But I apprised you that I am a bad man," said he, "difficult to persuade."

"And I am a hard woman—impossible to put off."'

—From Jane Eyre,

By Charlotte Brontë

ILYAS DURAND,

I SHALL SEE you in hell. Better luck next time.

Your beloved son,

Alastair Durand

The note was stamped with a red, wax seal of his house, of course, but the seal was odd. As though it had been imprinted not from a signet ring, but from... the hilt of a dagger.

So they were together, then. Together in Atla like a pair of lovebirds. Who would have known that all those years ago, when they had been betrothed, that the two would actually like one another?

Revolted, he almost hurled the note in the fire before stopping himself. He had remained stoic all these years. Never daring to reveal the magic that ran through his veins courtesy of the devil's bargain.

Had he loved the woman or the crown that had seemed destined to be placed onto her head? Surely it had been Adaira at one point whom he had loved, Yet he could not love her daughter for her sake. No, theirs had been a soul-deep bond borne of fighting and scraping one's way to the top, unable to think of anything but survival and ruthless ambition that tied them together. Yet it had extended to no one and nothing else.

Or so he had thought until he had watched her go off and marry the king of Mordania. He had not begrudged her her success, or so he had thought. It was what they had both thought would be good, after all, the best thing for the two of them. She had the power to make him a lord and grant him a duchy larger than any land he'd ever laid eyes on, let alone possessed. Yet he hadn't wanted the power, hadn't wanted the land, not at that moment.

He had only wanted her. And she had not chosen him.

And somewhere down the line that resentment had turned into vindictiveness, a seed that had bloomed a dark-petaled flower the moment that Connell Thorne had disguised himself as her husband, a flower that had only blossomed over the years until he could stand it no longer and summoned the Atlan army to attack.

After all, he had to prove to himself and her that all he cared about was his own advancement. Because those were the words she had flung at him the night before her wedding. When she had asked him if he cared for her, and he had been unable to speak the truth.

Years later, that fear, that cowardice, still haunted him. It still disgusted him. So, that self-loathing twisted into hatred, into numbness, into nothing more than the cold burn of his hunger for power.

Tucking the letter into his pocket, he smoothed down his hair, got dressed without the help of any valet, and laced his boots. When he was in a presentable state, he went to dine. So the assassin had failed. That didn't mean that he could not try again.

Jovana Dusang had become a loose cannon. A wildcard. And in this precarious game of chess, he could have no room for unpredictable persons or pawns who had decided to rebel. No, despite all the potential she might have had, the power he had imbued into her by arranging the circumstances of her conception, she had squandered all of it by defying him.

No, she had destroyed whatever good fortune she might have in Mordania by ignoring the future he had arranged for her. And so, she would have to be destroyed.

Ilyas gulped his tea as he read reports about the state of the Atlan-Mordanian border. There were a few minor skirmishes that had been easily settled, with Mordanian soldiers quickly overpowering their Atlan counterparts. As he turned the page, there was a knock on the door of his study. He waved a hand to the footman as if to tell him to get on with it.

"Your Highness, a guard, Hugo Marchand, is here to see you," said the liveried footman, clad in red and black. "Should I let him in?"

With a sigh, he stacked the reports, which were mostly finished anyway, and drained the dregs of his bitter tea. "Go on, then, but be quick about it."

Moments later, Hugo was standing before Ilyas's desk, hands clasped behind his back. "May I take a seat, sir?"

He took a bite of his breakfast roll, careful not to spill any crumbs onto the various writing implements on his desk. "You most certainly may not."

"Very well, then. I shall tell my news to you as you see fit. Your son... Alastair Durand and the queen have absconded to Atla," he said.

"They should die very quickly there, considering few Atlans are fond of having Mordanian royalty in their lands," Ilyas said, picking some bacon out of the breakfast roll.

"Actually, sir, Queen Jovana seems to have ventured there to claim the Atlan throne," said Hugo, rubbing the nape of his neck with a freckled hand.

"Excuse me?" His breakfast roll dropped onto his plate. "How would she do that?"

"By birthright, you see," he said sheepishly.

"I am well aware of the intricacies and failings of Atlan rule and their dynastic system, Marchand," Ilyas snapped. "What I am not aware of is how exactly Jovana Dusang would realize the blood that runs through her veins."

Hugo's eyebrows rose. "Pardon me, sir?"

"Your ignorance, I cannot forgive," he said. "After all, you are an informant. Your sluggish mind, however, that I shall pardon."

