Cyrion was pleased with Cessalie for her behavior these days. She kept quiet, smiled politely, and played the part of the obedient daughter he liked to show off in front of Duke Davian. No sharp tongue, no defiance... Juust the perfect little Draevin girl he could parade like a prized possession.
What he failed to understand was simple, if he wanted her to "behave," he should have learned how to treat people properly first like Davian had.
A quiet scoff left her lips as she walked down the corridor, her thoughts circling like restless birds. Lately, Davian had become her measuring stick for basic decency, the bare minimum. He did not raise his voice, did not belittle, did not twist words to remind her of her place. And yet… Cessalie still could not decide if that was honesty wrapped in charm or deception dressed up in decency.
Shaking the thought off, she shut the door to her room behind her, fingers brushing the lock until it clicked. From under her gown, she pulled out a thick book. Its edges were sharp against her palms, the leather cover worn smooth from years of handling.
It was not hers. She stole it from Rylan's desk earlier that afternoon while he was too distracted, deep in conversation with one of the library historians. Rylan loved history the way she did, obsessively, feverishly. The difference was, he had access to the real archives, not the sanitized, flowery nonsense tutors served to the women of the house.
Those lessons were insulting. They called it "history," yet every page was drowning in cautionary tales and fables. Lady Visenne bore thirty sons to please her husband. One noblewoman flung herself onto a pyre for love. That was history, apparently. Not the wars fought, not the power plays inked into treaties, not the quiet rebellions.
The message had always been clear—Women should not read too much political history. It might make them smarter than the men. And what a dangerous thing that would be.
"Knowledge meant nothing if your fate was to be handed off like property." She walked towards her bed, a little jump in her stes. "Learn everything, only to lock it away the day a man put a ring on your finger."
She flopped onto her bed, head sinking into the pillow. The stolen book rested in her lap. It looked harmless, but it was not.
It was heavier than it seemed, not by weight, but by the history written inside.
She flipped to the first page, her eyes drawn immediately to a map painted in reds and golds. Damarith. The largest kingdom beyond Valkathra's borders. A land stretched across blistering sands and endless desert, its capital carved from red stone and polished white bone. A kingdom of trade, trickery, and sharp smiles.
They were merchants and diplomats, but never fools. Their wealth came from spices, minerals, and silks that shimmered like heat waves. But their land could not grow what they needed most. That was grain, timber, coldwater fish. Valkathra had all of it. Damarith had none.
So they smiled, bargained and lied.
Their treaties sparkled like their markets. It was polished on the surface, rotten underneath. They offered alliances with one hand and stirred conflict with the other.
"Hmm...so it means..." she said, turning the page. "They would sell you salt while draining your wells dry, smile while bleeding you without ever raising a blade."
The book called it cunning. Cessalie called it cowardice.
"She's inside?"
Cessalie froze at the sound of the voice. It was familiar. It was Davian's.
The maid outside answered, "Yes, Your Grace."
Her breath slowed.
She shut the book with a soft snap, parchment whispering as she tucked it behind a pile of silk fabrics. Her fingers combed through her hair once, twice. She straightened, hands folded neatly in her lap, face composed. She didn't even know why she bothered, but the instinct was there.
The door opened. Davian stepped inside, tall as ever, the morning light catching the edges of his coat. His expression was warm, easy.
"You're always hiding in here," he remarked, voice light.
"It's my room," Cessalie replied, her tone flat but calm.
He smiled faintly. "Would you come on a horse ride with me?"
"…With you?"
He nodded once. "You'll ride your own horse."
Cessalie hesitated. ridee my own horse? That wasn't allowed. Women rode only with them, not beside them on a separate horse, never alone, especially not with a man they are not related by blood or married to.
Davian noticed her pause. "You won't be in danger. I'll ride beside you."
"That's not the point," she said quietly. "If someone sees—"
"Let them," he cut in smoothly. "You're my fiancée."
She didn't give it a much thought.
"…Alright," she murmured.
And she hated the small, traitorous flicker of excitement in her chest. Besides every oppression, she wouldn't want to miss the fun of riding a horse for the first time.
The stables were quiet compared to the palace halls. The soft shuffle of hooves, the snort of breath, the faint creak of leather filled the space. Cessalie ran her hand down the neck of a dark mare, her coat rougher than Roxy's, but warm.
She missed her children.
Davian stood by a chestnut stallion that kept chewing at his collar. He looked calm, but there was tension around his brows. Something weighed on him.
"You've been quiet," she observed, watching him.
"I've been thinking," he admitted. There was a pause before he added, "About the Eryndors."
She turned toward him, listening.
"They're settled in the sanctuary now," Davian explained. "But it's not working. The temple priests refuse to trust them. They're blocking the healers from patients unless they follow purification rituals."
Cessalie frowned. "Rituals?"
He nodded. "Blood cleansing, aetherbinding, temple scriptures, marked robes. It's humiliating and if they refuse, they're accused of impurity… or forbidden magic. One of them was banned after healing a noble's child. The High Sanctifier claims their methods 'lack divine guidance.' "
Cessalie almost laughed under her breath. Divine guidance was a excuse never changed.
Davian's voice stayed tight. "I've spoken to the council, but the temple's holding their ground. They're only letting the witches stay as a gesture, not to give them real power."
