The first time I touched the Summer sigil and it *glowed*, I thought I was dreaming.
Not the soft, drifting kind of dream that fades with morning light. No—this was sharper. Deeper. Like the world had cracked open and I’d fallen through, landing in a place where magic wasn’t just real, but *alive*. I stood in the archives, the dust motes hanging in the slanted sunlight like suspended stars, my fingers still pressed to the ancient parchment—a map of the fae realms, etched in silver ink, the sigil at its center shaped like a blooming rose, thorns curling outward like claws.
And then—
It *pulsed*.
Not a flicker. Not a trick of the light. But a slow, steady beat, like a heartbeat beneath my skin. The air thickened. The scent of jasmine and blood curled around me. And for one breathless second, I *saw* it—fields of golden light, palaces woven from illusion, fae with eyes like mirrors and voices like poison. A woman stood at the center, her hair silver-white, her gown the color of dawn, her hand outstretched—not to me, but to someone behind me.
And then—
The vision snapped.
I gasped, stumbling back, my hand flying to my chest. The sigil was still there. Still glowing. But the vision was gone. The archives were silent. The dust motes had settled.
And I—
I wasn’t dreaming.
I was *awake*.
—
It had been five days since the Council meeting. Five days since the Accord of Three Moons was reinstated. Five days since I’d stepped forward in the ritual chamber and spoken the truth, my voice steady, my hand glowing with a power I didn’t understand. Five days since Silas had looked at me—really looked at me—and said, *“You’re not just a handmaiden. You’re something more.”*
And I was.
Not just to them.
But to *me*.
The sigil on my hand—the crescent moon, glowing faintly—hadn’t faded. If anything, it had grown stronger. The wards in the eastern wing hummed when I passed. The mirrors in the residence showed not my face, but flashes of other places, other times. And now—
Now the fae magic was answering me.
Not just responding.
*Calling*.
—
I didn’t tell Indigo.
Not yet.
She had enough to carry—the new Council, the trial, the weight of the Eclipse throne. She didn’t need me adding to it with whispers of visions and glowing sigils. And Kaelen—
Kaelen didn’t trust the fae. Not after Cassian’s lies. Not after Lira’s betrayal. Not after centuries of their games, their illusions, their poisoned oaths.
So I kept it to myself.
Just me.
And the magic.
—
I returned to the archives every night.
Not to study. Not to serve. But to *search*.
For answers. For truth. For the woman in the vision. I pulled down grimoires bound in bone, unrolled scrolls sealed in silver, pried open cases of black iron. The scent of old paper, of ink and magic, clung to my skin. My fingers trembled as I turned pages, my breath shallow, my heart pounding.
And then—
I found it.
Not a weapon. Not a spell.
But a name.
Aelara.
Etched into the margin of a forgotten treaty—the Accord of the Twin Courts, signed centuries ago between the Summer and Winter Fae. Not in ink. Not in blood. But in *light*, like it had been written by magic itself. And beneath it—a note, in a hand I didn’t recognize:
She bore a child. Half-blood. Hidden. Protected. The last of the Summer line.
My breath caught.
And then—
I touched the name.
And the world *burned*.
Not with fire.
Not with pain.
But with memory.
Not mine.
But *hers*.
A woman—silver hair, dawn-colored gown—holding a baby wrapped in shadow and silence. A man—tall, dark, with eyes like storm clouds—standing beside her, his hand on her shoulder, his voice low. *“They’ll come for her. They’ll kill her. You have to hide her.”*
And then—
She was gone.
The vision snapped.
I collapsed to my knees, gasping, my hand pressed to my chest, the sigil on my palm pulsing like a second heartbeat. The archives were silent. The torchlight flickered low. And I—
I wasn’t just Mira anymore.
I was *hers*.
And she was *mine*.
—
I didn’t sleep that night.
Just sat on the edge of my bed, my fingers brushing the sigil, my mind racing. Aelara. The Summer Queen. My mother.
Had to be.
Why else would the magic answer me? Why else would the visions come? Why else would the sigil glow?
And my father—
The man with storm-cloud eyes. Human? Vampire? Witch?
It didn’t matter.
What mattered was that I wasn’t just a handmaiden.
I was *royalty*.
And I had been *hidden*.
—
The next morning, I went to Indigo.
Not in the Council Hall. Not in the throne room. But in our chambers, where the scent of old magic still clung to the air, where the mating mark glowed faintly beneath her collar, where the Black Sigil pulsed beneath her ribs.
She was at the desk, poring over the trial transcripts, her hair loose, her tunic simple, her boots kicked off. She didn’t look up when I entered.
“You’re late,” she said, voice low.
“I was in the archives,” I said.
She finally looked up, those dark eyes locking onto mine. “Again? Mira, you don’t have to—”
“I found something,” I said, cutting her off. My voice was steady, but my hands trembled. “About me.”
