Genevieve preferred to travel without escort.

  There was rarely anyone she could tolerate as travel companions besides her two apprentices.

  And Auric, she thought with a longing, forlorn smile. But those days are gone…

  The road from the capital to the Edelyn barony wound through sparse woodland and low hills silvered by moonlight. She had dismissed her carriage at dusk and taken to the trees alone, her black cloak blending into the night as easily as breath into wind.

  When she finally chose to camp, it was not out of fatigue.

  It was calculation.

  In her world, there were too many hidden dangers. She could never be too careful.

  A small, smokeless fire crackled beneath a warded canopy of branches. Her mask—lacquered and pale, expressionless—reflected the faint glow. To any wandering eye, she appeared almost vulnerable.

  The night answered her patience.

  Three shadows detached themselves from the treeline behind her.

  They moved well. Too well. Silent. Precise. No snapped twigs. No displaced gravel. Even their breathing was swallowed by the dark.

  Genevieve did not turn.

  Her fingers idly adjusted the hem of her glove.

  The shadows crept closer.

  Then she spoke, voice calm and unhurried.

  “Is it true?”

  The three figures stiffened.

  “You three were caught?”

  A ripple passed through the darkness.

  [Hidden Curtain]

  The nearest shadow peeled away from itself like shed skin. Black wisps unraveled into smoke and dispersed, revealing a woman kneeling on one knee.

  Tarea bowed low, her dark hair falling forward.

  “My apologies, Master. Young Lord Lucon somehow saw through our hidden blessings.”

  The other two shapes stepped forward as their concealments faded.

  Genevieve turned and her gaze settled on Tarea.

  She had trained the girl personally—drilled her in patience, in silence, in the art of becoming absence. Tarea lacked Julie’s natural affinity for shadow, but she was meticulous. Disciplined. Reliable.

  She did not make mistakes.

  And yet.

  Genevieve's gaze shifted to the two men standing behind her apprentice. Garet, broad-shouldered and restless, his fingers twitching at his sides. Brodier, older, calmer, his face a mask of professional blankness.

  Garet blurted, "The Young Lord Lucon must be using a Demonic Curse!"

  Genevieve’s eyes narrowed slightly at Garet.

  A Demonic Curse was a perverse imitation of a god’s blessing.

  It granted strength—terrible, unnatural strength—but devoured its host in exchange. Flesh withered. Minds fractured. Lifespans shrank to a handful of years.

  “It would explain how he can see through your hidden blessing,” Genevieve said evenly. “We will have to find a way to reveal it if that is the case.”

  Garet nodded, eager to justify himself.

  “We also saw strange goings-on around Edelyn Manor.”

  Brodier shifted uncomfortably. “We aren’t supposed to meddle in Lord Auric’s affairs.”

  All three turned to their leader.

  Genevieve had already turned away from them, her masked face tilted toward the night sky. The stars above were cold and indifferent.

  “It was a pact made by the four of us,” she said. “Auric. Niles. Warren. And myself. That we would not interfere in one another’s work.”

  Tarea straightened slightly. “It leaves quite the hole in our information network.”

  Garet shook his head eagerly. “This doesn’t have anything to do with the four of you, Hidden Matriarch. A man with a scar was caught transporting far too many Mana Crystals. And when we were freed, he was somehow also freed—despite not being in the same cell as us!”

  Still watching the stars, Genevieve murmured, “Interesting…”

  Tarea hesitated.

  “I also saw something unusual. Niles’s right-hand man—he arrived in secret to the Edelyn manor, bloody and beaten—”

  “Why were you spying on Master Viscero?” Garet cut in instantly. “We aren’t supposed to meddle in his dealings!”

  Tarea flinched but did not lower her gaze. She looked past Garet, past Brodier, fixing her eyes on her master's masked profile.

  The Hidden Matriarch remained silent.

  “Garet is right—” Genevieve began.

  “They mentioned the Eternal Line.”

  Garet shot up to his feet. "Just because you're her apprentice doesn't mean you can interrupt the Hidden Matriarch!"

  "I don't meddle in Niles's affairs," Genevieve said, her voice firmer now.

