodicals printed stories about his exploits, speculating over his clothes, his friends, who he was fucking. My mother had told me that when I started attending Bloodwing, I’d be facing much the same thing. I’d been sheltered in the small private boys’ academy I’d been attending, and my privacy had been protected there. But at Bloodwing, more would be expected of me.

My father turned to my mother. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything.”

“Never,” my mother replied lightly. “Just a little mother–son talk.”

My uncle eyed me like a hawk. “Blake had better get used to a less indulgent existence that doesn’t involve his mother leading him everywhere by the hand.”

My mother bristled, but my father just laughed. “I don’t recall my time at the academy being uncomfortable. Quite the opposite.”

“There is nothing soft about this family,” my mother said coolly.

My uncle ignored her, his eyes still on me. “You’ll learn soon enough. That school your mother has you at is hardly a fitting place for a Drakharrow, a little country academy where the gentry send their boys. Bloodwing is different. That academy is a proving ground. Next year you’ll be surrounded by the best youth in Sangratha from only the noblest houses. Their heirs will test you, challenge you, leap on weakness the moment you show it.”

My jaw tightened. “I don’t intend to embarrass our family when I attend Bloodwing, Uncle.”

I glanced at my mother—but she wasn’t looking at me. And then I saw it. There in her eyes, for just a heartbeat.

Fear.

It passed over her so quickly she’d almost managed to hide it. My father was smiling down at her. His hand had settled at her waist in a familiar, possessive way, and he was murmuring something softly that was meant only for her. She smiled perfectly in response. But it was too late. I’d seen the look in her eyes when she’d looked up at him.

My chest clenched. I idolized my father. I’d grown up believing him to be the best highblood in the world, the man who could end wars and bring peace. The man my mother truly adored. So why was the fear there? Why did she hide it, buried like a seed, beneath the performance of her affection? I stared at my father, hardly noticing my uncle’s gaze as it slid to mine.

I’d always feared Viktor; that was nothing new. But now for the first time, I wondered what my father the Peacebringer was really capable of. Something my mother had once said to Aenia and me now came back to me as a chill went down my spine. “Righteous men are the most dangerous. They care nothing for blood on their hands if a goddess can wash it off again.”

Chapter 16

MEDRA

I visited Professor Wispwood’s class once. She told us a story about a highblood who had forcibly bound his soul to a mortal mage. The mage found a way to separate their souls using a forbidden ritual.” I paused. “It worked. Sort of.”

Visha’s brows lifted. “Define sort of.”

“The vampire was destroyed. The mage survived but her mind was shattered. She lived the rest of her days in madness.”

The silence that followed felt heavy. I looked down at the object lying between the three of us on the floor. On the face of things, it was far too small and insignificant for what it really represented. Which was, of course, life and death.

“Are we insane to be trying another blood ritual?” I finally asked.

When Theo spoke there was, for once, no humor in his voice when he said, “Completely.”

“That’s not reassuring.”

“No,” he agreed, his voice mild. “But neither is waiting for Blake to starve to death or for Vorago to do something else truly awful.”

I flinched at the dragon’s name. After today, I hoped I’d never have to hear it again.

Theo tilted his head slightly. “Didn’t Professor Wispwood also tell you that you’d failed her magic tests?” I nodded. “And yet,” he went on, “you woke a cursed dragon. And transferred your mother’s soul to a dagger. You survived the Consort Games. You survived Blake nearly …” He cleared his throat and looked awkward. “Well, nearly killing you.”

“That was probably all because of Orcades,” I pointed out. “She never lost her powers. Or because of Blake’s blood. Not because of me.”

Theo didn’t look convinced. “Maybe. Or something is blocking your abilities. Something you’ve buried. Or suppressed.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“Could your mother have wanted you to think you’d lost your powers when you arrived in Sangratha? Not erased them—just hidden them? Even from yourself?”