The first time I touched the wedding gown, I knew it was cursed.
Not because of the silk—though it was strange, woven with threads of moonlight and shadow, shimmering faintly under torchlight, like it had been spun from dreams. Not because of the embroidery—though the Eclipse sigil across the bodice pulsed with a quiet fire, its indigo veins glowing like a heartbeat. Not even because of the way the fabric seemed to breathe in my hands, shifting like water, responding to my touch.
But because of the *thread*.
One single strand—thin, almost invisible—woven through the hem, stitched into the lining like a secret. Not silver. Not gold. Not even magic as I knew it. But something older. Something darker. Something that *hissed* when I brushed it with my thumb.
And then—
The sigil on my hand flared.
Not the crescent moon—my own, my *awake* mark. No. This was different. Sharper. Colder. A pulse of golden light surged up my arm, searing through my veins, and for one breathless second, I *saw* it.
Not a vision.
A *memory*.
Not mine.
But *hers*.
A woman—silver hair, dawn-colored gown—kneeling in a hidden chamber, her hands moving fast, her breath shallow, her eyes wide with something I couldn’t name. Fear? Regret? Or just… *truth*? She was stitching the thread into the fabric, her fingers trembling, her voice low, whispering in a language I didn’t understand. And then—
She looked up.
Not at me.
But *through* me.
And she said—
“They’ll come for her. They’ll kill her. You have to hide her.”
And then—
The vision snapped.
I gasped, stumbling back, my hand flying to my chest, the sigil pulsing like a second heartbeat. The chamber was silent. The torchlight flickered low. And I—
I wasn’t just Mira.
I was *hers*.
And she was *mine*.
—
I didn’t tell Indigo.
Not yet.
She had enough to carry—the wedding, the Council, the weight of the Eclipse throne. She didn’t need me adding to it with whispers of curses and golden threads. 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.
—
The gown was supposed to be a gift.
From the Summer Court. Delivered in a black velvet box, no name, no seal, just a single line of script in gilded ink: *“For the Eclipse Queen. May her union bring peace.”*
Peace.
That’s what they always said. Peace. Unity. Harmony. As if they hadn’t spent centuries trying to erase us. As if they hadn’t funded Cassian. As if they hadn’t used Lira like a blade in the dark.
And now they sent a *gown*.
Indigo had been suspicious. I could see it in the way her fingers had hovered over the box, the way her fangs had bared just slightly, the way the mating mark on her neck had pulsed. But Kaelen had taken it—opened it with his own hands, his molten gold eyes scanning the silk, his expression unreadable.
“It’s beautiful,” he’d said, voice low.
And it was.
But beauty wasn’t truth.
And I knew—
This wasn’t a gift.
It was a *trap*.
—
I returned to the chamber every night.
Not to serve. Not to watch. 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 chamber was 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 the seamstress.
Not in the Council Hall. Not in the throne room. But in the eastern wing, where the old weavers worked—women with fingers like spiders, eyes sharp with centuries of secrets. They didn’t question when I entered. Just bowed their heads, their needles still, their breaths quiet.
“You’ve seen it,” one said, voice low.
I didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “The thread. The curse. It’s Summer magic.”
They didn’t deny it. Just exchanged glances—fleeting, sharp, *knowing*.
“It’s not just a curse,” the eldest said, stepping forward. Her hands were gnarled, her skin paper-thin, but her eyes—black as obsidian—were sharp. “It’s a *binding*. A vow. A promise.”
“What kind?” I asked.
“One of blood,” she said. “One of silence. One that breaks the bond.”
My breath caught.
And then—
She reached for the gown.
Not to take it. Not to destroy it.
But to *unfold* it.
The silk spilled across the table, shimmering, shifting, the Eclipse sigil glowing faintly. And there, at the hem—
The thread.
Thin. Golden. *Alive*.
“It was woven by Aelara herself,” the seamstress said, voice hushed. “Before she vanished. Before the Court turned on her. She knew they would come for her child. So she made this—” She touched the thread. “—a failsafe. A way to protect. But also a way to *control*.”
“Control?” I asked.
“If the child wears it,” she said, “the bond will break. The magic will fade. The truth will be silenced.”
My blood ran cold.
And then—
I understood.
This wasn’t just a trap for Indigo.
It was a *test*.
A test of loyalty. Of truth. Of blood.
And if Indigo wore it—
She would lose everything.
—
I didn’t go to Indigo.
Not yet.
But I didn’t have to.
She came to me.
Standing in the corridor outside the weavers’ chamber, her tunic loose, her boots bare, her ring glowing faintly on her finger. The mating mark on her neck pulsed, warm and alive, feeding on her presence, on the bond, on the sheer need that had been building since the moment their hands touched.
She didn’t speak. Just stepped forward, her boots soft on the stone, her cloak bending light around her. Her dark eyes locked onto mine, not with suspicion, not with anger, but with something deeper.
Recognition.
“You’ve seen it,” she said, voice low.
I didn’t flinch. Just nodded. “Aelara. The Summer Queen. My mother.”
She didn’t question. Just studied me—those sharp, observant eyes searching, *testing*—then reached for the gown. Not to take it. But to trace the hem with her thumb, her fingers brushing the golden thread.
And then—
She *flinched*.
Not in pain. Not in fear.
But in recognition.
“It’s a binding,” she said, voice rough. “One that breaks the bond. One that silences the truth.”
“And if you wear it?” I asked.
“I lose him,” she said. “I lose the throne. I lose *everything*.”
My breath caught.
And then—
She stepped closer.
Pressed her 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 Winter Court is moving.
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 move,” 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.
—
The next day, I burned the gown.
Not in the hearth. Not in the courtyard. But in the old ritual chamber beneath the city—where the ley lines pulsed strongest, where the wards were thickest, where no magic could escape.
I laid it on the stone, the silk shimmering, the golden thread glowing faintly. Then I pressed my palm to the sigil on my hand and whispered the incantation Indigo had taught me—words in a language older than the coven, older than the Dominion.
“Veritas sanguis. Veritas vinculum. Veritas cor.”
Truth in blood. Truth in bond. Truth in heart.
The sigil flared—bright, undeniable, real—and the fire surged, not red, not orange, but *indigo*, a pulse of light that consumed the silk, the thread, the curse. The air thickened. The scent of jasmine and poison curled around me. And then—
A scream.
Not loud. Not commanding.
But everywhere.
“You dare destroy what is ours?” it said, smooth, silky, dripping with false sorrow. “You dare break the vow? You dare silence the truth?”
I didn’t flinch. Just stepped forward, my boots clicking once on the stone. “The truth isn’t yours to silence,” I said. “It’s mine to *awaken*.”
The fire roared.
And then—
The scream vanished.
The voice was gone.
But the threat remained.
—
I didn’t go to Kaelen.
Not yet.
But I didn’t have to.
He found me.
Standing in the corridor outside the ritual chamber, the ashes still warm in my hands, 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 my hand. Not to take it. But to press his palm to mine, his fingers brushing the sigil.
“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 final 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 Winter Court is moving.
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 move,” 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 over.
It had only just begun.
And I would not be silenced.
Not again.
Not ever.