A Broken Inheritance

Chapter 77: With All Due Ceremony

"You make it sound so simple," he muttered.

He looked away again, jaw tight. The candlelight painted fine shadows beneath his cheekbones, catching on the edge of a growing bruise she hadn't noticed earlier—just beneath his collar. Training, probably. Someone had hexed too hard, and no one had bothered to heal it.

"You forget something," she added, quieter now. "I don't have the Mark either."

He turned toward her, surprised. "That's different."

"Is it?"

"You don't need it."

"And neither do you."

Regulus shook his head. "That's not—" He broke off. His shoulders rose and fell with a short, frustrated breath. "That's not how it works. Not for me."

She watched him closely. "Why not?"

"You don't need the Mark," he said, quiet but bitter. "You don't need anything. Even without it, they all know who you are."

Anastasia's gaze didn't waver. "And they don't know who you are?"

"They know I'm the spare. The second son. All I've got is a name and even that, Sirius dragged it through the mud." He gave a soft, derisive laugh. "And even if I do everything right, I'm only here because he isn't."

His voice didn't rise, but it cracked around the edges.

"And you?" he added. "You stand next to Tom without a Mark and still they whisper your name like a warning. You're in the room. I'm still trying to earn a seat."

Anastasia stepped forward, her expression unreadable. "You think a Mark will elevate you? You think it'll make them stop whispering, stop comparing you to him?"

Regulus said nothing.

She reached out and touched the edge of his sleeve—not gently, not as comfort, but to draw his eyes back to hers. "Look around this room. Look at Rosier. Mulciber. Any one of them. Can you honestly say they're above you?"

His lips pressed into a thin line.

"They're foot soldiers in tailored robes," she said. "Privileged. Loud. Disposable. The kind of men who mistake cruelty for strength. Who need a Mark because they've got nothing else."

Regulus glanced toward the crowd again. Rosier was laughing too loudly. Mulciber was making some sweeping gesture with his goblet like he was leading a duel that hadn't happened.

"You're better than that," Anastasia continued, voice lower now. "You have a mind. You have restraint. You have lineage. You're a Black, not a mutt playing soldier."

Regulus exhaled slowly. "It doesn't feel like that's enough."

"It is," she said. "It's more than enough."

"You're wrong."

Anastasia's brow arched. "Am I?"

Regulus turned back to her. "You talk like the Mark is a leash. Maybe it is. But at least it's a visible one. At least it tells people you belong somewhere."

"And what do you think this is?" She held out her hand, the one with the emerald ring. "You think I chose this because I liked the shape?"

He didn't answer. She let the silence stretch a moment longer.

"I don't have the Mark, Regulus. But I'm still owned."

His throat moved, hard and slow.

"You're not free because you have power. You're not safe because they respect you. You're trapped, either way." Her gaze darkened. "Don't chain yourself for the illusion of elevation."