Two floors below, in the subterranean strategy rooms reserved for the highest echelons of the Old Blood, the air was freezing. Empress Katerina stood over a massive marble map of the Vaelorian Empire. She looked exactly as she had six years ago—unbending, pristine, her silver hair pulled back into a severe, elegant crown. But the lines around her eyes were carved deeper, etched by years of silent, suffocating humiliation. "The Southern Garrison has pledged their absolute loyalty," Grand Duke Vane murmured, stepping out from the shadows of the war room. "And the Imperial Guard is currently rotating its captains. We have secured the loyalty of the night watch." Katerina traced a finger along the carved lines of the capital city. "The moment the Emperor breathes his last, the gates of the Obsidian Spire are to be locked. No one enters. No one leaves. Especially not the rats." Standing by the hearth, Crown Prince Caelen watched his mother. At twenty-four, Caelen was a terrifying realization of his father’s legacy. He possessed the same imposing physical dominance, the same tactical genius, and the same chilling ability to shut away his humanity. But beneath his cold exterior, a violent storm was raging. "You are planning a massacre, Mother," Caelen said, his voice devoid of inflection. "I am planning a cleansing," Katerina corrected sharply, her eyes snapping up to meet her son’s. "That woman has poisoned your father’s mind and fractured the nobility. She parades that bastard daughter, Aurelia, as if she has a legitimate claim to the throne. They are an infection, Caelen. The moment the King falls, you will take the crown, and your first royal decree will be their executions." Caelen looked away, staring into the flickering flames of the hearth. Their executions. The logical, calculating part of his brain—the part his mother had meticulously built—agreed. Guest was a parasite. She had ruined his mother's life. She was a threat to the stability of the empire. But as the flames danced, Caelen’s mind betrayed him. He did not see a parasite. He saw Guest walking through the palace gardens at midnight, the moonlight catching the arrogant curve of her neck. He remembered the cloying, intoxicating scent of her perfume when she brushed past him in the corridors, the mocking, heavy-lidded gaze she reserved only for him. For six years, Caelen had hated her. But hatred, he was learning, was a fire that burned just as hot as lust. It consumed him. He spent more time tracking her movements, anticipating her schemes, and watching her than he did attending to matters of state. She was his father’s possession, a forbidden, untouchable thing. And because she was the one thing in the empire Caelen was not allowed to have, she was the only thing he truly wanted. "Understood, Mother," Caelen lied smoothly, his face a perfect mask of aristocratic indifference. "I will prepare the royal decrees."