10. The Walk in As Me

"Uh," I murmured, my fingers lightly fidgeting with the edge of the book. I needed to breathe, needed to shift the air between us. I wasn't used to such words. Such attention . "What… exactly is the royal court?"

Davian tilted his head slightly, one brow lifting. "You're curious about that?"

I nodded, keeping my voice low. "I’ve heard my father and brother mention it… during dinners. Mostly complaints. About how the court keeps rejecting the Draevin duchy."

He let out a short breath, almost amused. "Yes. Ever since the Crown Prince took his place in it, things have changed."

My eyes lifted to his. "The Crown Prince? He sits in the court?"

Davian gave a nod. "He does."

I blinked slowly. "Isn’t he… twelve?"

"He is," Davian said, his tone low and thoughtful. "But don’t let the age fool you, he’s clever and powerful. Grew up being groomed to rule, and it shows. He’s got his own circle backing him, loyal to him, not the crown. There’s tension between him and the king....has been for a while now. And honestly? I’d bet on the prince. His voice stirs people. Makes them listen."

I looked down again, absorbing that. A twelve-year-old have more voice than me. Than anyone like me.

"And royal court?" I leaned forward just slightly, my fingers still resting on the open pages of the book between us.

Davian’s gaze shifted to me. "It’s the heart of the kingdom’s decision making. All laws, reforms, punishments, appointments, they go through the royal court. It’s not just the king. There’s the Crown Prince, of course, and a circle of nobles, advisors, and representatives from major duchies."

I gave a small nod, absorbing his words. "And the Draevin duchy… it doesn’t belong in that circle?"

"It used to. Your grandfather had a seat. But after his death, and with how your father runs things now… the court has been keeping its distance."

My grandfather had been a great duke, strict, yes, and every bit the old-school patriarch but he never let injustice slide. No matter who stood in front of him, right was right. My father’s younger brother had followed in his footsteps, holding onto those same values. Life had a kind of dignity back then. A quiet order. Things were better when he was alive.

But I didn’t show any emotion. I just asked quietly, “And the Crown Prince? He already has authority?”

Davian nodded once. "He’s young, but… perceptive. The court listens to him. Maybe more than they do to the king."

Davian leaned back in his chair a little, arms folded as he considered how to explain it all. "The royal court has exactly twenty-one seats," he was explaining yet his voice was tight and quieter, like this part wasn’t usually said aloud in front of women. "Twelve for the high-ranking nobles—dukes, earls, marquesses, each representing a region of the kingdom. Five are reserved for military officials. One for the High Scholar, one for the High Sanctifier, one for the Royal Advisor… and then the last seat is for the monarch."

I listened closely.

"And the queen?" I asked softly. "Does she have a seat?"

Davian shook his head, not surprised by the question. "No. Queens aren’t part of the court."

My lips parted slightly. "Why?"

He hesitated for a moment, then said it the way someone might repeat something they’ve heard too many times. "They say if a woman walks into the royal court, we’ll lose our strength. That her presence would ‘soften’ the room. Make men fight less bravely. Speak less fiercely."

As if courage is something that vanishes in front of silk and skin.

I didn’t speak. Just looked down at the edge of my sleeve and smoothed it between my fingers.

"It’s nonsense," Davian added after a beat. "But it's the kind that’s old. Old enough to be treated like law."

Of course it was.

Of course a woman could birth a soldier, raise him, teach him what bravery is, but not stand in the same room where he would speak for his people.

Davian must’ve noticed how my silence shifted, how the quiet wasn’t soft anymore. It was rigid now. Held tight like a blade sheathed too long.

He exhaled slowly, raking a hand through his hair. "You don’t like that, do you?"

"I don’t understand it," I said, my voice barely above a breath. "Why are women only precious when they’re silent?"

He didn’t answer right away. Just studied me for a long moment before leaning forward, elbows on his knees, like he was finally willing to say something that wasn’t meant for courtrooms or battlefields.

"Because if they spoke," he said, "men would have to listen."

Was that what he believed? Or just something he’d learned watching others?

He kept going, "Most men in the court were raised on pride. They think they belong there just because of their name. And they’re terrified of sharing space with someone they’ve only ever viewed as decoration."

I looked at him from under my lashes, cautious. "Do you believe that too?"

His answer came instantly. "No." His lips curved just slightly, not quite a smile. "Some of the sharpest minds I’ve ever met belong to women. Yours, included."

