dark fantasy · supernatural · protective sister · criminal underworld · dissociative identity disorder · grief · brass knuckles · political intrigue · trauma recovery · tragic romance
The council chamber smelled of dust and old power, the silence a thick blanket under the vaulted ceiling. I sat at the head of the long table, my father’s signet ring loose and cold on my finger—a crown that didn’t fit. Shadows clung to the other Elders, their gazes like needles testing my skin. The pressure in my chest was a double weight: grief for Cassius, and the secret I carried about Jasper’s splintering mind. Then Corbin Vale’s palm slammed down on the polished wood, the sound cracking through the quiet. He leaned in, his third eye glinting with a bitter light as he pushed for sanctions against my brother. My own hand tightened on the arm of Cassius’s chair until the carved edges bit into my palm. I leaned forward, strands of dyed blue hair falling across my vision as I…