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PROLOGUE
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The Count had stopped praying ten minutes ago.

There was no point.

God had been invited into the room and had apparently chosen not to attend.

He knelt in the center of what had once been his drawing room, hands bound behind his back, knees pressed into a carpet blackened with ash. Blood soaked the front of his expensive shirt and dripped from his chin.

Across the room, his wife was dying.

The fire had caught the hem of her gown first. Silk curled inward beneath the flame. Gold embroidery blackened. Heat climbed over fabric that had cost more than most families earned in a year, devouring lace, ribbon, and flesh with equal indifference.

Her bound hand twitched.

The Count watched her chest, waiting for it to rise again. When it did, the breath was so shallow he almost missed it.

She was still alive.

He made a broken sound in his throat.

His eldest son was tied to the chair beside her. His daughter lay against the marble hearth, wrists bound, her hair spread beneath her in scorched strands. Two more members of the family had been forced beside them.

All gagged. All conscious.

The fire crept closer.

And she watched.

The Count’s gaze dragged toward the opposite end of the room.

His chair stood there.

The great carved armchair beneath the portrait of his ancestors. Generations of men from his bloodline had sat there to receive petitions, negotiate marriages, and condemn servants. He remembered the polished wood beneath his palms, the faces turned toward him, waiting for his judgment.

Tonight, someone else sat in it.

A woman.

One leg crossed over the other, her elbow resting against the armrest. Two fingers tapped the wood.

Tap.

Tap.

She seemed in no hurry.

Firelight moved over the black fabric of her clothing. There was nothing elaborate about it, nothing that belonged among the gilded walls and ancestral portraits.

A strip of dark cloth covered her eyes.

She could not possibly see him.

And yet the Count had never felt more watched.

Why his wife? Why his children?

Whatever she wanted from him, they could have settled it. He had gold. Land. Friends at court. He would have given her anything if she had let him speak.

His mouth opened.

Only a wet rasp came out.

Something small and red lay on the carpet before his knees. For a moment, his mind refused to understand it.

Half his tongue.

The woman had cut it off herself.

She had held his jaw while he fought against the two men restraining him. She had listened to his promises of money, estates, political protection, whatever she wished.

Then she had calmly removed the part of him that could keep making promises.

He should have bled to death.

He almost had.

His gaze slid toward the man beside the window. Tall and motionless beneath a long black cloak, he watched the room with the dispassionate patience of a sentry.

When the Count’s vision had begun to dim, that man had crouched beside him, forced his jaw open, and poured a potion down his throat.

Healing.

The bleeding had slowed. His sight had cleared.

His tongue remained on the carpet.

They had given him just enough to keep him conscious.

Watching.

The woman tilted her head.

Her fingers stopped.

The Count lowered his gaze, too late to pretend he had not been looking.

His daughter made a strangled sound through her gag. He tried to turn toward her, but the man left the window and planted a boot between his shoulders, forcing him forward again.

The Count bowed beneath the pressure.

Then the drawing-room door creaked open.

He flinched.

The second man stepped inside and closed it quietly behind him. Soot marked his coat. His gaze passed over the room before settling on the woman in the chair.

“Captain.”

One finger tapped the armrest.

“What?”

“The perimeter is secured.”

He removed a glove.

“The servants who were ordered to remain have been evacuated. The cellar has been searched. The eastern wing is empty.”

His gaze moved toward the family.

The Count followed it helplessly.

His wife’s movements had become weaker. His son’s head hung against his chest. His daughter was still crying.

“The manor is ready to join…”

The newcomer glanced at the growing fire.

“…the bonfire.”

The woman laughed.

One quiet breath of amusement.

The Count’s blood ran colder than it had when the knife entered his mouth.

She uncrossed her legs and stood.

He watched her boots cross the carpet. At its edge, her heel struck the marble.

Click.

His hands strained against their bindings.

She stopped before him.

For several seconds, neither of them moved. The Count stared at her boots, unable to make himself look higher.

A gloved hand entered his vision.

Two fingers slipped beneath his chin and lifted his face.

The black cloth remained tied securely over her eyes. He searched the rest of her face for something he could understand. Anger. Hatred. Anything that might tell him what he had done to bring her here.

Then she smiled.

He knew that smile.

Something about it reached through his terror and touched a memory he could not quite seize.

A woman beneath chandeliers.

A cold glance across a ballroom.

Rose-gold hair. Grey eyes.

A name whispered among nobles with equal parts mockery and caution.

The Count’s breath caught.

No.

He searched her face again.

Impossible.

The woman crouched before him, her head tilted slightly. Behind her, his family burned. Firelight traced the edges of her clothing, and smoke gathered above her head in the shape of a halo.

Her smile widened.

The Count began shaking his head.

No. No, no—

Her thumb brushed the blood beneath his mouth, almost gently. Then she glanced down at the severed piece of his tongue.

“Any last words, Count?”

Amusement softened her voice.

His mouth worked.

Nothing came.

The men did not laugh. One stood behind him; the other waited by the door.

The woman rose.

For one heartbeat, she stood over him without moving.

“Thought so.”

The Count saw her hand move.

And the room went black.

By the time the flames reached the upper floors, there was nothing left to save.

Blue fire crawled through shattered windows and climbed the ancient stone. Curtains vanished. Paintings blistered inside their frames. Carved wooden balconies gave way, spilling burning timber into the grounds.

The night sky glowed blue above the estate.

In the distance, bells were ringing.

Knights thundered through the outer gates. Men shouted orders and dismounted before their horses had properly stopped, rushing toward the manor.

None of them looked up.

Three figures stood on the old clock tower overlooking the grounds, black silhouettes against the fire.

The woman stood between the two men, one hand resting loosely on the stone railing.

Below, buckets appeared. Water magic flashed against the burning walls. A knight dragged another man back as part of a balcony crashed across the steps.

The woman watched in silence.

Behind her, one of the men turned toward the manor as another section of the roof collapsed. Sparks rose past the tower.

The clock above them continued ticking.

She reached into her coat and withdrew a small black book.

There were names written inside.

Merchants. Nobles. Officials. Priests.

Her finger moved down the page.

Stopped.

She drew one clean line through a name.

Then the book snapped shut.

Below them, the central roof collapsed into the blue inferno with a deafening roar. Several knights stumbled back from the heat.

One looked up.

His arm rose toward the clock tower.

“THERE!”

Heads turned.

The railing was empty.

No spell lingered in the air. No footsteps sounded overhead. The knights searched the adjoining rooftops, but there were no silhouettes fleeing across them.

Above the roar of the flames, the clock went on ticking.

Below it, the manor burned blue.