Page 2 of The Syndicate’s Shadow Heiress (Branche de Lune Syndicate #1)

SHADOWS AND SCHEMES

Kali's Emotional State: Still burning. Calm on the outside but calculating. Driven by legacy, haunted by guilt. Grief disguised as control.

T

he grief hadn’t faded, it had calcified into something sharper.

Even here, at the Syndicate’s heart, she felt his echo.

In the weight of the ring at her throat.

In the silence between orders. In the corners where shadows lingered, like they were still waiting for his return.

The air reeked of scorched vampire, like burnt incense and retribution.

Kali’s stilettos cracked sharply against the black marble, the sound slicing through the heart of the Syndicate HQ, Branche de Lune’s crown and spine. Her posture was all sharp lines and buried fury, even as shadow tendrils curled around her heels like affectionate wolves.

Irina waited at the double doors of Kali’s private suite. Ex-assassin. Now operations chief. As loyal as she was lethal.

“Still breathing,” Irina said, flat voice, harder eyes. Kali paused for the briefest second, catching her gaze. No salute. No bow. Just certainty, like Irina would bleed out anyone who dared to challenge her, without needing to be asked .

The anger inside Kali didn’t soften. It sharpened, focused by the weight of that silent allegiance. Her lips twitched. Something almost like gratitude, buried so deep only Irina would know how to see it.

"I was feeling generous," Kali muttered. "Or maybe I’m just saving him for dessert."

Irina’s smirk was nearly invisible. She stepped aside without comment.

The private suite wasn’t opulent. It didn’t flaunt wealth.

It broadcasts power wrapped in steel. Surveillance feeds from all thirteen global branches streamed across one wall.

Magical hotspots flickered like cursed stars on an enchanted map, a rune-locked case of artifacts lined another, some illegal, all dangerous.

Kali shrugged off her coat, throwing it over a velvet-backed chair. Her hand lingered briefly at her throat, brushing the ring her grandfather had left her. The metal was cool now, but she remembered when it had burned, when it pulsed like it still carried his heartbeat.

Without looking, Kali heard the clink of crystal against crystal, the sound of Irina pouring whiskey from the sideboard. A moment later, a glass slid silently onto the table beside her. No words. No orders. Just the quiet offering.

Kali’s throat tightened for one reckless second before she crushed it under armor and habit. She picked up the glass filled with her favorite Hibiki Harmony Japanese Whisky without thanks. Irina would understand. She always did.

Legacy was a nice word for a noose .

"I made a correction today," Kali said, watching one of the feeds flicker red.

"You made a statement," Irina replied. "Lucian won’t challenge you again."

"He’ll recover. Vampires are annoyingly hard to kill. But his pride?" Kali exhaled. "That’ll limp forever."

Irina handed her a tablet. "Parisian node pinged. Azareal’s lieutenant…. the illusionist…is digging through the enchantment circuit again."

Kali scanned the report. Her fingers paused over a pulsing sigil embedded in the file—a blood-siphoning rune, curved unnaturally, humming off-key. She blinked. The symbol didn’t just hum. It watched her.

And for a heartbeat, Kali’s vision doubled, the room twisted. A low echo rang inside her skull like a chime struck in bone. A whiff of smoke, burning jasmine? The shadows at her waist cinched tight.

"A Spiral mark," she whispered.

Irina’s brows drew together. "You know it?"

Kali didn’t answer. Her palm burned, the same hand she'd cut three nights ago. The scar pulsed, a phantom itch. Like a door she’d closed... but maybe hadn’t locked.

She hadn’t been there when he died. Not really .

The sigil didn’t just hum, it snapped like a scream through bone. The room spun, and her mind buckled under a memory it never asked for.

Not again, she thought.

But the Spiral didn’t ask permission. Her vision blurred.

Three nights ago...

The air in the ritual chamber had been candle-thick, choked with incense and memory. Her grandfather’s body lay beneath black silk, salt lines circling his bier like armor. Astraeus hovered just beyond the veil, unseen but palpable.

Kali stood barefoot in a ritual circle. Her pulse hammered between her teeth. In her hand, a ceremonial dagger with a blade of shadowglass, blackened and ancient.

"Speak it," Astraeus commanded.

She sliced her palm. Blood dripped into the ritual bowl of Hollow-forged stone, each drop a promise it could not forget.

"I, Kali Allani Branche de Lune, swear on blood, bone, and shadow: I will not ask for the crown. I will bleed for it. I will take what is rightfully mine."

The shadows around her snapped like banners in a storm. Her blood boiled. The ring around her neck pulsed once….

And she felt it .

The Gate. Breathing. Watching. Wanting.

Back in the present .

Kali’s hand flexed. The skin had scarred already, but it still itched like a curse. Like a door not fully closed. Like a chance missed.

"I’ll handle the lieutenant myself," she said, her voice colder than Irina had heard in weeks.

Irina hesitated. "You sure? That sigil—"

"I said I’ll handle it."

That edge wasn’t just rage. It was recognition and guilt. Because Azareal’s timing wasn’t convenient. It was coordinated. And her grandfather’s last breath hadn’t been natural. It had been stolen.

"Senator Chastain?" Irina prompted, breaking the thickening silence.

Kali exhaled. "Of course he’s agreed. Nothing peels bravado like blackmail."

"Club Noire tonight?"