  Tarea lifted her chin. "They mentioned the Midnight Watch."

  Genevieve spun around.

  But she faltered.

  Garet had Tarea by the throat.

  “What are you doing, Garet?” Genevieve said. “Release her.”

  He did not move.

  “Garet.”

  The word was soft yet it held the quiet promise of retribution.

  Garet seemed to have to force himself to release Tarea. She staggered, coughing, but remained upright.

  Genevieve stood very still.

  Even masked, her subordinates could feel it—the shifting thoughts. The invisible gears turning behind the porcelain face.

  “This isn’t good,” she murmured.

  She turned toward the dark road.

  “We have to get back to the Edelyn barony.”

  [Fleeting Shadow]

  Their bodies thinned into silhouettes, flattening against the earth before stretching forward like ink poured across parchment. They became streaks of darkness racing through the forest, movement granted by their hidden blessings.

  Trees blurred past. Roots and stones offered no resistance.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  They moved for several miles.

  Then Genevieve stopped so abruptly that the shadows behind her nearly collided into her form.

  She solidified.

  Turned.

  “Where are you going, Garet?”

  A flicker of hesitation.

  Garet had angled slightly away from their trajectory.

  He paused.

  “I’m sorry,” he said smoothly. “I was momentarily confused.”

  Brodier frowned. “Didn’t you come from Teleris, Garet? You were introduced to the Hidden Matriarch through Niles…”

  Garet scoffed. “What does that have to do with anything?”

  His hand moved faster than thought.

  A dagger flashed through the air toward Genevieve’s heart.

  [Hidden Ghost]

  The blade passed through her.

  Her body flickered—translucent, insubstantial—as if she were made of smoke.

  The dagger embedded itself in a tree behind her.

  Genevieve reformed.

  “So,” she said softly, “you’ve been working for someone else this entire time, Garet?”

  Tarea stared in disbelief. “How could you? After all we’ve been through?”

  Garet simply shook his head. “Power is all that matters in this world and I wanted some for myself.”

  Brodier’s face tightened. “Hidden Matriarch, this can only mean…”

  Genevieve exhaled slowly.

  “I see. You work for Niles, is that it? My friend has betrayed me? After all these years…”

  Garet did not answer.

  Instead, he drew two daggers—one in each hand.

  Tarea scoffed. “You think you can beat my Master with your skills, Garet?”

  Garet smiled.

  It was wrong.

  Too wide. Too many teeth.

  [Curse of Desire]

  A soft pop echoed in the stillness, like a wine cork loosed in celebration.

  Then the air changed.

  A scent bloomed around them—sickly sweet, thick as nectar left too long in the sun. It coated the tongue and slid into the lungs like warm syrup. Not acrid. Not abrasive.

  Inviting.

  Genevieve staggered half a step before catching herself.

  Tarea pressed a hand to her temple. “Is it poison?”

  Brodier swayed, blinking rapidly.

  His eyes widened.

  “Is that…me?” he whispered.

  Genevieve turned toward him, her vision swimming at the edges.

  Brodier’s expression shifted from confusion to awe.

  “I—I’ve become the Hidden Patriarch!” he gasped. “I have the kingdom’s secrets at the tips of my fingers! Every noble’s weakness—every merchant’s ledger—I can see it all!”

  Genevieve frowned behind her mask. “What are you talking about, Brodier?”

  The scent thickened.

  Tarea let out a breathy laugh and began to sway, arms lifting as if she were reaching through invisible curtains.

  “Gold…” she murmured dreamily. “I am rich. Richer than anyone in the kingdom! I can practically swim in it…Piles and piles of gold…!”

  Her fingers moved as though sifting through coins.

  Genevieve’s own heartbeat quickened.

  The forest seemed to soften. Edges blurred. Sounds dulled into distant echoes.

  She forced her gaze toward Garet.

  He was still smiling.

  But his skin was wrong.

  It had become pink and smooth, almost slippery, like oil. His lips swelled into a violet shade. His eyes sparkled like cut diamonds beneath moonlight, refracting silver into prismatic glints.

