Page 28 of The Devil's Canvas

It was a different time, a different world. His Mark appeared first, glowing in that same dull way mine does now. It didn’t matter right away—not to him. Soulmate bonds are rare but not unheard of, and he had lived long enough to know that fate has a cruel sense of humor.

She was mortal. A warrior, they say, one who defied fate itself. My father doesn’t talk about it much, and my mother only smiles wistfully when asked, as if the truth is a secret too precious to share.

But I know one thing as fact—she chose him.

She chose him, and the bond changed everything. She was supposed to die. But the Mark doesn’t care for rules, it doesn’t allow for endings.

She is immortal now. Their souls entwined, their fates sealed.

Julian:Dad. Are you home?

Evander:Yes. I'm with your mother. Your aunt and uncle are here too.

That may actually be a good thing.

I’ve never asked about Aunt Selene and Uncle Theron. Their bond is older than most things, and whatever happened between them isn’t something they offer explanations for.

My father never speaks of it. If he acknowledges it at all, it’s only with a simple“It was always meant to be.”

Theron never speaks of it either. But sometimes, when he looks at her, there’s something unshakable in his expression. Like she is the only thing in existence that has ever made sense.

Aunt Selene only meets his gaze in response, steady and certain. Not unreadable or indifferent. Just… sure.

Julian:Okay. I'll be right over.

I pictured my parents’ living room, took a deep breath—and I was there, standing in front of them.

Liora, my mother, sat closest to the fire, poised and untouchable, her dark eyes sharp, assessing. Power sat on her effortlessly, a quiet, unshakable presence.

Evander, my father, stood behind her, arms crossed, silent but absolute. He had always been a fixed point, a force that never yielded, never broke.

Theron, his brother, my uncle, leaned against the far wall, his expression stoic. He had the same control as my father, the same presence, but where Evander was sheer, immovable force, Theron was a strategist, a blade hidden beneath layers of patience. The kind of power that stayed quiet until it needed to be seen.

Selene sat beside my mother, pale and sharp, her silver eyes unreadable. She was never careless, never rattled. Selene was a blade honed too sharp to dull, one that never struck unless the kill was certain.

Theron’s gaze flickered toward her. She met it without hesitation. A silent conversation. A thread between them that had long been woven, impossible to sever.

They all looked at me now, waiting.

"Son," my father says, his voice calm, certain. "What can we do for you?"

"I—" I am cut off when I hear people entering. Of course, this couldn’t be a conversation alone. They’re all here.

Owen is the first to speak. "You didn’t block your call." His voice is even, controlled, but his expression is sharp, searching. He’s broad-shouldered and built like a warrior. There’s no accusation in his voice, but he’s waiting for an explanation.

Lucas exhales, arms crossed with a smirk tugging at his mouth. "Since when do you screw up?" He’s the tallest of us, lean and deceptively relaxed. He has the kind of face that’s always on the verge of amusement—until it isn’t. He sounds entertained, but his eyes flicker with curiosity.

Damian leans against the wall, arms folded, gaze locked onto me. "Didn’t think that was possible." Dark-haired and quieter than the rest, he fades into the background—watching everything. He isn’t waiting for an answer; he’s already piecing it together.

Seth drags a chair out and drops into it lazily, stretching out like he has all the time in the world. "Maybe he’s finally losing his edge." There’s always something reckless in his posture, something unpredictable in his golden eyes.

Caleb exhales sharply, arms tight across his chest. "We were all pulled into a call because you made a mistake. You never make mistakes." Built solid, with a gaze that sees straight through people, he’s always the one who cuts through the noise. He doesn’t care about the teasing—he wants an answer.

Adrian stands near the back, he hasn’t spoken, but his presence is heavier than all of theirs combined. Dark-eyed, always composed, he watches first, waits second, speaks last. I exhale, rolling my shoulders. "And yet, here we are."

They don’t look convinced. Because Julian Duvain doesn’t make mistakes. And they want to know why this time is different. I don’t say anything. I just roll up my sleeve and show them my forearm.

Owen’s posture shifts—just barely. His arms, once loosely crossed, stiffen for half a second before he schools himself back into stillness. His gaze locks onto the Mark, and I see the flicker of recognition behind his eyes.

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