Alaric’s cold glare seared into my back as he departed, his heavy boots echoing in the grand hall. I felt Eamon’s presence beside me before he even spoke, his voice carrying a hint of amusement. 

“Seems like he likes you less than when he arrived.”

“Alaric’s feelings are the least of my concerns,” I muttered.

"I believe you have to refer to him as Lord Kildare," Eamon corrected me as he noticed the maids had heard my comment.

"Don't I hold a higher status than him?"

"Not until you formally receive the title of successor."

"Hmm," was all I answered as my thoughts were already preoccupied with the Sanguine Chalice.

Eamon stepped beside me, his brow furrowed in contemplation as I relayed the details of our meeting with the Marquess.

“It makes sense that he would want definitive proof you are his kin when you have stolen his succession. I'm sure you're excited about having to go to the palace.”

I paused mid-stride, realization dawning upon me. 

“The palace...” My voice trailed off. 

How had I not foreseen this? 

I had been so preoccupied with the thought of obtaining the chalice that the reality of visiting the palace had slipped my mind.

“I hadn’t even considered that we’d have to travel there. I assumed they would lend us the chalice.”

“Ah, my dear Luci, so naive. You thought the King would send a magical artifact to the Marquess' estate?” Eamon’s tone was teasing but carried an undercurrent of sincerity.

I bit my lip, feeling foolish. 

“You are right... But why do they have a magical artifact in the palace in the first place? I thought this kingdom was so opposed to magic.”

“Opposed to witches, Luciana,” Eamon corrected gently, his gaze locked onto mine. “The Kingdom still uses magic, such as artifacts and elixirs, and even ancient spells are still in place. But unlike inanimate objects, a witch is a being that cannot be easily dominated or controlled, making them a threat to those in power.”

The prospect of venturing into the heart of a realm that hunted my kind to near extinction sparked an insatiable curiosity.

"Do you think I could explore their library while we’re there?” I ventured, my eyes alight with the possibility of uncovering long-lost knowledge on magic within the palace walls.

Eamon’s exasperated sigh cut through my reverie. 

“Why would you seek books on magic within the very stronghold of those who’ve purged your kin?”

My confidence faltered, but I clung to the thread of my idea. 

“They don’t have to know what I’m looking for. I can claim an interest in the kingdom's history and such.”

My resolve hardened as we reached the library; I would not squander this chance at the palace.

Eamon cast a dubious glance at the sprawling shelves laden with leather-bound tomes.

“Do you truly believe the King will accept such a feeble pretense knowing you have access to the Marquess' Library?”

I could feel the sting of reality nibbling at the corners of my ambition. 

“Then I must find out which volumes are absent from our collection here and present within the imperial library,” I muttered, more to myself than to Eamon.

“You plan to peruse the entirety of this archive?” he scoffed, arching an eyebrow. But I was already one step ahead, my right hand raised, the skin taking on an emerald glow as I whispered the beginnings of an incantation.

Eamon’s reaction was immediate—a palm smacked against his forehead, a gesture of disbelief and concern intermingled.

"You will be the death of me."

Our exchange was cut short by the creaking of the library door. The glowing aura subsided, and my hand returned to its natural hue as Hawthorne stepped inside. He bowed respectfully. 

"Lady Kildare, lunch is served. If you would kindly follow me."

Eamon and I exchanged a glance, noting our peculiar direction—away from the dining hall.

"The Marquess has requested you dine in the garden today," Hawthorne informed us, sensing our confusion.

Hawthorne guided us along a path where the late spring bloom held dominion. Azaleas blushed in vibrant hues, bees buzzed with industrious enthusiasm, and the air was perfumed with the scent of roses and jasmine.

At the garden’s heart stood a gazebo. Wisteria climbed the pillars, their lilac blossoms cascading like waterfalls from the eaves. Inside, a table awaited, adorned with fine linen and porcelain that glinted beneath the sun’s scrutiny. Already seated, the sight of the Marquess surprised Eamon and me, as he had said he wouldn't attend earlier. The meeting with Alaric must have changed his mind.

The meal proceeded in a tense ballet of cutlery and occasional attempts at small talk, which died quickly under the weight of the Marquess’ disinterest. Finally, the head butler returned, his steps as silent as the falling petals from the wisteria above. He gathered the plates and, at the Marquess’ command, instructed the maids to bring tea.

Once alone, the air grew even heavier, charged with unspoken thoughts. I felt Eamon’s presence behind me, a silent sentinel protecting me. The Marquess leaned forward, steepling his fingers with purpose.

“Luciana, let us speak of the chalice,” he began, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Have you ever heard of it?"

"No, I haven't," I lied. I had heard of it and various other magical artifacts, but admitting to that would only cause suspicion.

"Of course not. Why would you know of the chalice in Nimrethea." The Marquess continued, "It is a relic of profound power. By mingling our blood within its cup, it reveals truth through color. It will emit a red glow for kinship and a black glow for falsehood.”

