The safehouse nestled in the Whispering Woods was a far cry from their razed cottage, but after two years on the run, the family had carved out fragile peace. Amara’s laughter now rang through the moss-draped clearing, her bare feet leaving tiny imprints in the dew as she chased fireflies.

  Liam knelt by the brook, his reflection rippling as he practiced mana suppression. The water stilled under his command, mirroring the moonlit sky. Control, Mara had drilled into him. Power without control is a death sentence.

  “Liam! Look!” Amara toddled toward him, fists clutching a glowing moth—a harmless illusion he’d conjured earlier. Her left palm, swaddled in silk to hide the dormant Mark, brushed his cheek.

  “Beautiful, little storm,” he murmured, though his chest tightened. Each day, her magic grew harder to contain.

  Inside the hollowed oak they called home, Lilia sharpened daggers with grim focus. “You’re overdoing the wards,” she said as Mara etched fresh runes into the doorframe.

  “They’ll come again,” Mara replied, her voice fraying. “The Inquisition doesn’t forget.”

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  Elric entered, a freshly slain boar slung over his shoulders. “Enough gloom! Tomorrow’s Amara’s birthday. Let’s celebrate while we can.”

  The declaration hung like a dare.

  The Feast

  Dawn brought frenzied preparation. Lilia hunted wild strawberries while Elric carved wooden animals for Amara’s gift. Mara wove flower crowns, their petals shimmering with minor glamours.

  “Help me, Liam!” Amara tugged his sleeve, her eyes pleading. “Want sparkles!”

  He obliged, conjuring prismatic lights that danced around her flower crown. Her giggles almost drowned out the voice in his head: They’ll sense this. You’re reckless.

  As twilight fell, the family gathered at a moss-cushioned table. Amara clapped as Lilia presented a honey-glazed cake, its candles flickering in the breeze.

  “Make a wish, little storm,” Mara whispered.

  The woods stilled. Even the wind held its breath.

  Hoofbeats.

  Elric’s hand flew to his axe as a rider emerged—not an Inquisitor, but a silver-haired man astride a ghost-pale stallion.

  “Peace, son,” Archduke Adrian Vallis called, dismounting. “I come bearing gifts, not blades.”

  Amara squealed, sprinting toward him. “Grampa!”

  Liam froze. How did he find us?

  Adrian swept Amara into his arms, his sapphire cloak swirling. “Two years old! Why, you’re practically a queen!” His gaze met Liam’s. “And you—taller than the pines!”

  Elric’s jaw tightened. “You shouldn’t have come.”

  “Nonsense.” Adrian produced a music box that played constellations. “What grandfather misses his heir’s awakening?”

  Heir. The word slithered through the gathering.