The dagger was small—no longer than my hand—but heavy in it, forged from blackened steel and etched with sigils I didn’t recognize. The hilt was wrapped in worn leather, stained dark at the base. Blood. Old, dried, flaking like rust. And when I turned it over, my breath caught.
Carved into the pommel, barely visible beneath the grime: a tiny rose. Cassia’s mark.
She’d had it since we were children—a silver pendant shaped like a thorned rose, a gift from our mother. When she’d been taken, it was the only thing she’d worn that hadn’t been stripped from her. And now, years later, it was here. On a weapon. Stained with her blood.
I dropped it.
It clattered against the stone floor of the archive vault, the sound too loud in the silence. My hands trembled. My vision blurred. For a second, I couldn’t breathe. The air in the chamber was thick with dust and decay, but all I could smell was fire. Burning flesh. Screams.
Cassia.
She’d been executed in the courtyard of the Eastern Coven, bound to a pyre of blackthorn wood, her wrists shackled with iron cuffs inscribed with Malrik’s sigil. They’d called it justice. Treason. Betrayal of the Blood Tribunal. But I’d known the truth—she was innocent. She’d been framed. And now—now I had proof.
Or did I?
I crouched, fingers brushing the dagger again, careful not to touch the blade. My gloves were thin, enchanted to resist contamination, but I didn’t trust anything in this place. Not the archives. Not the keep. Not the man who ruled it.
Kaelen.
He’d given me access to the records after the wedding—full clearance, no restrictions. “Look for what you need,” he’d said, voice calm, unreadable. “You’ll find nothing that implicates me. But if you do, I won’t stop you.”
Lies. All of it.
And yet—why give me access at all? Why not lock me away, like a proper prisoner? Why let me roam his halls, search his secrets, whisper his name in the dark?
Because he wanted me to find this.
Because he wanted me to believe.
My pulse roared in my ears. I picked up the dagger again, turning it slowly. The sigils on the blade—they weren’t vampire script. Too angular. Too harsh. Fae. A weapon used in binding rituals. A blade meant to draw blood for oaths. For curses.
And Cassia’s blood was on it.
I closed my eyes, fighting the wave of grief, of rage. This wasn’t just evidence. It was a message. A taunt. A trap.
But whose?
Malrik’s? He’d wanted her dead. He’d presided over the trial. Laughed as the flames rose. But he wouldn’t leave a weapon behind. He was too careful. Too precise.
Lirien? She’d worn Kaelen’s ring. Flaunted his shirt. Smiled when she showed us the locket. She wanted me to doubt him. To hate him. To break.
Or—
Kaelen himself.
Had he kept this? Hidden it? Planted it now, knowing I’d find it, knowing it would destroy me?
No.
That didn’t make sense. He’d stopped himself in the library. Walked away when I’d offered my neck. Said he wouldn’t take me unless I chose him. That wasn’t the act of a man who wanted to break me. That was… something else.
Something dangerous.
Because if he wasn’t lying—
If he really had tried to protect her—
Then this dagger wasn’t his doing.
It was someone else’s.
Someone who wanted us to tear each other apart.
I slipped the dagger into the evidence pouch at my belt, sealing it with a sigil of preservation. My hands were steady now. My breath even. The fire in my chest hadn’t died—it had sharpened, focused. This wasn’t just about vengeance anymore. It was about truth. And if someone was manipulating us, I would find them.
I stood, turning to leave the vault. The archive was deep beneath the keep, accessible only by a hidden staircase behind the library. The walls were lined with shelves of ancient scrolls, bound journals, sealed ledgers—centuries of vampire history, politics, war. Most of it useless to me. But Cassia’s name had been missing from the official records. If she’d been here, if she’d been protected, the proof would be in the private logs. The ones Kaelen kept for himself.
And I hadn’t found them.
Not yet.
I reached the top of the stairs, pushing open the false panel that led into the library’s eastern wing. The corridor was empty, torches flickering in their sconces. I moved quickly, silently, my boots making no sound on the stone. I didn’t head for our chambers. Not yet. I needed to think. To process. To—
“Looking for something?”
I froze.
Kaelen stood at the end of the hall, arms crossed, backlit by the torchlight. He wore a black tunic, sleeves rolled to his elbows, his hair slightly disheveled, as if he’d been running his hands through it. His red eyes watched me, unreadable.
“I didn’t hear you,” I said, voice steady.
“You weren’t meant to.”
He stepped forward, slow, deliberate. “You’ve been in the vault for over an hour. Found anything interesting?”
My fingers twitched toward the evidence pouch. I didn’t touch it. “Depends on your definition of interesting.”
“Try me.”
“I found a dagger,” I said. “With my sister’s blood on it.”
His expression didn’t change. But I saw it—the slight tightening of his jaw, the way his nostrils flared, just once. He inhaled, slow, controlled.
“May I see it?” he asked.
“No.”
“Athena—”
“You don’t get to pretend you’re not involved,” I snapped. “This is *her* blood. *Cassia’s*. And it’s on a weapon in *your* archive. How is that possible unless you knew about it?”
“I didn’t.”
“Then how did it get there?”
“I don’t know.”
“You expect me to believe that?”
“I expect you to *think*,” he said, voice sharp. “You’re so focused on hating me, you’re missing the obvious. If I wanted you to find that dagger, I wouldn’t have hidden it in a sealed vault. I’d have left it on my desk. I’d have *given* it to you.”
My breath caught.
He was right.
And that made it worse.
Because if he hadn’t planted it—
Then someone else had.
Someone who knew I’d be searching. Someone who wanted me to find it. Someone who wanted me to turn on him.
