Cassian stared down coldly at the lifeless homunculus before him. Over the centuries, he'd attempted countless soul recall spells, built vessel after vessel, all to no avail. He was no closer now to bringing back his lost child, Morgan, than he'd been eight hundred years ago. He'd been a healer then; he should've had the skills to save his sick six-year-old. But medicine had failed him, and he'd been forced to listen in anguished silence to the sound of that final, pained breath.

He'd been looking for power beyond what herbs and poultices could offer when he came across a ragtag group of magic users trying to escape persecution. It was with them that he'd first made pacts with the dark to become more than a mere man. Powerful and ageless, he'd led that small group to greatness. Now the Circle was respected and feared in equal measure, and Cassian had endless resources and the world at his fingertips.

Yet still he continued to fail at his only true goal. What would people say, if they knew the true reason behind the Circle's activities? If they knew that their almighty and ruthless leader had driven them to commit countless atrocities, take untold numbers of lives, all for the sake of one centuries-gone child?

"Dispose of the failed vessel," he commanded the hunter who served as his guard—the only person he'd allowed into his private life, who had remained faithfully at his side over the centuries, whom he'd shared his gift of immortality with. "Ensure that no trace of it remains. And tell the alchemy lab their report is...late..."

Cassian clutched at his chest and coughed. He'd been overexerting himself, and his body was feeling the effects. Immortal or no, he was still made of flesh and bones, and as vulnerable to pain as the next man. "Do not look at me like that," he muttered, grimacing. "I'm fine. Do as I asked."