"And the Eryndors?"
"They're angry but staying quiet for now. They came to help, not to fight."
Cessalie stroked the mare gently behind her ear. It was a mess, no doubt. But not an impossible one.
"They didn't come to be rescued," she said after a moment. "We needed them. We invited them, not because we were generous, but because we were desperate. And now we treat them like they owe us."
Davian stayed quiet, eyes thoughtful.
She kept going. "The Eryndors were healing long before temples even stood. They don't need Rune. If the temples are so fragile they can't coexist with stronger magic… maybe they deserve to fall apart."
Davian blinked, eyes narrowing slightly. "You think the temple should bend?"
Cessalie scratched the mare's jaw. "I think it should adapt. This isn't mercy, it's survival. We want their power, but only on our terms. That's not sanctuary. That's slavery with incense."
The mare nuzzled her hand, warm beneath her fingers.
"If the Eryndors leave, we lose the future we begged for. The High Sanctifier needs to remember this is a partnership, not charity. Maybe it's time the temple stops preaching about divine favor and started earning it."
Davian let out a quiet laugh under his breath. "You should've been born a man," he remarked. "You would've ruled."
The words lodged in her chest.
She didn't flinch. "I intend to rule as me. Not as a man, not as a wife, not as Cyrion's daughter."
Davian leaned against the stable wall, arms crossed, watching her.
"They won't give up power unless they feel it slipping," she added. "So make them feel it."
His head tilted, interest sharp in his eyes. "How?"
"Shift the story quietly. Let people see what the Eryndors can do, away from the temple's grip. Healing camps in rural and tribal areas. Far from priest interference. Let the commoners talk, compare and choose. Once that happens, the temple loses control of the narrative."
She met his eyes directly. "Then you push for respect."
Davian gave a low whistle. "You think like a general."
Cessalie shrugged, fingers smoothing the mare's dark coat. "I don't know."
His expression softened, amused and admiring. "The nobles won't like it. Many still hate witches near their homes."
"Then let them suffer longer," she said simply. "They'll beg for magic when their mistresses die of infected wounds."
Davian laughed, real and easy. She looked away for a second. He was irritatingly handsome when he wasn't so composed.
"You'll need a bridge," she added. "Someone inside the temple. Someone who respects the witches."
"Hard to find," Davian admitted. "The High Sanctifier keeps them in line."
"Then find the outcast," she said. "There's always one who doubts. Bring them forward."
Davian stared like she'd conjured a sword out of thin air. "That's bold."
Cessalie smirked. "I know. I am also an outcast. ."
He straightened, giving her a playful, exaggerated bow. "Then consider me someone who will bring you forward."
Cessalie turned before he could see the heat rise in her cheeks.
"You sure you don't want to come to court someday?" he asked.
"Not as a guest," she replied without a hesitation of second. "And never as someone's shadow."
Davian nodded like he understood.
He offered his hand, patient, helping her mount the mare. The silver-grey horse was tall and broad-shouldered, gentle-eyed, reminding her faintly of Vonyr. A small, reluctant smile tugged at her lips.
"You're doing well," Davian said, adjusting the reins in her grip. "Back straight. Heels down. If she moves fast, lean with her."
"I'm not a child," she muttered, though her hands obeyed him without hesitation.
Davian mounted his own horse in a smooth motion. Of course he made it look easy. "I know. But you've never ridden like this before, have you?"
"No."
"Then let me teach you."
The horses nudged forward, the open fields behind the estate stretching wide. The breeze carried the scent of hay and sun-warmed grass, and for a moment, the world outside the walls felt far away.
"There is one person I've thought of," Davian said as they rode. "Someone who could be the bridge."
Cessalie glanced at him. "Who?"
"High Lunarch Tiberius."
"Sounds important."
"He is," Davian confirmed. "The Queen's younger brother."
Cessalie blinked, processing that. "The Queen?"
He nodded. "But he's different. He doesn't act like the rest of them. He's powerful, but in his own way. He's never seen witches as a threat. He believes their magic existed before ours. That we encroached on them, not the other way around."
"Then why hasn't he done anything?" she asked, keeping her eyes on the path ahead.
"He isn't popular with the temple," Davian explained. His horse moved closer to hers as they picked up speed. "He and the High Sanctifier are constantly at odds. He questions too much. They've tried to discredit him more than once."
"So he's the black sheep," she concluded. "Which means he has nothing to lose."
"Exactly."
The mare picked up speed beneath her, but she leaned forward easily, letting the rhythm settle into her bones.
"Then use him," she said. "Bring him in. Not as an advisor, as a public face. Let him speak for the Eryndors. Let him say all the things no one else dares to. His name carries weight. If he says witches aren't a danger, if he says cooperation is survival, the people will listen."
Davian nodded. "And if the temple retaliates?"
Cessalie looked at him, unflinching. "Let them. If they silence him, it proves everything he says. Let the crown decide if it wants to cling to the old ways… or move forward."
A grin crept across Davian's face. "You really are dangerous."
She smirked. "You're just slow."
His laugh was full, unrestrained, as he urged his horse into a light canter. "Come on then, dangerous girl. Show me if you can keep up."