She stilled.
Then set down the quill. “Sit.”
I did.
And I told her.
Everything.
The sigil. The visions. The name. The woman in the dawn-colored gown. The man with storm-cloud eyes. The note in the margin. The truth.
And when I was done—
She didn’t flinch. Didn’t gasp. Didn’t question.
She just reached for my hand.
Pressed her fingers to the sigil.
And closed her eyes.
For a long moment, nothing happened.
Then—
The sigil *flared*.
Indigo’s eyes snapped open, molten gold flashing in the dim light. “It’s real,” she said, voice rough. “The magic. The blood. The *line*.”
“Then it’s true?” I asked, my voice breaking.
“It’s true,” she said. “You’re not just half-blood. You’re not just hidden. You’re *hers*. And she’s *yours*.”
Tears burned in my eyes.
And then—
I wasn’t alone.
Not anymore.
—
“What do I do?” I asked, voice low.
She didn’t answer right away. Just studied me—those dark eyes searching, *testing*—then reached for the desk drawer. She pulled out a small, silver dagger—her mother’s, the hilt worn with age—and placed it in my hand.
“You find her,” she said. “Not because you have to. Not because the magic demands it. But because *you* want to.”
“And if she’s dead?” I asked.
“Then you honor her,” she said. “And you claim what’s yours.”
I looked down at the dagger, the metal cool against my skin. “And if the Summer Court comes for me?”
“Then you fight,” she said. “Not with magic. Not with blood. But with *truth*.”
And then—
She pulled me into a hug.
Not soft. Not gentle.
But *hard*—her arms tight around me, her breath warm against my ear. “You’re not just my handmaiden,” she whispered. “You’re my sister. My equal. My *truth*.”
And I—
I didn’t pull away.
Just let her hold me.
Because I wasn’t just Mira.
I was *awake*.
—
That night, I returned to the archives.
Not to search.
But to *call*.
I stood in the center of the forgotten wing, the sigil on my palm glowing faintly, the dagger in my hand. The scent of old paper, of ink and magic, clung to the air. The dust motes hung in the slanted light like suspended stars.
And then—
I spoke.
Not to the world.
Not to the magic.
But to *her*.
“Aelara,” I said, voice low, steady. “If you can hear me—if you’re out there—I’m coming. I’m not hiding anymore. I’m not afraid. And I’m not alone.”
The air stilled.
Not a breath. Not a whisper. Not a heartbeat.
And then—
The sigil *erupted*.
Not with fire.
Not with blood.
But with light.
A pulse of silver-white surged from my palm, rippling outward, silent, unseen by anyone but me. The air thickened. The scent of jasmine and blood curled around me. And then—
I felt it.
Not just in my chest.
In my soul.
A whisper. A breath. A *voice*.
“Find me.”
And then—
It was gone.
The light faded. The chamber stilled. The sigil dimmed.
And I—
I wasn’t afraid.
I wasn’t confused.
I was awake.
And I knew—
This wasn’t over.
It had only just begun.
—
I didn’t go to Kaelen.
Not yet.
But I didn’t have to.
He found me.
Standing in the corridor outside the archives, the dagger still in my hand, my breath shallow, my eyes wide. He didn’t speak. Just stepped forward, his boots soft on the stone, his cloak bending light around him. His molten gold eyes locked onto mine, not with suspicion, not with anger, but with something deeper.
Recognition.
“You’ve seen her,” he said, voice low.
I didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “Aelara. The Summer Queen. My mother.”
He didn’t question. Just studied me—those sharp, observant eyes searching, *testing*—then reached for the dagger. Not to take it. But to trace the hilt with his thumb, his fingers brushing mine.
“She was a friend,” he said. “Not an ally. Not a lover. But a woman who refused to play the games. Who protected the weak. Who hid her child to save her.” He looked up, those golden eyes locking onto mine. “And now you’ve awakened.”
“And if the Summer Court comes for me?” I asked.
“Then I stand with you,” he said. “Not because of the bond. Not because of Indigo. But because you’re *true*.”
My breath caught.
And then—
He stepped closer.
Pressed his forehead to mine.
And whispered—
“You’re not alone.”
—
Later, in the quiet of our chambers, I found the letter.
Not on the desk. Not in the drawer.
But tucked beneath the pillow, the paper thin, the ink smudged. No name. No seal. Just a single line:
The Summer Court demands alliance.
I didn’t speak. Just handed it to Indigo.
She read it once. Then again. Then set it down on the nightstand.
“Then let them demand,” she said, pulling me into her arms. “We’ve faced worse.”
And as I fell asleep in her embrace, the sigil glowing like a brand, the dagger warm against my skin, I knew—
This wasn’t the end.
It was just the beginning.
And I would not be silenced.
Not again.
Not ever.