  He looked raw, as if he had been turned inside out and polished.

  But then he vanished.

  Tarea’s laughter cut off.

  Brodier’s triumphant murmuring ceased.

  Both of them were gone.

  Genevieve whirled in every direction.

  The trees stood quiet and ordinary once more.

  The sickly sweet scent lingered.

  A figure emerged from behind an ancient oak, stepping into the faint glow of the waning moon.

  Genevieve’s breath caught.

  Broad shoulders. Familiar stance. The silhouette she had known for decades.

  “Auric?” she whispered. “Is that you?”

  He smiled.

  That smile.

  The one he used before negotiations. Before risks. Before promises that changed the course of the kingdom.

  She had missed it.

  She had missed him.

  She took a step forward before she realized she had moved.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked softly.

  His smile warmed, softened into something almost tender.

  “Why else?” Auric said gently. “You get lonely on trips alone—but you hate being around others. I thought I might join you.”

  He stepped closer.

  “At least you can somewhat tolerate my presence.”

  A faint flush rose beneath her mask. She was grateful for its concealment.

  “You truly know me too well, my friend,” she replied. “But we have to get back to your barony—”

  Auric shook his head.

  “I’m not going back.”

  Her head tilted, confused.

  “I left Mabel.”

  Genevieve stilled.

  The world felt smaller. Quieter.

  Auric stepped into her space.

  "I was blind. I had a queen of shadows at my side, a woman who conquered Teleris with me, and I turned my back on her. I threw away a lifetime of loyalty just to be wed to a village girl whose only notable skill was basket weaving. I’m done pretending she is enough. She was never you."

  Before she could retreat, his hand rose.

  Her pulse spiked.

  She tried to lean back, but his other hand caught her arm—firm, steady.

  “Auric—”

  He lifted her mask.

  She reached to stop him, but a part of her held back.

  The lacquered porcelain came away in his hand.

  Cool night air brushed against her bare skin.

  He studied her face with slow, deliberate reverence.

  Then he smiled.

  “I knew it,” he said softly. “You’re still as beautiful as the day I met you.”

  ***

  Lucon was still.

  But not his thoughts. His hand remained pressed to Klara’s chest, but his mind was elsewhere, deep within the impossible geometry of the [Glyph of Brotherhood]. Lines folded into meanings, meanings into concepts, concepts into rules that did not belong to mortals.

  He was reading.

  Not letters.

  Principles.

  A rooster crowed in the far distance.

  The sound broke his concentration.

  Lucon blinked.

  His pipe had gone out.

  The sky had changed.

  The deep blue of night had softened into violet, then rose, then gold. The sun peeked over the horizon like a curious eye. Somewhere nearby, doors creaked open.

  The barracks.

  Guards shuffled out, yawning, stretching, rubbing their limbs feeling the nip in the air. A few paused when they noticed the training yard still occupied.

  Lucon realized they had been standing there all night.

  Klara hadn’t moved.

  Not once.

  In her discipline, in her silence, she had simply…allowed him to do whatever it was he was doing.

  Impressed, he thought, she stood there like a statue…

  Lucon withdrew his hand.

  Immediately, Klara stepped back, covering her chest momentarily before dropping her hands.

  The Flow swirled around her—uncertainty, tension, fear—and buried beneath it all, a trembling thread of hope.

  “…Did you figure anything out?” she asked.

  Her voice was steady.

  Her emotions were not.

  Lucon stared at his own hand, [Glyph of Brotherhood] dormant.

  “I saw things I don’t understand.”

  The ways of the divine were layered. It was like trying to read an ancient book written in a language no one spoke anymore. The patterns were clear, but giving them meaning was something else entirely.

  He could try to use the divine glyph instead of simply studying it but that would only invite Herephyn’s unstoppable wrath.

  Klara’s shoulders sank.

  The fragile hope in the Flow flickered, beginning its slow, painful plummet.

  Lucon turned to face her. “I need to go to a Warfaring Temple. I need access to its archives.”

  Klara frowned with uncertainty. “What for?”

