The city of Aeryn shimmered beneath the silver glow of its twin moons, a place where power was both a privilege and a weapon. Hidden from the world of ordinary men, Aeryn thrived in secrecy, its laws upheld by the three ruling families. Their bloodlines traced back centuries, each descendant gifted with abilities beyond human comprehension. But there was another name—one never spoken, one erased from history. A family so powerful that the council feared their very existence. And yet, no one remembered why.
Except for Lord Sylas Viremont.
And in his house lived a girl with no honour
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"Lower your head when you walk," a sharp voice commanded.
Zaria, with delicate features, warm golden-toned skin, and thick, ink-black curls that framed her face and tumbled down her back in wild waves. Her almond-shaped eyes, dark as midnight, held a quiet resilience, though they rarel[= met another's gaze. She obeyed without hesitation. She always did.
Wrapped in a plain cloak that did little to shield her from the night's cold, she walked three steps behind the true daughter of the house. In Aeryn, lineage was everything. Power defined worth. And she—she was neither powerful nor worthy. Not a daughter. Not an heir. Just a shadow living in the halls of the family that had claimed her.
Her presence was tolerated, nothing more.
"I don't know why they let you come," her supposed sister, Aelith Viremont the only biological child of the revered Lord Sylas, scoffed as they walked toward the central courtyard. "You'll embarrass the family just by standing there."
Aelith, with her wavy chestnut-brown hair and striking emerald eyes, was the perfect image of the Viremont lineage—poised, powerful, and cruel in ways only the privileged could afford. Unlike Zaria, her presence demanded attention.
Zaria clenched her fists but said nothing. A lifetime of silence had been beaten into her.
Tonight was a gathering of Aeryn's elite, a reminder of her place in a world that had long decided she didn't belong. The heirs of the ruling families would be present—the future of Aeryn, those born to lead. And among them would be him.
Adrus Varenth, his presence as formidable as the storm he carried within. His raven-black hair, thick and slightly tousled, framed sharp, angular features. A dusky complexion, kissed by the sun, only made the intensity of his piercing, coal-dark eyes more striking.
Beside him stood his cousin, Rhain Varenth, who bore a leaner frame but an equally commanding aura. His short, dark brown hair and piercing golden eyes contrasted sharply against Adrus's colder demeanor. Where Adrus was a force of calculated vengeance, Rhain was unpredictable, his every move laced with amusement and danger.
The male heir of the First Family. The boy who had once looked at her with warm eyes, now a man who no longer looked at her at all. And why would he? In his eyes, she was a murderer.
She could still remember the night of the blood moon, the night his sister, Seraphina, had died. How the accusation had been spoken before she even had time to protest. How they had called her wicked, cursed. How the council had stripped her of everything as she had enough but the shame branded onto her very existence.
Seraphina Varenth had been kind and beautiful—golden-haired, bright-eyed, with the grace of a celestial being. The kind of woman people adore d, the kind who was untouchable. And yet, she had died, and Zaria had been blamed.
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It had been a night like no other, the air thick with the scent of burning incense and the hum of ancient chants. A festival in Aeryn, a celebration of lineage and power.
Seraphina had danced beneath the lanterns, her laughter like the chime of silver bells. She had worn a gown of deep blue, embroidered with golden threads that shimmered in the moonlight. The very image of grace.
Then the screams had shattered the night.
Zaria had been the first to find her, collapsed in a pool of crimson. Her golden hair soaked in blood, her once-bright eyes vacant and unseeing. A dagger, ornate and unmistakable, was lodged in her chest.
A dagger that bore the crest of the Viremont house.
Before Zaria could even process what had happened, hands had seized her, voices raised in fury.
"Murderer!"
"Cursed!"
She had looked up, desperate, her breath stolen by terror. And she had met Adrus's eyes.
A moment before, those eyes had been filled with warmth, with familiarity. But in that instant, they had turned to ice.
The verdict had been decided before she could speak. The true culprit had never been questioned. Aelith had stood among the onlookers, silent and composed, her green eyes gleaming with something dangerously close to satisfaction.
Zaria had been stripped of everything. Her name, her worth, her place in Aeryn. The only reason she was still alive was Lord Sylas's intervention—he had insisted she remain under his house's control, though it was not mercy that drove him.
It was something else. Something far worse.
"Try not to attract attention," Aelith continued, her voice dripping with amusement. "Though I doubt anyone would waste their time looking at you."
But she was wrong. Someone was looking.
Across the courtyard, beneath the golden lanterns and banners of the Varenth house, stood Adrus. Taller now, colder, his presence commanding the space around him. And for the first time in years, his gaze met hers.
And in his eyes, she saw only hatred.
Rhain, standing beside him, said something under his breath, but Adrus did not respond. His hands clenched into fists, the muscles in his jaw tightening as if barely holding himself back.
Zaria forced herself to look away. She could not afford to break. Not here. Not now.
But the past had not finished with her yet.
She had spent years trying to forget that night. But Adrus Varenth never had.
And now, the storm brewing in his gaze told her one thing—
He never would.