Five Years Earlier — The Great Marquise Nightshade’s Southern Seaside Estate

Storm clouds swept in from the southerly seas, putting a pause on the boys’ revelations.

On the back of rare spring winds, Matthew carried himself—and Striker—up toward the estate…

before the heavens could crack open…

and release their torrents onto the sea.

It was pitch-black now…

but Matthew didn’t struggle to find his way.

The particles in the air guided him like a scent hound mid-hunt—

confident.

Unerring.

The estate rose ahead—

a sleeping giant of stone and salt-worn ivory.

Its towers were softened by age and sea air, worn down in places the way cliffs were worn down—

not by violence…

but by time.

Thick vines twisted up the walls in gnarled ropes of brown and knot.

Nestled within them were flowers—

blooms in every shade of violet.

Some deep as bruises.

Others soft as blush.

But the petals didn’t stop at the vines.

They spilled downward in cascades…

falling not in droplets—

but in waterfalls of dew.

And with the warm, breathy gusts rushing in from the south,

that dew dissolved into perfume.

Exactly what scent it was…

Matthew couldn’t say.

Not because it was unfamiliar—

but because it didn’t behave like a normal scent.

It didn’t sit politely in the air.

It moved.

Shifted.

Phased.

As if it existed on the edge of something molecular—

something half-real, half-enchanted.

The farther they flew…

the stronger it became.

Dark. Heady.

Richened by flame.

Not fire, exactly. Not yet.

More like the promise of it—

summer’s tongue testing the air, still hungry.

Still waiting.

In this part of the realm, the winds competed daily.

Four of them.

Each vying for dominance.

Each determined to claim the stage.

The east was always the mildest.

Timid.

Almost apologetic.

Too light to carry anything meaningful…

and on the rare days it won, the world went still.

No birds flew—not even for a meal.

No brine lifted free.

Even the trees went quiet—

as if their backs refused to crack.

Just silence…

from a breeze that once danced.

Almost as if East weren’t a wind at all.

The north, by contrast, was never silent.

The north did not apologize.

It arrived like punishment.

It cut.

It stung.

It stripped the world bare until nothing was left but bone and truth.

The north was a blade—

and it always demanded blood.

And the west…

the west was worse.

The west was the wind you couldn’t predict.

The wind that came steady as a drumbeat—

and then turned secretive as rum.

The kind of wind that made sailors superstitious.

The kind that whispered of tempests and drowned prayers.

But tonight—

thank the Sparks of old—

tonight belonged to the South.

Warmth moved low along the land like breath.

It ground against cliffs.

Tumbled through dunes.

Glided over grass.

And with it came sand—

fire-tested and pollen-laced—

and gifts only a Nightshade could accept.

Matthew felt it in his veins.

In the way the air opened for him.

In the way his magic answered—easier, faster, sharper—

like the wind itself wanted to be used.

Like it wanted to be wielded.

Like it wanted to be part of whatever came next.

Warm mist began to fall as he drew near the estate—

begrudgingly,

dragging Striker along with him.

And for once…

Matthew was grateful for his stoic friend’s silence.

Because Striker wasn’t quiet in the way most people were quiet.

Striker was quiet like stone.

Like something that could hold the weight of the world without cracking—

even when it shouldn't.

Matthew should’ve been grateful for that steadiness.

Instead, it only made him angrier.

Because Striker had been steady for two years.

Two years of keeping his mouth shut.

Two years of holding secrets in his chest like buried bodies.

Lightning cracked through the violet-dark sky—

and just as the flash bloomed with splintering arms,

the question pierced Matthew, deep and sharp:

Who was the boy born out of shadow and hushed cries?

Who had given this child the blood of his ancestors?

An uncle?

A cousin?

Or—

someone much closer?

Someone he wasn’t ready to acknowledge.

The ache in Matthew’s chest took root as they descended.

Questions rose up from depths he didn’t know he had.

HOW?

How could Striker betray him like this?

Two years!

Two years his so-called friend had been investigating his father—

Two years—

he had been lied to.

Guttural thunder clapped across the sky—

a monstrous roar that rent the air—

and Matthew’s flight trembled…

ever so slightly.

Not from fear.

From rage.

The kind of rage that turned a man’s bones to glass.

The kind that made even wind-gifted magic feel too sharp to hold.

Below them, the estate grounds blurred into shape:

dark hedges.

moonlit stone.

paths lined with sleeping gardens.

And far in the distance, the sea—

restless.

Black.

Listening.

Matthew’s private wing sat at the far end of the estate.

Not because he demanded distance—

but because even as a child, he’d always needed room.

Room to breathe.

Room to think.

Room to be dramatic in peace.

Room to collapse where no one could watch.

The terrace came into view:

stone-paved and open to the sky,

with wrought-iron chairs that gleamed faintly with rain-slick polish.

A small sitting area beneath an overhang.

A direct entry into his chambers.

A place meant for summer laughter and late-night wine.

Not something like this.

Not betrayal.

Not storms.

Matthew landed hard.

Too hard.

Mud squelched against stone as his boots hit, dragging, breath heavy.

The mist clung to his hair.

To his lashes.

To the edges of his skin like something alive.

Striker landed more smoothly—of course he did.

Even when the world was falling apart, Striker Kohen always landed like he meant to.

And then—

the rain finally began.

Not a sprinkle.

A release.

