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.

The throne room doors stood open ahead. Vladimir walked toward them without a word. Then quick footsteps sounded behind Damion. His youngest sister, Damina, caught them at the threshold. She held a leather folder against her chest. Her blue eyes stayed fixed on their father, not on Damion. Damion knew that look. She had decided something and could not take it back. "Wait," Damina said. Her voice stayed flat, but her hands shook. "You should see this first." She opened the folder. Inside lay charred practice slates, a scorched glove, and pages of Damion's own handwriting. Notes on the fire magic. Dates. Months of them. "He hasn't tried twice," she said. "He's been practicing in secret since spring. I found where he hides it." Damion felt the tattoo over his heart go tight. His sister had opened him like a book in front of the king. He said nothing. There was nothing to deny. Diana stepped from behind Vladimir. Their mother had been standing at his right, silent until now. She took one page from the folder and read it. Her soft face did not move, but her hand curled around the paper. "Vladimir," she said quietly. "The last one who learned this burned in that room. He was a grown man. Damion is your son." She did not raise her voice. She rarely did. "You can end this now." Damina looked between them. "I thought you would stop him," she said to their father. "That was the point." Her jaw set. She had expected a summons and a punishment, the same as before. She had not expected the king to go still. Vladimir did not shout. He looked at the burned slates for a long moment. Then he looked at Damion. "You will not stop," he said. It was not a question. "No," Damion said. "I won't." "Yelling has not worked. Punishment has not worked." Vladimir spoke as if reading a ledger. "So I offer terms instead." Diana's head turned sharply toward her husband. This was not the man she had learned to manage. "You may learn the magic," Vladimir said. "Under my instruction. In the room where it kills, where I can watch you. Nowhere else. You touch it once outside my sight, and I take the sword and burn every page." The throne behind him caught the torchlight, red stone and gold. Damion understood the trade. His father was not surrendering. He was pulling the fire close, where he controlled it. "Why?" Damion asked. "Because you would die hiding it," Vladimir said. "I prefer you useful." Damion looked at Damina. She had wanted him caged. Instead she had handed him the door. "I accept," he said. Damina closed the empty folder. Diana set the page down like something too heavy to hold. Vladimir turned and walked into the throne room. "Then we begin," he said. "Bring the sword." Then Vladimir paused. “Oh, and one more thing.” He looked Damion in the eye. “You will also find Astra and bring her and her werewolf companion back to face trial for her betrayal.”