He could see the younger man's temper flaring, but ignored it. Hugo Marchand was nothing more than a yappy dog yipping at his master's heels for food, and Ilyas had never been a generous man. Not with his time, and certainly not with his resources.

"Anyway," Hugo said, his voice like the steps of a man treading on an iced-over lake, uncertain of its weak points. "What would you have me do about the queen?"

"You?" Ilyas's brows rose. "There is next to nothing that you could possibly do for me now, especially regarding Her Majesty Jovana Dusang. You have done far too much to sabotage my mission, and I would thank you, frankly, not to ruin it further."

"I have sacrificed and spied for you!" Hugo Marchand lunged across the desk, but Ilyas was faster, breaking his mug and wielding the shard easily with his leather gloves protecting his hands as he sunk the ceramic point into the younger man's arm.

Hugo gave a holler of pain, anger reddening his face.

"I made you who you are, Marchand," he said levelly. "You can never forget that."

With that, he gave a flick of his hand. "You are dismissed. And if you ever attempt a stunt like that again, you will regret it."

Hugo left, head bowed but simmering with rage. Ilyas rubbed his neck and against his better nature, thought of how his son had similarly attacked him. Was he losing his control over his life, over those around him, or those whom he had thought under his power?

//

Ilyas was taking a walk in the castle grounds when the messenger arrived, out of breath as his horse, as he dismounted from hissteed and flew at him with a letter in hand. The man unwound his thick fur scarf and panted, carrying a note and something else with him, from the anxious expression on his face.

Your Highness, Lord Regent, I have... a letter... for you," he said, panting and doubled over with his leather gauntlet-clad hands resting on his knees. "As well as news. An Atlan woman has come to see you."

"Who is she?" He straightened, taking the letter from his hand with barely a glance at it to ascertain the sender. "And what does she want?"

"She says her name is Nadia Thorne," responded the messenger, slowly catching his breath. "And that she delivers news of her son."

Which son? He wondered. Kaiden or Alastair? Tucking the envelope into the pocket of his jerkin, he hummed to himself as he strolled along toward the gate where they received visitors, easily taking the messenger's mount from him and swinging himself on the horse. He dug his heels into the horse's sides and urged it onward as it made a nickering noise.

When he reached the gate, he saw Nadia standing there, as cool as ever, her hair upswept into a knot encrusted with emeralds; her statuesque figure clad in a sweeping green gown covered by a fur-trimmed redingote.

"This is certainly an unexpected visit," he said as he swung off easily, brushing snow from his cap and rearranging it to sit straight on his head. "To what do I owe this pleasure, Lady Thorne? Or do you remain the queen? I have heard that Atla's dynasty is undergoing a rather... tumultuous time."

"That is exactly what I have arrived to converse with you about, Lord Regent," she said, and her wide smile was as poisonous as the bite from a deadly snake. "I would like to know why you have sent your queen, your protegee, your spy into our courts. Along with, your son."

She spat the last word like a curse she wished to forget but one that had been placed upon her back anyway.

"Last time I checked, my dear Nadia, he was your son as well," he said calmly. "Please, call me Ilyas."

Nadia stiffened, the greys in her hair standing out against the dark strands beneath the emerald snood. "I had not given you leave to use my first name, so do not grant me that same liberty, Lord Regent."

"Lady Thorne it is," he said, offering her his arm. She took it as one might take the paw of an injured bear, trying to see if it was dead or worth a killing blow. "Though I would remind you that you have travelled all the way up north to my own nation, of which I am lord and master."

"Not for long," she responded. "If Jovana Dusang has her way, that girl will be the ruler of Mordania and Atla. Such a thing is unprecedented."

"Yes, well, it isn't as though the two nations have never intermarried," he said calmly, though they were both aware of the progeny that had been created outside of marriage between the two nations. "Surely there have been such instances in the long past of Atla?"

"No," she hissed. "Never has anyone of royal blood attempted to claim the Atlan throne or begin a dynasty there."

"Our son could do the same, you know," he said casually.

Nadia raised an eyebrow, ignoring the mention of Alastair. "And what of you, Lord Regent? How are your powers?"

"None of your business," he said stiffly, ignoring the heat burning from his fingers beneath the gloves that made his palms sweat and made him fight the urge to melt the snow around them. "Did you come to tell me to control Jovana Dusang? I assure you, I have already made an attempt. Many, many attempts, in fact. I'm afraid the girl is simply far too headstrong and willful."

Nadia made a noise of annoyance; apparently, he had offended her sensibilities. He hadn't realized they were quite so delicate as that. "I was not asking you to control her, but this situation. It would be untenable to have one ruler of two countries. Two very vast countries, I might add."

