LOGINRedholt rebuilt faster than Halenshire.
Not because the damage was less—it wasn't. The fires had spared more buildings, but the scars ran deeper here. Corinne had been their leader, however flawed, and her death had left a wound that wouldn't heal with timber and stone.
But the people worked.
The first blow came without warning.Damian's fist collided with the heavy oak door. Once. Twice. The wood shuddered but held. His knuckles split, blood smearing across the grain, but he didn't feel it."Please, Rowan—"The words died in his throat.His hand flew to his chest, clutching at something invisible, something inside. His breath came in ragged gasps, his vision blurring at the edges. The bond was screaming. Rowan was screaming. He couldn't tell which was worse.He turned to Lucian, his face pale, his eyes wide with something that looked like drowning."Open it."
Lucian walked fast.Too fast.He was not a man who hurried. He had never been a man who hurried. He observed, calculated, moved when the moment was right. He did not run toward uncertainty with his heart in his throat and his mind spinning possibilities he could not control.And yet here he was.His boots struck the stone floor in quick, sharp rhythm. The corridors blurred past. The guards stepped aside without being asked.He was worried about Rowan. That was the truth of it, the sharp edge beneath all his careful reasoning. Rowan was still recovering. Physically, he was better—not healed, never fully healed, but better. His color had returned. His appet
Sereia walked through the corridors of the Vitale castle with the measured stride of a woman who had walked through enemy territory before.She knew where she was going. Not because she had ever been invited into Helena's study. Not because she had ever set foot in this wing of the castle before today.She knew because she had studied the maps. The blueprints. The layouts of every room, every corridor, every possible entrance and exit. She had pored over them in the dark, in the years when the Vitale heir was young and vulnerable and the Cross conspiracy was still taking shape.She had helped plan the assassination that killed Helena Vitale.She had wanted the heir dead.
The study was coming together.Rowan stood back to admire the new arrangement—the desk angled toward the window, the chairs pulled closer to the hearth, the books sorted by color and height and some secret system that only made sense to him. It was warmer now. Brighter. Less like a tomb.Beth was dusting the shelves, her movements practiced, efficient. She hummed as she worked, some tune her daughter had taught her."How old is she now?" Rowan asked.Beth smiled. "Six in the spring. She's already asking for a pony.""Are you going to get her one?""Absolutely not." Beth's voice was firm, but her eyes were soft. "Maybe when she's older. When she can take care of it herself."Rowan grinned. "That's what my mother said. I got the pony anyway.""What happened to it?"Rowan's grin faded, just a little. "It died. When I was fourteen. Old age." He shrugged. "I buried it in the back field. My father helped me dig the grave
The Mercer territory had rebuilt itself with the same fierce efficiency that characterized everything Sereia Mercer touched.The border walls were stronger than before. The fields had been cleared, ready for spring planting. The soldiers had been retrained, reequipped, redeployed. The estate itself gleamed with fresh stone and new timber, the scars of battle carefully erased.Life had returned to normal.Except for the absence at its center.Cassian Mercer stood at the entrance of the estate, watching the road that led to the capital. He had been watching it for two months now, hoping for a messenger, a rider, a sign.Sereia had been patient. Longer than anyone expected. She had thrown her
The study was quiet, the fire burning low in the hearth. Damian sat at his desk, staring at the papers before him without seeing them. His quill had dried hours ago, the ink a faint stain on the parchment where he'd stopped mid-word and never resumed.Lucian stood in the doorway, watching.He knew that stillness. He'd seen it before, in the early days after Arabella vanished, in the long nights after the cave, in the moments when Damian's mind slipped away from the present and into the past.Thinking about what could have happened. What should have happened. What he had no power to change.Lucian cleared his throat."The timber from Valdris is being transported directly to Redholt," he sai
Alessio’s voice came out sharp, immediate—protective in the way only family could be when the threat wasn’t a blade but a sentence.“Rowan Mercer is still unst
The Mercer territory did not look like a battlefield anymore — but it still felt like one.Stone by stone, breath by breath, Sereia Mercer moved through it like a storm that had learned patience.Rebuilding was already underway.Broken walls were being measured, not mourned. Burned fields were mark
Edric Holt did not look impressed.“The Dravens,” he repeated slowly, tasting the name like it might be counterfeit. “You expect us to believe one of the oldest, most insular families
Damian didn’t waste the quiet.“Lucian,” he said, already moving, already done waiting. “I want every family contacted. Personally. No letters passed through clerks, no softened







