180 Days Before the Third Trial

The sun had long since set, and the moon was so heavily obscured by clouds that Gerard’s study was illuminated only by fire. The lantern on his desk sputtered and smoked, the oil having long since burned low, and the last log glowing with embers crackled in the fireplace.

Gerard ran a hand down his face, smoothing over the stubble that told him he should have gone to bed hours ago. He only had a few reports left to review before he could turn in for the night—part of the mundanity that came with being appointed Duke Gerard de Vanquise. The responsibilities of the title were heavy, but so too were the luxuries. Even the grand desk he sat behind was wider than any of the bunks he’d occupied as a battlemage.

The de Vanquise manor—a castle, by any other name—was large enough to rival, or even eclipse, those of his noble-born counterparts. It was a masterpiece of Gothic architecture wrought in hand-carved stone, ornate stained glass, and pure mahogany. The grounds themselves were sprawling and vast, more than large enough to house the duchy’s knightage along with the few trusted staff members Gerard had chosen to retain.

He looked up as the adjoining door to his chambers creaked open and saw his duchess standing in the doorway. Marlena de Vanquise—née von Drachenfels. She was, far and away, the greatest spoil of all. He loved getting to see her that way, bare-faced, hair undone and tumbling down her back in dark brown curls, with her crushed black velvet dressing robe tied neatly over her nightgown.

He cracked a smile, pushing his chair back to greet her, but she stopped him.

“Gerard,” she said, sounding cold and crisp in a way she usually reserved for company—a surefire sign she was on edge. She raised a crisp ivory envelope with an all-too-familiar wax seal. “It’s time.”

Gerard’s smile fell, his heart dropping. “Don’t tell me…”

Marlena nodded.

He bowed his head, dropping his forehead into his hands. “Elana’s summons,” he muttered.

Marlena nodded, still standing in the doorway. His duchess had a reputation as an ice queen, but she rarely acted as such with him. Just as he too was a different person—Duke Gerard de Vanquise, cold-blooded warrior—beyond their shared walls but never with her. They alone witnessed each other’s weakest, most honest, human moments.

But at that moment, Marlena’s face betrayed no emotion, and she made no move to come closer, like she normally would have.

For a second, it felt like he was looking at the woman she’d been before they wed. Her presence resembled how she always used to carry herself. Ever regal. Ever composed. But Gerard had learned to see the subtle cracks in her facade, and all of her tells were showing.

There was her posture, which was too straight to match the calculated indifference on her face. Then there was the tension in her hands and the faint clenching of her jaw. Marlena’s coldness was born from strong emotion, not a lack thereof.

“We knew this was coming,” she said, stiff and formal, as if she really had to explain it to him. “We’ve delayed this for as long as we can.”

“Marlena, love.” He slumped in his chair. “We can’t go through this again.”

“She is sixteen years old, Gerard.” Her voice was clipped. “At this rate, by the time she graduates she will be twenty—well past the age of majority. It is a miracle the king even allowed her admission to be postponed this long.”

The Royal Magic Academy was the battleground on which all children of the nobility cut their teeth. Attendance was mandatory. There was no alternative.

Children who did not attend were branded illegitimate members of the nobility, hunted by the crown. Families tried and failed to find ways around it. It always ended in public execution.

Always.

Every student who set foot in the academy’s halls was prepared to fight tooth and nail for the opportunity to reach the pinnacle of high society. They had to be, or they would easily lose their lives to someone more motivated.

The strength of a student’s performance at the academy dictated their future social standing. Graduating meant survival and legitimacy. Dominating meant power, elevation. It was a clever, cruel design.

The academy was a tool to produce the next generation of the kingdom’s elites, but it also held the nobility in check. Status didn’t matter in the halls of the academy, so any family could raise their social standing. But equally, any family could lose their successor in the blink of an eye. There was no protection, no matter how high born you were, no matter what your title was.

Gerard knew that better than anyone, as did Marlena. They had already lost five of their seven children to the academy. And now it was their youngest, Elana, who was being summoned.

Elana was the one who worried Gerard most of all. He had been dreading the day she’d be summoned since she was a child, when the physician had examined her and solemnly reported that her mana aptitude was a stunning zero—a level lower than even a commoner’s—in a society where magic determined every aspect of your social rank.

“She has no talent for magic,” he muttered, head still hung low. “You cannot actually think her ready for this, can you, love?”

“It doesn’t matter if she is or isn’t,” Marlena replied. “Elana has to go, Gerard. There is no alternative here.”

“There must be another way.” Gerard shook his head. “We would be sending her to the slaughter.”