"Why would it be so untenable?" he asked. He himself had harboured such a fantasy of such vast peoples and stretches of land under his control. He would not lie and say the opposite.

"Is Jovana Dusang not your little puppet? Are you not regent here?" she demanded. "Tell me, did you not orchestrate the death of that girl's mother, simply to seize the crown from her head? Yet you cannot, can you? It is impossible for you to even touch it, for the crown would reject you, wouldn't it? You are not descended of the purest line of noble kings..."

"Neither is she," he ground out between his teeth. "We both know that."

"Then ask yourself how she is able to wield both sets of powers, and how that crown manages to fit so neatly on her head," Nadia said, her breath fanning out in a cloud and momentarily obscuring her face.

How, indeed. He would not lie and say he had not wondered that himself. No, Ilyas had spent years trying to figure out why his son had no magic, why he seemed to be incapable of the most basic Mordanian magic such as snapping a finger bone or reading minds, which were the Durand abilities. It was a mystery that had perplexed and irritated him to no end. Why was it that his son showed no signs of Mordanian blood? Perhaps he was not his son at all.

Yet they shared all the same features, from height to hue of hair to eye colour. Why should that one most primitive trait - magic - be different? It didn't make sense to him. It did not make sense, and so he had always despised Alastair for that reason. For being the failure that he had not wanted him to be. He had had dreams of conquering both lands with a son of hybrid powers. Instead, what he had gotten was a magical failure.

"No answer, I presume?" Nadia Thorne said as they entered the foyer of the castle. Soldiers stood on all sides, clad in the red and gold livery of the royal guard, carrying spears and brandishing daggers. "It is alright. It took me many years myself, to figure it out."

Ilyas tamped down his curiosity and desperation, not wishing to appear as though he were begging her for answers. "I'm surprised you would admit that you are anything less than perfect."

She laughed, the same dark, rich sound that had captivated him all those years ago. Delia, his dead wife, had been nothing compared to Nadia, a mere shadow. Only birthing him a daughter before passing away shortly after. Mireille was a flashing thought across his mind now and then, a fleeting remembrance. A sacrifice, that's what she had been. A necessary sacrifice, his own daughter, her skull crushed on the floor of those stones so that the queen could escape...

No. He would not think of her. Nadia cleared her throat. "We have conversed so rarely that it should not surprise you. After all, we barely know one another."

"I know enough to know that you are hiding something from me," he said, wishing to tease the answers out of her.

"Did you know that in Atla, magic runs in the female line?" she said casually.

"Whatever do you mean by that statement?" he said, but his mind was already racing with the implications. Bloodlines! He had scoured the libraries for information but it had always come up lacking in regards to Atlan magic.

"What I mean is that magic is passed from an Atlan mother to her child," she responded. "In Mordania, perhaps, though, it is different."

"Then how would you explain the queen?" he challenged her. "She has both the powers of her mother and her father."

Nadia Thorne's eyes made the slightest narrowing at the memory of her husband's infidelity twenty-two years ago. "I presume that there was some Mordanian mishap there. Tell me, does Mordanian magic run through the male line?"

"No, it also runs through the female line," he said with a frown. "Can you explain this?"

She shrugged. "You tell me. How pure was Jovana Dusang's blood? Tell me, who was her mother?"

"Adaira Dusang," he said, and though she may have been low-born, she was Mordanian through and through. If what Nadia was saying was correct, then Jovana should never have possessed the types of Atlan powers that she did. "Does magic not run through the father's line also? In Atla?"

"It can change, depending on the generation. Sometimes, it is maternal. Other times, it is paternal. Sometimes, it skips a generation completely," Nadia said, shrugging at the erratic and unpredictable inheritance.

Her fur-trimmed gloves brushed her face as she tucked a strand of dark hair behind one ear. They looked out of place on her. All the fur did. He had last seen her as an Atlan, in Atla years ago, wearing green and gold and silk, not heavy furs and cloaks. She did not belong here and she never would. The same way that Jovana Dusang would never belong in Atla.

"And what do I owe you for this information, Lady Thorne?" he said coolly, knowing that life was never so simple as to simply hand down a gift without asking for something in return.

"Have I not already asked for my favour, or do you wish to bless me with another, my dear Lord Regent?" Her smile was coy, ruby lips tilting upward.

"I have already told you that it cannot be granted," he said stiffly.

She shrugged. "Then I am afraid to tell you, Ilyas Durand, that the world shall soon know of the secrets you keep buried so far down. Now, that would not look so good for you, would it?"