Damion waited in the east corridor while his guard returned to duty. The man's hand was wrapped in clean linen, fingers stiff but working. He'd burned him three days ago trying to wake the fire magic in his blood. The guard said nothing about it. He took his post outside the training room door and met Damion's eyes with something that looked like understanding. But when the guard turned his back, Damion saw him press his wrapped hand against the doorframe. Not steadying himself. Testing. The fingers flexed once, then held. The guard looked back over his shoulder and spoke quietly. "The ban wasn't written because someone failed, Your Highness. It was written because someone succeeded." He faced forward again before Damion could respond. The words hung in the black stone corridor like smoke. Damion's chest burned where the crossed swords and flame marked his skin. He turned toward the palace training rooms, his father's silence suddenly feeling less like fear and more like a warning he was meant to ignore. The guard reached beneath his uniform and pulled out a black sword, small enough to hide against his ribs. Rubies gleamed in the hilt. Runes ran along the blade in a pattern Damion recognized from old family records. "My grandfather carried this," the guard said. "He served your grandfather. The day the fire ban was written, three men died in the throne room. Their blood sealed the decree." He held the sword flat across his palms. "One of them was the king's brother. He mastered the flame. It didn't stop when he wanted it to." Damion took the sword. The metal was warm. His tattoo pulsed against his chest like a second heartbeat. Now he knew what his father feared, and it wasn't failure. Damion walked past the statue in the main hall, where his father stood carved in grey stone with one boot crushing a flame. The sword raised above the king's head was the same shape as the one Damion now carried. He stopped beneath it and looked up at the carved triumph. The statue had always been there, marking victory over something his father never named. But now Damion understood what it celebrated. His father hadn't banned the magic because it was weak. He'd banned it because it was strong enough to burn everything, even the person who called it forth. Damion slipped the black sword into his belt and headed for the training room. The cost didn't matter. Mastery did.

Damion did not reach the training room. A figure in black plate armor stepped from a side hall, purple cloak dragging the stone. The knight's helm tilted down at Damion's belt. The gauntlet rose, then froze. Behind the visor, breath came short. "Where did you find that sword, Your Highness?" The voice cracked once. Damion's hand closed over the ruby hilt. The knight pulled a yellowed scroll from a hidden pouch. Old calligraphy ran down its edge, listing names Damion had only seen carved into family tombs. "I guard the tower where this blade was logged as buried," the knight said. "My post exists because of it." A gloved finger tapped one line on the scroll. The ink there matched the runes along Damion's blade. "Walk with me," the knight said. "Now. Before someone else sees it." Damion did not walk. He set his feet. "My sister Damina is in the next corridor," he said. It was a guess, but a useful one. "Speak here, or speak in front of her." The knight hesitated, then lowered the scroll. "The king already knows the blade left its vault. A page ran past the throne room an hour ago." The words landed harder than a strike. Damion felt the tattoo over his heart pulse. His father would be waiting. Not summoned later. Waiting now. Footsteps came down the corridor. Slow, even. A small figure rounded the corner, crown catching the torchlight, green eyes fixed on the sword. Vladimir did not raise his voice. "Give it to me." Damion's grip tightened. He shook his head once. Vladimir's mouth did not move. "Then you will carry it to the room where it last killed. We go now." Damion followed his father toward the throne room, the knight three paces behind. The sword stayed at his belt. He had wanted a chance to wake the magic in private. Instead he was being marched to the place it had last burned three men alive. The chapter of hiding was over. Whatever came next would happen in front of the king.