"So you are the bastard that claims to be family," Alaric spat, his words venomous and sharp, as soon as the door had closed. 

The Marquess' cane struck the ground with a resounding crack, a punctuation to the tension that vibrated through the chamber. 

"You will not address her with such language, Alaric." His reprimand was a thunderclap, silencing his son.

“Bastards are illegitimate children,” I said coolly, my tone sharp enough to cut, “but my parents were lawfully married. Or are you suggesting my mother had me out of wedlock?” I arched a brow at Alaric, daring him to continue his thinly veiled insult.

I had tried—truly tried—to remember Lord Abernathy’s advice to not take Alaric’s barbs personally. But that resolve had lasted about three seconds before I’d opted for a different approach: verbal violence.

Alaric’s gaze sharpened, his icy glare slicing through me before he turned back to his father with an air of indignant defiance.

“How can you accept her so easily—”

“Look at her eyes,” the Marquess interrupted, gesturing toward me with a steady finger.

“That proves nothing,” Alaric growled, his tone brimming with barely contained frustration. “I don’t have the Kildare green eyes, nor do my children. Are you implying we aren’t your blood?”

The Marquess sighed heavily, the weight of his years etched into his weary expression. “You know the rules of succession for this family,” he said, his voice measured but firm. “You accepted them at your coming-of-age ceremony.”

Alaric’s jaw tightened, his composure slipping as desperation tinged his words. “Edith is pregnant. This time, the child could—”

“Even if that were the case,” the Marquess cut in with the authority of someone used to being obeyed, “she is still the eldest. She would still be the successor.”

His declaration hung in the air like a judge’s gavel, final and unyielding. But Alaric wasn’t ready to let it go. His voice rose, tinged with desperation. “There must be another way to prove with certainty if she’s a Kildare. Other than her eyes, she doesn’t even look like us!”

He was right. 

Though my eyes were the signature Kildare green seen in all the portraits of past Marquess', everything else about me—from my high cheekbones, the rich umber hue of my hair, and the warm bronze of my skin—told the story of my father’s heritage, of lands distant and customs foreign to the aristocratic lineage of the Kildares.

Alaric pressed on, his gaze sharp and searching, "The king possesses an artifact, the Sanguine Chalice, said to reveal the blood ties of those who place their blood in it. We can use it to ascertain her claim."

The Marquess regarded his son, his grey eyebrows knitting together as he considered the proposition, while I felt the breath catch in my throat.

"Very well," the Marquess conceded, the words slicing through the tension like a blade. "We shall seek the king’s indulgence and put the matter to rest."

Once that decision was made, the Marquess dismissed us both from his study, claiming he had a lot of work that he needed to complete undisturbed. 

Alaric’s cold glare seared into my back as we departed, his heavy boots echoing in the grand hall. I felt Eamon’s presence beside me before he even spoke, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. 

“Seems like he likes you less than when he arrived," he teased. 

“Alaric’s feelings are the least of my concerns,” I muttered.

"I believe you have to refer to him as Lord Kildare," Eamon corrected me as he noticed the maids had heard my comment.

"Don't I hold a higher status than him?"

"Not until you formally receive the title of successor."

"Hmm," was all I answered as my thoughts were already preoccupied with the Sanguine Chalice.

Eamon stepped beside me, his brow furrowed in contemplation as I relayed the details of our meeting with the Marquess.

“It makes sense that he would want definitive proof you are his kin when you have stolen his succession. We will have to be on guard in case he tries to pull anything at the palace.”

I paused mid-stride, realization dawning upon me. 

“The palace...” My voice trailed off. 

How had I not foreseen this? 

I had been so preoccupied with the thought of the chalice that the reality of visiting the palace had slipped my mind.

“I hadn’t even considered that we’d have to travel there.”

“Ah, my dear Luci,” Eamon drawled, his tone dripping with teasing amusement. “So delightfully naive. Did you honestly think the King would send a magical artifact to the Marquess’ estate?” His lips quirked into a grin, the kind that always managed to set my nerves aflame, both with irritation and something harder to name.

I bit my lip, trying to ignore the heat creeping up my cheeks. “You’re right,” I admitted reluctantly, my voice barely above a mutter. “But why would they keep a magical artifact in the palace at all? Isn’t this kingdom supposed to be staunchly opposed to magic?”

