The checkpoint at the entrance to Heard County was more rigorous than any border crossing Eric had ever seen.
*They take security seriously here,* he thought, adjusting the hood of his traveling cloak. He presented his identification badge—not the one belonging to the Duke of Brant, but a secondary set belonging to his commander, Chester.
“Mr. Chester of the Brant household?” the guard asked, squinting at the crest.
“Yes,” Eric replied, his voice low and roughened by years of silence.
“Remove your hood, sir. Territorial law.”
Eric frowned. He could have slipped through the shadows of the forest, but he was here for intelligence, not an assassination. He pulled back the hood, revealing his striking, golden features.
The guards stiffened, their breath catching in their throats. For a moment, the bustling gate went silent.
“I... I see,” one of the soldiers cleared his throat, his face flushing. “I understand why you cover your face, sir. You’d cause a riot in the marketplace looking like that.”
“Can I pass?” Eric asked, pulling the hood back into place.
“Yes, sir. Welcome to Heard.”
As Eric stepped through the gate, a luxury carriage pulled out of the courtyard, heading toward the main road. The window was open, and for a fraction of a second, the light caught the profile of the woman inside.
Eric froze. His heart didn't just beat; it slammed against his ribs like a caged bird.
“...Cornelia?”
The word was a whisper, lost in the noise of the city. He stared at the retreating carriage, his eyes searching the dark interior. The woman had golden hair, not black, and her face was partially obscured by a black lace veil. She was dressed in the somber, heavy mourning clothes of a widow.
*It can't be her,* Eric’s rational mind screamed. *She’s dead. You’re seeing ghosts because you’ve spent five years living among them.*
He let out a hollow, self-deprecating laugh. He’d chased a dozen "lookalikes" across the Empire, only to find strangers with the same tilt of the head or the same shade of purple in their eyes. This was just another phantom born of his own desperation.
*That was Countess Hurd,* he told himself. *The Emperor’s favorite. Focus, Eric. You’re here to find out why the Emperor is so obsessed with this place.*
But as he watched the carriage disappear into the distance, he noticed something else. Six figures, moving with the silent, lethal efficiency of professional killers, were trailing the carriage from the shadows of the tree line.
*Assassins,* Eric noted, his eyes cooling.
His hand moved to the hilt of his sword, but then he stopped. Marquis Philippe was in that carriage. The man was a veteran of the Imperial Guard; he could handle a few mercenaries. And besides, Eric had no business involving himself in the Emperor’s political messes.
“Let the old man’s dogs handle their own fleas,” Eric muttered, turning his back on the road and heading toward the center of the city.
***
Inside the carriage, I leaned back against the cushions and closed my eyes.
Leaving Damian behind had been the hardest decision I’d ever made. He’d cried until he nearly fainted, and it had taken all of my willpower not to turn the carriage around. But the capital was a viper’s nest.
Marquis Philippe had reported the Emperor’s failing health, but the letter I’d received from **Barakiel** was even more concerning.
[My lady, I have confirmed that firearms are circulating in the capital. They are crude copies of my designs—likely the work of a defector or a thief. The rebellion is arming itself.]
If the capital was on the verge of civil war, Damian was safer in Heard County. Sardin was now a near-Transcendent, a man whose Aura could shred a dozen knights in a heartbeat. He and the trained guard would keep my son safe while I dealt with the Emperor.
I looked at Janet, who was sitting across from me. She was quiet, her hands folded in her lap, her expression one of perfect, dutiful boredom.
*You’re staying right where I can see you, Janet,* I thought. *No messages to your master today.*
***
In the capital, Archduke Reinhardt was staring at a map of the East, his face a mask of cold, controlled fury.
“Duke Brant has left for Heard County?” Reinhardt asked, his voice a low, terrifying rasp.
“Yes, my lord,” his assistant stammered. “Ivan is tracking him, but the Duke is moving fast. We believe he followed Marquis Philippe.”
Reinhardt slammed his fist into the table, the wood splintering under his strength. “That idiot! If he finds her... if he even sees her face...”
He had spent five years waiting. Waiting for the legal declaration of death. Waiting for the moment Cornelia would be "free" so he could sweep in as her savior. He had placed Janet by her side to isolate her and ensure that the child—that "obstacle"—could be removed when the time was right.
“And now this,” Reinhardt muttered. “The Marquis of Arguin has sent assassins to 'intimidate' her. The man is a fool. He’ll only succeed in drawing Eric’s attention.”
He turned to his assistant, his golden eyes burning with a sudden, lethal inspiration.
“Send a message to Ivan. He is to reach Heard County immediately. He is to assassinate the child while the Duke is in the city.”
Reinhardt’s smile was a thing of pure, unadulterated madness.
“And make sure he leaves behind enough evidence to frame Eric Lennon Brant for the murder. I want Cornelia to see her husband’s crest on her son’s shroud. I want her to hate him so much that she’ll crawl to me for vengeance.”
He walked over to a mirror and began to adjust his cravat, his face transforming from a mask of rage to one of kind, sorrowful concern.
“I’m going to the palace,” Reinhardt whispered, his reflection smiling back at him with a terrifying, hollow warmth. “I have a widow to comfort.”