CHAPTER 276: CHAPTER 276: A FINE PAIR

The D’Argente manor was quiet save for the low crackle of the hearth, its flames painting gold across velvet drapes and polished stone. Serathine sat at her writing desk, the latest dispatch from Trevor’s network spread before her. Her long fingers, tipped in garnet lacquer, smoothed an invisible crease in the tablet case as her amber eyes burned with something colder than fire.

"Ophelia," she murmured, the name a shard of glass on her tongue. "So she did fail in the end."

Across the room, Caelan lounged in an armchair carved too fine for his careless posture, one leg draped over the other, a glass of brandy loose in his hand. His brown hair, elegantly streaked white at the temples, caught the firelight like bronze filigree. But it was his green eyes, the same shade as Lucas’s, that narrowed as they studied her in silence.

"I can hear you judging me, Caelan." Serathine leaned back in her chair, the sweep of her red hair glinting like embers. "Tell me, what does the Emperor of Palatine do in my study?"

"Relaxing," Caelan said simply, his voice mild with the kind of ease that came only from old familiarity.

Her lips curved. "Running away from Aysha’s new ideas?"

He raised his glass in a lazy salute, green eyes sparking faint amusement. "Running to my favorite mistress."

Serathine’s laugh was low and soft, the sound cutting neatly through the hush of the fire. "You always did have a dangerous fondness for honesty."

"And Aysha always had a dangerous fondness for letting me get away with it," he said, unbothered, taking another sip. "She has her lovers; I have mine. She gets to torment me with councils, and I get to sit here with you."

"Convenient," Serathine murmured, though the warmth in her amber eyes betrayed her satisfaction.

Caelan hummed, tipping his glass. "So, do I get to do anything? Or does Trevor want complete control?"

Her gaze sharpened. "He doesn’t like you."

"Neither do I," Caelan replied, wry but edged. He leaned forward, resting his glass against his knee. "But here we are, trying to shield the same Lucas."

Serathine’s fingers tapped once against the dispatch, nails clicking faintly against the lacquered wood. "You say this because they haven’t come to the palace yet."

His green eyes glinted, cool as cut glass. "When they do, I’ll still say it. I don’t need to like Trevor to respect him. He works like a blade in the dark. The Empire is safer for it."

"And you?" Serathine asked, amber gaze narrowing. "You sit in gilded halls, drinking, pretending distance makes you clean."

Caelan huffed, the faintest curl of a smile tugging at his mouth. "Distance makes me useful. He breaks bones. I hold borders. It works."

She tilted her head, studying him like one of her gemstones under a lamp. "So tell me then, Emperor. Who told you about Lucas? A year has passed since I took him under my house, and you never told me. Why?"

The brandy glass turned slowly in Caelan’s hand, firelight catching in its amber depths. His gaze shifted to the flames, not her, when he answered. "The Church. My informants flagged unusual movements. Payments for a boy who had disappeared from the registries, shadows where there should have been light. They whispered of a hidden omega, one the priests would rather silence than protect."

Serathine’s expression didn’t move, though her nails stilled against the desk. "That could have been anyone. The Church has dozens buried under its hypocrisy."

"Yes," Caelan said softly, finally turning his green eyes back on her. "But then came the letter."

Her brows rose. "Letter?"

"Anonymous," he murmured, voice low and weighted. "No signature. Just a few neat lines, the kind that cut deeper than most confessions. A warning or a plea. I had it examined three times by men who live and breathe the structure of words." He paused, studying the way the fire bled across her hair like embers. "The hand belonged to Lucas himself."

Serathine’s lips parted, but no sound followed. For the first time that evening, her composure faltered by a fraction, the firelight catching in the sharp gleam of her amber eyes.

Caelan tipped back his glass, draining what remained. "Quite the discovery, isn’t it? The boy saved himself without knowing it."

She leaned back in her chair, fingers curling against the armrest, the dispatch crinkling faintly under her palm. "You didn’t tell me."

"I wasn’t sure either," Caelan admitted, his tone deceptively mild. "It didn’t seem real. But considering the Church had a hand in it, and you and Trevor started pulling at their archives, I assumed Lucas could be one of those who lived his life before."

Serathine’s amber eyes burned hotter, sharp enough to catch fire. "God damn it. Nothing escapes you, does it?"

Caelan smiled then, bright and careless in the way only he could manage, though the weight of years lingered behind it. He lifted one shoulder in a lazy shrug. "Misty escaped. My only mistake."

The words landed between them like a blade, too light to be casual, too sharp to be anything but intentional.

Caelan rose, crossing the room in two unhurried strides, his presence filling the study as effortlessly as the firelight. He bent, the faint scent of brandy and smoke clinging to him, and pressed a soft kiss to Serathine’s temple. His hand lingered on her shoulder, thumb brushing idly against silk, a touch that was both anchor and claim.

"I’ll give you the coordinates of Misty’s location," he murmured, his voice low, intimate in a way that made the air shift. "She’s been in Odin’s presence at least once. Do what you want with it."

Serathine’s lashes lowered, amber eyes flashing to the man she chose to love. Her hand rose, briefly covering his where it rested on her shoulder, a fleeting moment of silent acknowledgment between equals. "I intend to."

For a rare heartbeat, the sharp lines of power between them eased. The fire caught in the garnet of her nails and in the white streaks at his temples, painting them both in the same muted glow.

"You always hand me daggers dressed as gifts," she murmured, her voice softer now, tinged with a warmth she showed to no one else.

Caelan bent slightly, his breath ghosting against her hair, his green eyes hooded but bright with quiet amusement. "And you always know which rib to slip them between."

Her laugh was low, intimate, a spark pulled from the depths of a flame. "We make a fine pair."

His thumb traced another idle line across her shoulder, more thoughtful than tender, though the weight of it sank deeper than any casual touch. "That we do. Aysha might say too fine. She warned me once that if I stayed too long in your orbit, I’d never leave it."

Serathine tilted her head back just enough to catch his gaze, her smile curving with slow satisfaction. "And yet here you are."

Caelan leaned down, pressing another kiss, slower this time, to the corner of her jaw. "Where else would I be?"