Eamon leaned closer, his gaze locking onto mine with an intensity that sent a shiver down my spine. “Opposed to witches, Luciana,” he corrected gently, his voice softening. “Artifacts, elixirs, ancient spells—they still have their uses. But witches?” He gave a low, ironic laugh. “Witches can’t be dominated or controlled, and that makes them dangerous. Too dangerous for those who cling to power.”

His words hung heavy between us, the unspoken reality of what I was—and the dangers that came with it—pressing against my chest. Still, the thought of venturing into the heart of a kingdom that had hunted my kind to near extinction only fueled the flicker of curiosity in me.

“Do you think I could explore their library while we’re there?” I asked, my eyes bright with the possibility of uncovering secrets long buried within the palace walls.

Eamon let out an exaggerated sigh, running a hand through his tousled hair in mock exasperation. “Books on magic? In the stronghold of those who’ve spent centuries purging your kin? Truly, Luciana, your self-preservation instincts are astounding.”

I crossed my arms, lifting my chin in defiance. “They wouldn’t know what I’m looking for. I’ll feign an interest in the kingdom’s history. Artifacts, ancient texts—whatever they’d believe from a visiting scholar.”

Eamon raised an eyebrow, his skepticism palpable. “And the Marquess’ own library? That treasure trove isn’t enough for you?”

“It’s not about enough,” I retorted, my voice firm. “It’s about finding what’s missing. What’s been deliberately erased.”

His gaze softened just a fraction, though the smirk never left his lips. “And you’ll outwit an entire court of scholars and spies with that stubborn little gleam in your eye?”

“If I must,” I replied, the edge of a smile tugging at my lips.

We reached the Marquess’ library, its sprawling shelves of leather-bound tomes seeming to stretch into infinity. My fingers itched to reach for them, but I steeled myself, a plan forming in my mind.

“I’ll need to see what’s absent from here compared to the imperial archives,” I muttered, more to myself than to Eamon.

He shook his head, his amusement apparent. “You’re seriously planning to peruse this entire archive? With what? Sheer willpower?”

Instead of replying, I raised my right hand, the skin glowing faintly emerald as the first whispers of an incantation formed on my lips. A spell to locate the texts I sought would save time—and, with any luck, avoid suspicion.

Eamon’s reaction was immediate and predictable. He smacked a palm against his forehead, groaning theatrically. “By the gods, Luciana. You’ll be the death of me.”

“Then at least you’ll go down entertained,” I shot back, my smirk matching his.

Despite his exasperation, I caught the way his lips twitched, fighting a smile he wouldn’t let me see. Whatever trouble I stirred, I knew he’d always be at my side, ready to follow me straight into the fire—and pull me out of it when it inevitably blazed too high.

Our exchange was cut short by the creaking of the library door. The glowing aura subsided, and my hand returned to its natural hue as Hawthorne stepped inside. He bowed respectfully. 

"Lady Kildare, lunch is served. If you would kindly follow me."

Eamon and I exchanged a glance, noting our peculiar direction—away from the dining hall.

"The Marquess has requested you dine in the garden today," Hawthorne informed us, sensing our confusion.

Hawthorne guided us along a path where the late spring bloom held dominion. Azaleas blushed in vibrant hues, bees buzzed with industrious enthusiasm, and the air was perfumed with the scent of roses and jasmine.

At the garden’s heart stood a gazebo. Wisteria climbed the pillars, their lilac blossoms cascading like waterfalls from the eaves. Inside, a table awaited, adorned with fine linen and porcelain that glinted beneath the sun’s scrutiny. Already seated, the sight of the Marquess surprised Eamon and me, as he had said he wouldn't attend earlier. The meeting with Alaric must have changed his mind.

The meal proceeded in a tense ballet of cutlery and occasional attempts at small talk, which died quickly under the weight of the Marquess’ disinterest. Finally, the head butler returned, his steps as silent as the falling petals from the wisteria above. He gathered the plates and, at the Marquess’ command, instructed the maids to bring tea.

“Luciana, let us speak of the chalice,” he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you ever heard of it?"

"No, I haven't," I lied. I had heard of it and various other magical artifacts, but admitting to that would only cause suspicion.

“Of course not. Why would you know of the chalice in Nimrea?” the Marquess said, his voice calm, measured, but carrying the weight of a lesson. “It is a relic of profound power. When our blood mingles in its cup, it reveals truth through color. Red for kinship. Black for falsehood.”

