Elana clenched her jaw, forcing herself to meet the duke’s gaze with an unflinching certainty she didn’t feel. Of the many things her mother had taught over the years, the importance of hiding her weaknesses and presenting a strong front was the most significant. Marlena’s words echoed in her ears, ‘Even to a trained eye, the absence of weakness will always interpreted as the presence of strength.’ 

“I do, Your Grace,” Elana said, her hands balling into white-knuckled fists beneath the table. Her nails carved neat crescents into the meat of her palms. 

Had Tobias, Brienne, Marcella, Rhys, Dion, or even Antoine felt prepared? What did he expect from her if even they—

Something hit the other side of the grand dining room’s doors with a bang. By the time Elana realized what the noise was, the duke and duchess were already on their feet, half-formed spells in hand. 

The air was heavy with her father’s magic, a thick and oppressive and terrifying presence that threatened to choke out all of the oxygen in the room. A maelstrom of dark energy swirled in the palm of his hand, a whirling, crackling sphere of jagged lightning and destruction. If Elana weren’t so accustomed to it, the tangible pressure it created would have been enough to break her out in a cold sweat and blank her mind with fear. 

At Marlena’s bidding the harmless potted plants lining the windowsills exploded into a monstrosity of thick, thorny vines, forming an immediate barrier between the family and who, or what, was on the other side of that door. 

Seeing that, Elana relaxed into her chair. She didn’t need to get to her feet, let alone scramble for a way to protect herself. This was as routine an event as any in the Vanquise estate. How many times had their meals been interrupted by assassination attempts? She couldn’t begin to count. And, in all those times, she had yet to see a threat that the duke and duchess couldn’t decimate in the blink of an eye.

Elana lifted her teacup back to her lips, taking the opportunity to compose herself. Jarring as the initial interruption had been, she was thankful for the momentary reprieve. If she was lucky, Gerard would be too distracted to resume his aggressive line of questioning after the intruder was dealt with. Based on past experience, this moment of respite would last no longer than a handful of minutes. Loath as they were to allow her any combat training, both of her parents were skilled combatants. 

Elana peered through her mother’s barrier at the grand mahogany double doors as they were thrown wide open. They swung open with enough vigor to slam against the walls. Hard. Paintings rattled and teetered precariously. At the far side of the room, a mirror fell and shattered. 

A woman that Elana had never seen before stood between the open doors, a knight’s limp body in her left hand and a sword in her right, teeth bared in a vicious snarl. The deep crimson and carmine of her eyes and hair put the splatter of blood smeared across her face to shame, but there was a glint in her eyes that didn't make her look wholly sane. 

In fact, nothing about her did. Elana had yet to see anyone or anything capable of standing up to her parents, but there was something deeply unsettling about the intruder. 

A chill that only her parents had ever been able to inspire in her crept up Elana’s spine. Should she have taken this more seriously?

The stranger’s face was as beautiful and delicate as any noblewoman’s—and it was bisected laterally and vertically with deeply etched, razor straight scars that no court woman would possess. The right side of body, all the way up to just beneath her jaw, was covered in a network of white burn scars. 

In the woman’s right hand was a broadsword that didn’t match her physique. They were usually reserved from the burliest of knights who, even then, needed both hands to lift them. But this stranger was, while not petite, of average build and stature. There was no reason that she should be capable of wielding that weapon. 

Nor was there any indication that she should be strong enough to lift a grown man’s body in one hand—let alone a knight in full-armor. 

“Down, Valkyrie,” someone commanded, his voice accompanied by a strong undercurrent of exasperation. 

The stranger dropped the knight’s unconscious body on command, stopping in her tracks. 

“It can’t be…” Gerard said underneath his breath.  His expression darkened as he looked past the wild-eyed, blood-spattered intruder. Yet instead of moving into action, both of her parents stood, rooted in place.

Elana heard the stranger approaching long before he entered her line of sight. The sound of his boots hitting the tile floors in the hallway beyond grew louder and louder, until he finally set foot in the grand dining room. 

Marlena gasped into her hands, dropping her spell. The barrier collapsed, the mutated plants shrinking back down to fill their decorative pots, transforming back into unassuming house plants. Elana stiffened and pushed her chair back from the table, finally getting to her feet and backing up until she was parallel with Marlena. Something wasn’t right.

The man standing next to the wild-eyed, crimson-haired woman—the one he had called Valkyrie—had a familiar yet unfamiliar face. The two of them looked to be about the same age, neither could have been older than thirty. 

But the man was easily the duke’s height, perhaps even taller. And, from the jewel gold of the intruder’s eyes to his raven-black hair, his coloring was the spitting image of Gerard de Vanquise. The only difference was, while his facial features did resemble Gerard’s, they were also juxtaposed with the cold, elegant beauty of Marlena’s. To Elana’s knowledge, any siblings she had were either long dead or expelled from the family.  

Elana glanced sideways at her mother, who was frozen in what she could only presume was shock. 

“You must be Elana, then,” the man’s voice cut through the room. “I haven’t seen you since you were a few years old.”

Elana stiffened under the scrutiny of his deep ochre gaze. There was no hostility in his eyes, but neither was there any warmth—and the combination of that and the intensity with which he was studying her had her palms breaking out in cold sweat. Who?

Elana edged uneasily towards her mother’s side without answering the all-too-familiar looking intruder. To her relief, the stranger’s attention shifted back from her to her father as the duke stepped forward. 

The sphere of dark energy in Gerard’s hand continued to grow and crackle ominously. “What are you doing here?” he asked, turning to Marlena, eyes narrowed. “Marlena,” Gerard said, his voice filled with accusatory indignation. “I’m certain I told you to cut all contact with him.”  

The duchess shook her head, her lower face still hidden behind her hands. “I did.” There was the faintest hint of a tremor in Marlena’s voice and her eyes were visibly misty—this was the least composed she’d ever seen her mother. 

What was the appropriate thing to do, in a situation like this? She had no doubt that Gerard would keep them safe, but what could she offer? Elana’s hand hovered over Marlena’s shoulder. Her best instincts—deeply buried—told her to pat the duchess’ shoulder, but she couldn’t see how that would be remotely comforting. 

Instead, Elana inched a few steps closer, angling herself between Marlena and the intruding party. Perhaps partially obstructing her mother’s view might give her some relief. 

The duke’s attention shifted back to the stranger when it was clear Marlena had no more to offer on the matter. The air in the room shifted, growing colder as the swirling darkness in the palm of his hand continued to grow. Jagged lightning sparked from its center, illuminating the room in flashes of white and amethyst as it crackled. 

“Antoine.” Gerard’s voice was ice cold. “I told you that if you dared to come back, I would be forced to return you to the Maker. I pray you have a good reason for daring to show your face.”

Antoine? Her oldest brother, more than ten years her senior, the banished heir? Elana’s eyes widened, snapping to the sibling she had only ever known by his name and outdated portrait.

“Rest easy, Your Grace. You’ll find no evidence of my presence here once I leave. I took great great pains to cover my tracks on my way from the Tower,” Antoine said, crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m here on unofficial business as Antoine de Vanquise, not as a representative of the Magic Tower or the Academy.” 

The gears in Elana’s mind came to a dead stop. What? Her oldest brother was a representative of not only the Academy, but the Magic Tower? An organization that the King’s resources could only equal and not surpass?