Droplets splattered across the stone-paved patio, forming a steady drumbeat…

reminiscent of some ancient cadence.

It sounded like war.

It sounded like the beginning of something that would not be undone.

Matthew spun.

And shoved Striker backward—hard.

Striker slid a step, boots skidding on wet stone—

but he didn’t fall.

Of course he didn’t.

His magic rooted him.

The earth under him held.

Matthew’s chest heaved.

His hands shook.

His eyes burned.

“I hope you don’t think this storm lets you off the hook, Strike.”

Striker stumbled back across mist-slick stone, boots skidding.

He caught himself fast—

but the shove still landed in his chest like an accusation with teeth.

He snorted.

“No shit.”

Matthew’s eyes flashed.

“This isn’t funny!”

“I know that!” Striker snapped back—quick, but without heat.

The rain thickened.

Not a downpour yet…

but enough to slick the terrace stone and make the air feel heavy.

Charged.

Like the sky was holding its breath.

Matthew stepped forward.

Mud squelched beneath his boots.

“How could you, Strike?”

Striker’s jaw tightened.

His shoulders rose with a restrained inhale—

like he was trying to swallow a thousand explanations at once.

“I didn’t have a choice.”

The words came out rough.

Urgent.

Almost too honest to be useful.

A guttural growl tore out of Matthew’s throat—

and the heavens answered.

Electric azure split across the sky, lightning blooming in fractured arms above the estate’s private wing.

The thunder that followed shook the windows.

Matthew didn’t flinch.

He looked like the storm had been waiting inside him all day.

His hair clung damp at his temples.

His hands were fists at his sides.

And his voice—

his voice cracked like a whip.

“Two years.”

He laughed once—sharp and humorless.

“Two years, Strike!”

He stepped closer.

The wind tugged at his tunic like it wanted to drag him forward by force.

“Do you have any idea how long that is…”

His jaw flexed.

“…when you’re stupid enough to trust someone?”

Striker’s eyes flashed.

“Match—”

“No.”

Matthew cut him off.

His breath came heavy.

Fast.

A man trying not to drown in his own disbelief.

“You sat at my table.”

“You sparred with me.”

“You stayed in my home.”

“And all the while…”

His throat tightened.

“…you were investigating my father.”

Striker’s gaze held his.

Steady.

But something in it had begun to fracture—

something dangerous.

Something that had been held too long.

“I didn’t want to,” Striker said, voice cracking just slightly.

Then, rougher—

“I was forced to.”

Matthew scoffed, bitter.

“Oh, of course.”

He paced, boots dragging wet tracks across stone.

“Poor Striker Kohen.”

“Always forced.”

“Always the victim.”

Striker’s jaw clenched.

His hands flexed at his sides—

like he was physically resisting the urge to grab Matthew and shake him.

His voice rose—finally.

“Do you think I wanted to be given this task?”

The rain began to fall harder now.

Not in droplets—

in sheets.

Water splattered across the patio, turning dust to slurry and stone to mirror.

Striker stepped forward.

And for the first time—

the ground beneath Matthew’s feet trembled.

Not from thunder.

From Striker.

A steady, low quake—

like the estate itself had become aware of the argument happening on its bones.

Matthew’s wind surged instinctively, snapping around his shoulders.

Cold air whipped through the terrace like a warning.

“A friend?” Matthew spat, voice rising with disbelief.

“A friend doesn’t spy.”

A gust tore across the terrace.

The vines along the wall shuddered.

Violet blooms shook loose pettles shredding away in glittering sprays.

“A friend doesn’t lie.”

Another gust struck the estate.

Sharper.

The rain slanted sideways.

“A friend doesn’t sneak behind my back and call it duty.”

Striker’s voice barreled forth like a boulder released down a mountainside.

“I was forced to!”

Matthew’s eyes blazed.

“SO YOU SAY!”

Striker’s nostrils flared.

His fists clenched.

And the stone beneath them answered—cracking softly, like knuckles.

“What would you have me do?” Striker growled.

“Betray my father?”

“Betray my King?”

“Betray my kingdom?”

Matthew shot back without hesitation.

“No!”

He stepped closer—

wind pushing at his hair, lifting it from his brow like a crown of storm.

“Instead…”

His voice lowered.

Dangerous.

“…you betrayed your friend.”

Striker’s mouth twitched—

not into a smile.

Into something worse.

Something calm.

Something that made Matthew’s skin prickle.

“No,” Striker said.

And his voice—

his voice almost purred.

“Instead…”

He leaned in, eyes bright and fractured.

“…I fooled them all.”

Matthew’s breath hitched.

Striker’s gaze didn’t waver.

“And I saved my friend.”

The words landed between them like a blade dropped point-first into stone.

Matthew stared at him.

Chest rising.

Falling.

Rain running down his face like tears he refused to claim.

Then—

slowly—

he crossed his arms.

Resigned.

Dismayed.

No way he was doing this sober.

Not if he had anything to say about it.

He turned sharply and stalked toward the estate doors, voice thrown over his shoulder like a gauntlet.

“While I gather some Goldenleaf wine, and some much-needed spuddage…”

He yanked the doors open, storm wind sucking in behind him.

“Once I've gathered our supplies... you can decide whether or not your dickishness was actually valid.”

And then he disappeared inside.

Leaving Striker alone on the terrace—

in the rain—

with the ground still trembling faintly beneath his boots.