"Cameras. Crystals. Audio sigils. I want his soul contract loaded and lit."

"Yes, ma’am."

Irina turned to leave, but Kali’s voice stopped her .

"Wait."

Irina turned.

"Thank you," Kali said quietly. "For not flinching."

Irina nodded once. "Even shadows flinch. Just not when you're watching."

Irina didn’t flinch. Not for enemies. Not for Kali. But the softest thing about her was that she never expected thanks.

A faint hum shimmered through the air, brushing against the edges of the enchanted skylight as a rune-glow flared over the war table.

Two holo-figures snapped into view, projected in layered light and static.

Jax Calder appeared first, tall, sharp-lined, and coiled in black and gray.

His eyes were unreadable, sleeves rolled up, holo-maps flickering around him.

Cassian Rook leaned lazily against the projection’s edge, all swagger and blades, a smirk half-formed on his face and two throwing knives tucked behind his wrists like promises he couldn’t wait to keep.

“Speak,” Kali said, not turning.

Jax’s voice was low, measured, and exact. “Three more sigil breaches. One minor bleed in the Manhattan node. Paris and Dublin are stable, for now.”

“Belladonna?”

“Still posturing. No direct moves. But her proxies are hunting. ”

Cassian slid into the feed a little deeper, gaze gleaming with amusement. “Your little bloodsucker senator is sweating hard enough to flood half the eastern coast.”

Irina snorted.

“You want me to tighten the noose, or let him keep choking on it himself?” Cassian asked, voice velvet and venom.

Kali finally turned, shadows trailing from her hands like smoke from a forge.

“Tighten it.”

Cassian grinned. “With pleasure, Kali.” Always smiling. But Kali had seen him kill without blinking. Maybe the grin was just what he wore to keep the blade hidden.

Jax simply nodded. “You’ll have a full rundown before midnight. We’ll keep the threads sharp.” Jax never said more than necessary. Efficient. Deadly. But sometimes she wondered if he measured people the same way he measured threats.

The holo-feed blinked out.

Irina raised an eyebrow. “And they say we’re the scary ones.”

Kali glanced toward the rune-locked case across the room, her hand twitching at her side.

“They’re not wrong.”

Kali turned to the rune-locked case and placed her hand against the warded glass. It hissed open. She reached for the dagger Astraeus had given her—steel laced with black shadow. It pulsed like a heartbeat in her grip .

The same pulse. The same hunger. The same vow.

Somewhere beneath the city, the Spiral was stirring. Azareal was watching. And Kali? She was done playing nice.

INTERLUDE — THE LAST QUIET FLAME (Hollow Crown Academy, three days before the Sovereign Oath)

The courtyard smelled like spring and starlight—fresh grass, dragon-forged soil, and the faint flicker of wardfire drifting from the enchanted lanterns overhead.

Kali stood beneath the shadow of the central spire, watching a girl no older than six attempt her third levitation spell. The light globe hovered for half a breath, then burst with a soft crack. The child winced.

“Again,” Kali said, voice low. Not unkind. Just steady.

The girl looked up at her with wide eyes. Then nodded.

Across the courtyard, Cradle Mothers rocked infants in floating cradles.

Young Sovereigns trained in silent pairs on the outer mats—practicing shielding magic with grounded grace.

Bonded creatures dozed in the sunlight. Hellhounds, therapy horses, winged familiars curled into the grass like this place was the only safe thing left in the world.

Because it was.

The Hollow Crown Academy didn’t exist in reports. It didn’t answer to the Syndicate’s councils. It was older than paperwork and stronger than politics. It was Kali’s answer to every broken system that had failed kids like her .

A place where magic wasn’t punished, where loyalty was earned, not forced, and where Sovereign-blooded children didn’t bleed alone.

The children who came here weren’t just magical—they were discarded.

Many had been labeled dangerous by the mortal world.

Autism. ADHD. Rage Reactive Disorder. Schizophrenia.

Diagnoses that became cages. She had seen too many of them locked away, drugged, silenced.

Here, they were seen. Trained and protected.

Their magic wasn’t muted—it was sharpened.

“You should sleep more,” murmured one of the Cradle Fathers at her shoulder.

“I will when they stop coming here with scars,” Kali replied. Her gaze never left the training grounds.

He didn’t argue. No one did.

A small boy tugged at her coat. In his hands was a scorched flower crown—petals fire-charred and woven into lopsided arcs.

“For the baby dragons,” he said. “So they don’t forget where they came from.”

He whispered something under his breath as he handed it to her—a line she’d heard passed between children in shadowed corners and training halls.

“Veyr’kael. Zarok’thae draeka. Sol’vryn zarok’kae.” ( We rise. Flame to flame. Shadow to Sovereign.)

Kali took it without a word.

Astraeus’s voice echoed through her bones—not summoned, just there .

“Zarok’thae veyr'sol. Draeka’kaar veyr'thal. Sol'thrae ven'sorin.”

(They are your flame. Your rebellion. Guard it like blood.)

She would, whatever else came—Azareal, Belladonna, the Spiral’s return—she could lose it all. But not this. The Academy wouldn’t burn. She’d burn the world first. Then came the buzz, the sigil burn, the call. Her ring pulsed against her chest, searing hot.

And far away, the man who raised her, who left her the crown and the curse, exhaled his last breath.

And Kali began to bleed for the legacy she never wanted.