  “You’ll get stronger through the Warfaring God,” Lucon said, as if stating a simple fact. “But first, I need to see what he offers.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Why do you speak as if the Warfaring God is a merchant selling wares? And what could you possibly do if you find something he ‘has’?”

  Lucon’s lips curved into a familiar, reckless grin. “Your family has been devoted followers of his for centuries. I’m sure he’ll be more than willing to part with something.”

  Her uncertainty deepened.

  Confusion then followed when Lucon extended his hand toward her.

  She stared at it.

  “…What is this?”

  “It’s time,” Lucon said, his grin softening into something more charming. “Time to show my father that I’ve started to become upright and noble.”

  Klara looked at his outstretched hand for a long moment.

  Then, hesitantly, she placed hers in it.

  He clasped it lightly.

  Together, they stepped into the manor.

  The corridor stretched ahead, morning light slanting through tall windows to paint golden rectangles across the stone floor. Servants moved quietly along the walls, bowing as the Young Lord passed.

  Klara walked half a step behind him, her thoughts visibly tangled. She glanced at him, then ahead, then down at their joined hands.

  They turned a corner and stopped.

  Niles Visciro stood in the center of the corridor, his portly frame impeccably dressed in merchant finery.

  His eyes slid to Lucon first.

  Then briefly to their joined hands.

  He smiled.

  "Ah, Young Lord Lucon," Niles said. "And Lady Klara. What a pleasant surprise."

  Klara stiffened, offering a respectful bow. “Master Viscero.”

  Lucon felt it in the Flow—the subtle currents of animosity, the carefully controlled hatred beneath the pleasant mask. Niles was a coiled serpent wrapped in silk.

  “Master Viscero,” he grinned.

  Niles’ gaze lingered on Lucon’s face.

  “I must commend you,” he said lightly. “Not only did you manage to frame Genevieve’s subordinates as assassins…you also framed my men who went to free them.”

  Klara’s head shifted slightly toward Lucon.

  Niles continued conversationally, as though discussing the weather.

  “They are locked up as we speak. Quite the development.”

  Lucon shrugged casually.

  “I am not without my tricks.”

  Niles chuckled humorlessly. "No. You certainly are not."

  He began walking.

  Lucon matched his pace without invitation, still holding Klara’s hand. She hurried slightly to keep up, caught between them.

  "I am about to inform my father," Lucon said casually, "that my betrothed and I are bound for Teleris. It seems we are going the same way."

  Niles did not look at Klara. His focus remained fixed ahead, on the study door growing larger with each step.

  "I have no doubt the audit on your friend Peytr will also come out clean," Niles mused. "Especially after that...coincidental Mana Beast attack. Such perfect timing. Distractions everywhere."

  Klara’s confusion deepened. She looked from Niles to Lucon, trying to decipher what hidden war was being waged in polite tones.

  Lucon's smirk widened.

  “There’s no need to admire my work so coyly, Master Viscero. Sing my praise openly. I deserve it.”

  Niles chuckled again without meaning it, slight tension in his jaw.

  “Praise? No. Praise is for the victor and this game is not over yet.”

  They reached the heavy double doors of the study.

  Voices carried from—Auric's warm, commanding tone, and Warren's measured, precise responses. The familiar rhythm of old colleagues debating affairs of the barony.

  Lucon reached for the handle.

  Paused.

  The Flow stretched to every corner of the study. No one else.

  No Genevieve, he noted. And I haven’t sensed her subordinates in the shadows.

  Lucon’s smirk returned in full.

  He stepped aside and gestured politely.

  “After you, Master Viscero.”

  Niles inclined his head and entered.

  Inside, Auric stood near his desk, Warren across from him. Both men turned as the door opened.

  Niles did not waste time.

  He stepped forward into the room’s center.

  “My Lord,” he said smoothly, bowing. “I have grave concerns.”

  Auric’s eyebrows lifted, “This early in the morning?” He caught Lucon coming in next. “Son? You’re safe…” He breathed out in relief but it would not last long.

  Niles gestured toward Lucon.

  “I believe Young Lord Lucon is cultivating Mana Crystals in the Wilderwood.”