No one had ever said something like that to me. Not without some cruel add-on. Not without making it sound like an accident. How could such man exist in such a world? Was it deception?

I looked away, unsure what to do with the warmth curling in my chest.

Then Davian straightened again, his tone gentle. "If you ever wanted to visit the court… not as a formality, but to truly see how it works, I could ask. I’m close with the prince. They’d allow it."

My head lifted.

It was a kind offer. He meant well. Davian could offer me anything in this kingdom, and I could probably walk right through the doors if I had his name to carry.

But it didn’t feel right.

I shook my head turning my head away from him. "No. Why would I visit a place that doesn’t even want women inside it?"

"But… as my wife, you could—"

"I don’t want to go somewhere just because I’m someone’s wife." My voice was firmer now but not sharp.. "Someday, maybe… I’ll go there as me."

I turned and looked him dead in the eyes.

"As Cessalie Aelira Draevin. Not anyone’s guest. Not anyone’s shadow."

He didn’t try to argue. Didn’t try to fix it. He just sat there, and I think… I think he finally saw the part of me I never said out loud.

The part that didn’t want to be admired or protected.

The part that wanted to stand.

Later at night, I sat by the dim candlelight, legs tucked beneath me, thumbing through the thick book Davian had left. The spine cracked softly when I opened it, and the scent that wafted out was dry, old paper and magic.

I thought it’d bore me. I thought it’d be just rituals, potions, superstition. But the more I read, the quieter my thoughts became.

They weren’t just witches.

They were disciples.

Ten of them. The chosen ones of Elara’thia , the mother of witches, or maybe something worse. Each had a domain. A legacy. And their bloodlines still echoed across Valkathra.

My eyes clung to two names more than the others: Nyxaréan and Alareil.

Powerful. Calculated. They married for love and ambition to become the most powerful. Their bloodline, the Nyxaréals, became the most potent among all. So potent that it drew hate.

From another disciple’s bloodline. Zerane.

The years didn’t soften the jealousy. Zeranes couldn’t bear to see Nyxaréals rising. So it's descendant summoned a spirit, not just any, but something hell born. Sent it to curse the Nyxaréals. To destroy their name.

But the Nyxaréals didn’t bend. They didn’t break.

They turned the curse back.

Not just escaped it, they reversed it. Banished the spirit and tethered it to Zerane’s bloodline instead.

The spirit’s wrath was immediate.

It cursed the entire Zerane line. Bound itself to them like a parasite. Their wealth withered. Their name became dirt. They fell from grace so fast that no one remembered they had ever stood tall.

They did… unspeakable things to survive. The kind of things people don’t write down unless they’re trying to forget.

And the worst part?

They couldn’t die. Not until they passed the curse down.

The spirit would only let them go if they gave it another body, another life, to haunt. They had to reproduce. And when their child was born, only then could they die. But the curse would start again, in that child. Again. And again. Forever.

It was disgusting. Vicious. Genius.

I stared at the pages for a long time. The ink was faded, but the story burned in my mind, as vivid as fire.

I want to meet them. What were they like? How could someone so powerful live away from the eyes? They didn't desire power over people like us.

I turned the page. Zerane.

How does it feel to be born with something like that inside you?

To know you were cursed even before you had a name?

The next few pages spiraled darker. More detailed. More merciless.

The curse didn’t just poison their lives, it invaded them, crawled under their skin, whispered in their skulls. It toyed with their minds, twisted their sense of self until even their thoughts felt foreign. Their powers, once proud and potent, turned against them.

The moment they tried to summon even a flicker of magic, their bodies shattered under the weight. Bones would splinter like dry twigs. Hearts seized mid-beat. Blood spilled from ears, from eyes, until they went blind, deaf, numb. And then, just when they begged for it to end, it didn’t. Their bodies repaired themselves. Slowly. Horribly. Only to be broken again.

Sleep brought no mercy either. The curse curled into their dreams like smoke, breathing poison into every moment of rest.

Zerane blood comes with a cost.

You are never alone in your own body.

And the worst part? It was right.

I leaned back, the paper trembling just a little in my hand.

No redemption. No freedom. No end unless someone else is born to carry it. I didn't even know if I pitied them. Or feared them. Probably both.

But I couldn’t look away from the story. The name Zerane stuck to my skin.

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