“Gerard de Vanquise.” Marlena crossed her arms, narrowing her eyes at him. “Tell me—did I marry a coward? She may not have inherited your magical aptitude, or mine, but she is still our daughter. She has a quick wit and a strategist’s mind. She’ll make it.”

“I’m certain there must be a way for her to live comfortably elsewhere,” he mumbled. “Maybe somewhere far overseas, in an abbey.”

Marlena glared at him. “Those children die, Gerard. And even if she didn’t—pretending it’s even possible for her to go undiscovered—means we would lose her, forever.”

Gerard groaned, covering his eyes.

In their otherwise harmonious marriage, discussions about Elana’s future were always a point of contention. His wife was as set on abiding by the kingdom’s stringent rules as Gerard was on trying to find a way around them.

“Isn’t it better to survive in exile than die at the academy?” he asked.

“You doubt her so much that you would banish her to god-knows-where, with no hope of ever returning home, only for her to be dragged back by the crown and put to the guillotine?” Marlena’s voice was ice cold. “That’s the future you want for our daughter?”

“Marlena,” Gerard sighed. “Of course that isn’t what I want for her. But the academy has already taken so much from us. Brienne. Tobias. Marcella. Rhys. Dion.”

He didn’t need to say the rest. She already knew. He couldn’t bury Elana too.

The ever-composed Marlena faltered, her mouth wobbling before she hid it behind her hand. After a beat of silence, she managed to say, “It was the Maker’s will.” Her voice wavered as she said it. And her hands curled into fists. “And we are powerless to change it.”

“My love,” Gerard began, softening his voice. “If we can spare Elana that fate, do we not owe it to her to try?”

“No, Gerard. We’re not taking that risk.” In the blink of an eye, Marlena’s icy expression had returned. “As the king’s advisor, you know better than anyone how ruthless he is.”

“Of course I do,” he sighed, running a hand over his face. “That’s why I know he’ll make no exception, even for me. Even his own children attended the academy. You remember what happened with—”

He stopped at the look on her face. Of course she did. Neither of them could ever forget.

Gerard shook his head. “But if we fake her death, perhaps we can hide her well enough—”

“Why are you so convinced that her fate at the academy is to fail?” Marlena asked, sounding every bit the noblewoman she was. Unlike him, she had been born and raised into nobility, and she wielded that imperiousness like a weapon. “Do you think she doesn’t know how little you believe in her? If we don’t have faith in her, Gerard, who will?”

“Marlena, love,” Gerard sighed again and extended a hand to her. This time, her posture crumbled, and her iron mask with it. He cracked a weak smile. “Come,” he pleaded. “I can feel your anxiety from here.”

She went to him without hesitation, crossing the threshold of his study like she had a thousand times before. She moved around the ornate leather furniture without having to look, her bare feet as quiet on the mahogany floors as they were on the oriental rug.

When she was within arm’s reach of the desk, Gerard pulled her in by the waist. Marlena softened as he encouraged her to settle sideways over his lap, her cheek nestling against his shoulder. He could feel the restless jitters she had been masking before.

She didn’t try to pretend she wasn’t anxious, not with him. She leaned into his embrace, folding into him. Her eyes fluttered shut.

“I have to believe she can do it,” she said, burying her face in the crook of his neck as he plucked the letter out of her hand. “I have to.

“I know, darling,” he murmured, dropping the envelope onto the desk in favor of stroking Marlena’s hair. “I know.”

“She’s our last heir, Gerard. If we lose her, the duchy dies with us,” Marlena said, as pragmatic as ever.

He knew that she was talking to herself just as much as she was to him, trying to strengthen her own conviction—because Marlena was every bit as unwilling a participant in their dilemma as he was, even if she wore it differently.

“Moreover,” she continued, somehow managing to sound haughty despite being curled into his lap, hiding her face in his neck. “I refuse to hamstring her confidence by so much as suggesting she try to escape. She is unbearably clever. She has all the makings of a great tactician.”

“That’s your doing, dearest,” he murmured indulgently. He was the only one she ever allowed to see her more fragile, conflicted side—and she was the only one he showed his softer side to. “You’ve tutored her so diligently.”

“She is fully capable,” she said, in a soft whisper. “She can do it.”

Gerard didn’t voice his doubts, kissing his wife’s hair instead.

“I know,” he said.

She pinched his arm, and he felt her scowl against his neck.

“Don’t placate me,” she warned.

He hummed good-naturedly. “Yes, dear.”

“You’re going to ruin any chance she has of a future,” Marlena muttered.

“My love…” Gerard leaned back in his chair. “Sometimes I forget how terribly frightening you can be.”

He could only hope that Elana had inherited her mother’s propensity for tenacity and relentless, pragmatic, forward momentum in a world where the odds were stacked against her.