My heart quickened as I imagined the ancient artifact, its judgment absolute and infallible. “How does such a thing come to exist?” I asked, my curiosity genuine.

“Ah, the origin of the chalice is shrouded in legend, and most of the stories on it contradict themselves, so scholars are unable to decide on which is the truth," the Marquess admitted with a rare flicker of intrigue crossing his features. “But why do you ask?”

I felt a tinge of panic at his question, so I lied again, "Back home, magical artifacts only exist in fairy tales or bedtime stories. So it is incredibly fascinating to be able to see a real one...Do you have books on them here?”

“Curiosity befits the learned,” the Marquess conceded. “I keep books on magical artifacts in my study. I will have some set aside for you.”

The Marquess pushed back his chair as the head butler arrived bearing tea. His work beckoned, yet he paused, fixing me with a look so penetrating that it felt like he sifted through my soul.

“Thank you for the company, Your Lordship,” I said, my gratitude sincere.

“Grandfather,” he corrected, his voice softening. Confusion clouded my expression until he elaborated, “From henceforth, call me grandfather. I require no artifact to recognize my own blood.”

His smile, unexpectedly tender, bridged the distance between us for a fleeting second before he turned on his heel, leaving a trail of commands for Hawthorne that sent the remaining staff away. Alone now, I grappled with the unexpected warmth in the Marquess’ parting words.

Minutes stretched taut as violin strings, and with no sign of Hawthorne's return, I reached out towards the ornate teapot. Just as my fingers grazed the handle, Eamon’s hand intercepted mine with a gentle firmness.

“Allow me, my lady,” he said, his voice laced with an unexpected formality that clashed with our usual camaraderie.

I withdrew my hand, replaced by Eamon’s as he poured the amber liquid with a precision that belied his servant’s status. Suspicion sparkled in my verdant eyes as I considered his incongruous knowledge of Aurorean courtly etiquette. The memories of our shared childhood, unbound by the oppressive chains of hierarchy, danced mockingly through my thoughts.

“Where did you learn to pour tea like a head butler?” I asked, my tone threaded with curiosity and a touch of hurt at being reminded of our different stations.

“Observation is a powerful teacher,” Eamon replied, his smile not quite meeting his eyes. “I’ve seen much, including how the nobility should have their tea served.”

I mulled over his words. If only my parents had embraced the rigid protocols of high society in Nimrea, perhaps they would have navigated the treacherous waters of the court more successfully—and maybe, just maybe, my parents would still be alive.

With a shake of my head, I tried to dislodge the haunting thoughts, but they clung like ivy to the walls of my mind.

“Luciana,” Eamon’s voice was soft, yet it easily cut through my reverie. He knew the shadows that crept in the corners of my soul, the ghosts of my past that refused to rest.

“Look at the garden,” he urged, shifting the subject. His hand gestured to the mosaic of flowers that framed our little sanctuary.

I let my gaze wander, absorbing the riot of colors.

“Have you ever seen such a variety?” Eamon’s question brought me back, his eyes reflecting the wonder of the botanical tapestry before us.

“Never,” I breathed, allowing myself to be momentarily lost in the splendor. But even as the flowers offered their silent comfort, the air thrummed with the unsaid, the unanswered, and the unknown.

Eamon coughed, pulling me back to the present with a playful tone. 

"So, no magical artifacts in Nimrea? What of the Scrying Glass?"

I rolled my eyes at Eamon; I should have known better than to think he would let my lie go unquestioned. 

"Few people know of its existence in Nimrea; it's unlikely anyone here has even heard of it. And besides, it's been lost for centuries."

"What if it's in Aurorea?" Eamon teased as he poured himself a cup of tea.

My eyes widened with excitement as I considered the possibility. 

"Eamon, what if you're right? The palace must hold a vast amount of artifacts; they very well could have the Scrying Glass."

Eamon's expression turned stern, the opposite of mine. 

"We are best to hope that they don't, Luci." I opened my mouth to tell Eamon that he was a stick in the mud when he continued, "The Scrying Glass is an extremely dangerous item for you to be around."

"I wouldn't use it, or any other artifact, in the presence of the King. I have more tact than that, Eamon," I rebuffed, slightly offended at his insinuation.

"I know you wouldn't, Luci, but you must remember, what other name the glass go by?"

I paused as I searched my mind, "It's also called the Far-Seer Mirror."

"And..." Eamon probed, but I couldn't think of any other names. "It is also known as the Witch's Eye, Luci."

The name suddenly triggered more memories for me, and it dawned on me why Eamon warned that it was dangerous.

"Right, because it immediately activates in the presence of a witch," I recalled.

Eamon nodded his head as he finished his cup of tea, "Just like many other magical artifacts."

Suddenly, I no longer wanted to visit the palace.