“Who else has access to the vault?” I asked.
“Silas. My archivist. A few senior guards.”
“Lirien?”
His jaw clenched. “No.”
“But she was here. In your chambers. Wearing your shirt.”
“She stole it. Like she stole the ring.”
“And the locket?”
“That was real,” he said, voice low. “I kept it. Because she asked me to. Because I failed her. But I didn’t kill her, Athena. And I didn’t plant that dagger.”
I wanted to believe him.
Gods help me, I did.
But the bond was silent. No pulse of truth. No surge of emotion. Just the usual hum beneath my skin, steady, insistent. It didn’t confirm his words. It didn’t deny them.
It just *was*.
“I need to see the private logs,” I said. “The ones from five years ago. The ones about Cassia.”
“I told you—they’re sealed. Protected by blood magic. Only I can open them.”
“Then open them.”
“Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because if I do, Malrik will know. And if he knows I’ve shown them to you, he’ll come for us both.”
“You’re protecting *me*?” I said, incredulous. “After everything?”
“Yes,” he said, stepping closer. “I am. Whether you believe me or not.”
His presence pressed against me—cold fire, dark earth, bloodied roses. The bond flared, a pulse of heat between my thighs. My breath hitched. I didn’t step back.
“You don’t get to do this,” I whispered. “You don’t get to protect me and lie to me at the same time.”
“I’m not lying.”
“Then prove it.”
“How?”
“Open the logs. Let me see the truth.”
He stared at me, his red eyes burning. “And if the truth destroys you?”
“Then let it.”
He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. The corridor was silent, the torchlight flickering across his face. For a moment, I thought he’d refuse. Thought he’d turn and walk away.
But then—
“Fine,” he said. “But not here. Not now. Meet me in the inner sanctum. One hour.”
“Why the delay?”
“Because I need to prepare the ritual. And because I need you to be ready. This isn’t just records, Athena. It’s *memory*. And it will show you things you may not want to see.”
My stomach twisted. “Like what?”
“Like the night she died,” he said, voice raw. “Like the last words she spoke to me. Like the promise I made.”
I swallowed. “Then show me.”
He nodded. “One hour.”
And then he turned, walking down the corridor, his boots echoing in the silence.
I didn’t move.
My hands were shaking again. Not from fear. From anticipation. From the sheer, terrifying possibility that he was telling the truth.
That he hadn’t killed her.
That he’d tried to save her.
And that someone—Malrik, Lirien, someone else—was still lying.
I touched the evidence pouch at my belt. The dagger was cold through the fabric. A piece of the puzzle. But not the whole picture.
Not yet.
I turned and walked toward our chambers, my mind racing. I needed to prepare. To clear my thoughts. To—
“Athena.”
I stopped.
Lirien stood in the doorway of a side hall, leaning against the frame, one hand resting on her hip. She wore a deep violet gown, the fabric clinging to her curves, her silver hair spilling over one shoulder. And around her neck—Kaelen’s ring. Still.
“We need to talk,” she said, voice smooth, like poisoned honey.
“I have nothing to say to you.”
“Oh, I think you do.” She stepped forward, graceful, predatory. “You found the dagger, didn’t you?”
My breath caught. “How do you know about that?”
She smiled. “I know a lot of things. Like how Kaelen kept Cassia’s locket. How he whispered to it every night. How he *cried* when they burned her.”
“You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She tilted her head. “Or am I the only one who sees him for what he really is? A man who plays the hero while letting innocents die?”
“He protected her.”
“Did he?” She stepped closer. “Or did he let her die so he could have *you*?”
My stomach twisted. “That’s not true.”
“Isn’t it?” She reached into the folds of her gown and pulled out a small vial—crystal, stoppered with wax. Inside, a single drop of blood, dark and shimmering. “This is from the dagger. I took it before you did. And I know whose blood it really is.”
My pulse roared. “What are you saying?”
She uncorked the vial, holding it to the torchlight. The blood glowed faintly, threaded with gold—fae essence. Forbidden. Dangerous.
“This isn’t Cassia’s blood,” she said. “It’s *mine*.”
I stared at her. “You’re lying.”
“Am I?” She smiled. “Test it. Use your little witch tricks. See for yourself.”
My hands clenched. She was playing me. Taunting me. But what if—
What if she was telling the truth?
What if the dagger was a fake? A setup? A way to turn me against Kaelen?
“Why would you do this?” I asked. “Why frame me?”
“I’m not framing you,” she said. “I’m *helping* you. You think Kaelen loves you? He doesn’t. He pities you. He sees you as weak. As a liability. And when the time comes, he’ll sacrifice you just like he sacrificed her.”
“No.”
“Yes,” she said, stepping closer. “But you don’t have to be her. You could be *more*. You could take his power. His title. His bed. All you have to do is *choose*.”
“I don’t want his power.”
“Then take *mine*,” she whispered, pressing the vial into my hand. “Drink it. Feel what I feel. Know what I know. And then decide who you really want.”
I pulled back. “I don’t need your blood.”
She smiled. “But you’ll take it. Because deep down, you’re just like me. You want him. And you’ll do *anything* to have him.”
And then she turned, walking down the hall, her heels clicking against the stone.
I stood there, the vial cold in my hand.
The blood inside pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
I didn’t open it.
I didn’t drink it.
But I didn’t throw it away either.
Because for the first time since I’d entered Blackthorne Keep—
I wasn’t sure who the real enemy was.
The fire in my chest hadn’t died.
It had just changed direction.
And I didn’t know where it would lead.
But I would follow.
Even if it burned me alive.