Novels by Martius Rayne

Moonlight glazed the black-marble courtyards of Castle Veilridge, turning the banners of Thornvale and Viremonthe into twin silver flames. The Grand Conclave had begun.Leo Drazan adjusted the silver clasp of his cloak and scanned the ocean of nobles and guards flooding the courtyard. He hated spectacles. Tonight, his father’s eyes would measure every move, every breath. And Anna, always perfect, always watching - rested her manicured hand on his arm like a jeweled shackle.“You look like a man walking to his own funeral,” she said lightly.“Maybe I am,” Leo murmured.Anna’s lips curved. “Then smile. The dead don’t frown in portraits.”Before he could answer, the Conclave’s opening bell tolled - a deep, throbbing sound that rolled through the castle and out to the jagged cliffs beyond. Delegates began to move toward the Moonlit Bridge, the ceremonial span connecting Thornvale’s wing of the fortress to Viremonthe’s. Neutral ground. Sacred stone.Leo’s pulse kicked. He didn’t know why u

The room carried a light mix of metal and roses - Anna’s favorite scent, picked to feel welcoming and threatening all at once. Golden wall lamps threw shaky firelight across smooth stone walls as a midnight draft slid through. At the head of the black stone table, Anna Drazan sat perfectly straight, her deep red silk dress spreading like spilled blood around her chair. She flipped a slim dagger in her fingers, the blade catching the light with every turn.Across from her, Owen Tucker lounged with the ease of someone who never feared the room he was in. Six-foot-two, broad-shouldered, a shirt unbuttoned just enough to suggest the confidence of a man who knew he was being watched. His deep voice rolled across the room like soft-rumble thunder.“You sent for me at midnight,” he said, leaning back. “Either you’re bored, or someone’s about to bleed.”Anna’s smile was a blade. “Perhaps both.”The door thudded shut behind the last departing guard. Silence folded in.“You’ve seen them togethe

The Grand Conclave unfolded like a slow-blooming storm. Castle Veilridge rose from the hills of the neutral zone covered in mist, its blackstone towers laced with silver wards that shimmered under moonlight. Tonight the ancient fortress belonged to no single kingdom, neither Thornvale nor Viremonthe. Tonight it belonged to the ceremony. Leo Drazan stepped out of the Thornvale carriage into a night steeped with cold and expectation. Dark velvet cloak trailing, he inhaled the mountain air that smelled sharp, like pine trees after rain, with a weird hint of something old and magical. His father’s entourage flanked him like shadows. Behind them, musicians tuned stringed instruments that hummed with enchantments. His mind, however, was far from the music. That dream again - the fire, the flames evermoving skyward, the phantom woman whispering a name that wasn’t his. Marcus, always Marcus. “Prince Leo.” Anna’s voice cut into his thoughts like a knife of honey. She stepped down graceful

Cris hated diplomatic events almost as much as he hated ballroom shoes. He stood stiffly at the marble balcony of Castle Veilridge, a silver goblet in one hand, his dark curls tousled by the wind. Below, the Grand Conclave’s opening ceremony buzzed with the polished laughter of royals and council members from both Thornvale and Viremonthe. Fire lanterns floated upward in ceremonial display, bathing the starlit skies in amber and gold. “Tell me again why I agreed to this?” Cris muttered. Lori, standing beside him in a crimson sash and ceremonial armor, leaned on the balustrade. “Because you like drama. And also, because your mother threatened to cut off your monthly wine shipments.” Cris rolled his eyes. “Blackmail in velvet gloves.” “You’d do the same if you were queen.” “Which is why I’m not.” He took a sip of bloodwine, letting the bitter notes linger. “This place reeks of old secrets.” “You mean history,” Lori said, then raised a brow. “Though yeah, probably secrets too.”

The rope dug into Marcus’s wrists, rough and unrelenting. Flames licked at the edges of the pyre, close enough that he could feel the heat beginning to sear his boots. He didn’t flinch. Across from him, bound to the same wooden stake, Mia’s hair whipped in the wind like a banner of defiance. Her dark eyes held his. No tears. No fear. Only fire. Soldiers lined the square, their armor glinting under the blood-orange sun. Nobles watched from balconies above, silent as tombs. The high priest recited ancient rites, calling their love heresy. The crowd murmured, hungry for an execution. “Marcus Vel Drazan,” the priest thundered, “loyal son of the Crown, warrior of Thornvale, accused of treason.” “Mia Orven,” he continued, his voice sharp as steel, “scholar of the rebel province Viremonthe, accused of sedition, sorcery, and corrupting a royal heir.” Gasps. Spat curses. Even a few stones tossed from the edges. Marcus’s lip curled. “They’re scared of us.” “They should be,” Mia muttered.