My heart raced, imagining such an artifact, ancient and absolute in its judgment. “How does something like that even exist?” I asked, unable to keep the curiosity from my voice.

The Marquess allowed a small smile, a flicker of intrigue breaking through his usual reserve. “Its origins are shrouded in legend,” he admitted. “The stories contradict each other so thoroughly that scholars can’t agree on what’s true. But why do you ask?”

His question caught me off guard, a sharp twinge of panic sparking in my chest. Quickly, I masked it with feigned nonchalance. “Back home, magical artifacts only exist in fairy tales. It’s fascinating to see a real one. Do you have books on them here?”

“Curiosity suits the learned,” the Marquess replied, his expression softening ever so slightly. “I keep books on such artifacts in my study. I’ll have some sent to you.”

As the head butler approached with tea, the Marquess rose from his chair. His work awaited, yet he hesitated, his gaze holding mine with an intensity that made me feel like he was searching my very soul.

“Thank you for the company, Your Lordship,” I said, bowing my head slightly, my gratitude genuine.

“Grandfather,” he corrected gently, his voice dipping into an unexpected warmth.

I blinked, taken aback.

“From now on, call me grandfather,” he clarified, his gaze steady. “I require no artifact to recognize my own blood.”

His smile—a quiet, tender thing—bridged the distance between us for a fleeting moment before he turned, issuing a string of commands that sent the remaining staff scattering. I was left alone, grappling with the unexpected weight of his words.

Minutes stretched on, the silence of the room wrapping around me like a fragile cocoon. As my fingers reached for the ornate teapot, Eamon’s hand intercepted mine, his grip firm yet gentle.

“Allow me, my lady,” he said, his tone uncharacteristically formal.

I raised an eyebrow, withdrawing my hand as he took over, pouring the amber liquid with a precision that felt entirely out of place for him. Suspicion flickered in my mind, mingled with curiosity.

“Since when do you know how to pour tea like a head butler?” I asked, my voice light but edged with a hint of hurt.

Eamon’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Observation,” he said simply. “One learns much by watching, especially in a place like this.”

I studied him, the familiar ease between us suddenly feeling like a fragile thread. Memories of simpler days, untainted by titles and expectations, flashed through my mind.

“Luciana,” Eamon said softly, breaking through my thoughts.

I looked at him, startled by the shift in his tone. He gestured toward the garden, its vibrant blooms a sharp contrast to the weight hanging over my heart.

“Have you ever seen flowers like these?” he asked, his voice quiet but earnest.

“Never,” I admitted, the word barely a breath.

The moment lingered, the air heavy with unsaid words, until Eamon cleared his throat. “So,” he said, his tone light but probing, “no magical artifacts in Nimrea? What of the Scrying Glass?”

I shot him a look, knowing full well he wasn’t letting my earlier comment slide. “Few even know it exists, and besides, it’s been lost for centuries.”

“Lost,” he repeated, his voice carrying a teasing lilt as he poured himself a cup of tea. “What if it’s here? In Aurorea?”

The thought sent a thrill through me, my mind racing with possibilities. “What if you’re right?” I said, leaning forward. “The palace must have a trove of artifacts. They could have the Scrying Glass.”

Eamon’s expression darkened, his playful demeanor slipping away like a mask. “We’d best hope they don’t.”

The sudden seriousness in his tone made me falter. “Why not?” I asked, bristling slightly. “I wouldn’t use it. I know better than that.”

“I know you wouldn’t, Luci,” he said, his voice steady. “But tell me—what other name does the Scrying Glass go by?”

I hesitated, searching my memory. “The Far-Seer Mirror.”

“And?” Eamon pressed.

My breath caught as the answer surfaced. “The Witch’s Eye.”

Eamon nodded, his expression grim. “And it activates in the presence of a witch. Just like many other magical artifacts.”

The realization hit me like a punch to the gut. The very idea of setting foot in the palace, surrounded by objects that could betray me, now seemed impossibly reckless. The excitement I had felt only moments ago ebbed away, leaving a cold knot of dread in its place.

Eamon watched me, his gaze steady and unyielding. “We need to tread carefully, Luciana. This place isn’t like Nimrea. One misstep, and—”

He didn’t need to finish. I nodded, the gravity of his words settling heavily on my shoulders. The palace loomed in my mind now, no longer a treasure trove of possibilities, but a labyrinth of dangers waiting to ensnare me.