The air in the Charterhouse Academy’s shattered hall still hummed with residual magic—crackling like static, thick with the scent of scorched stone and Fae glamour. The chandeliers hung crooked, their crystals shattered across the marble floor. Blood streaked the walls, black where vampire ash had burned through. And in the center of it all—Elara, trembling in my arms, her breath coming in shallow gasps, her fingers clutching the grimoire like it was the only thing keeping her grounded.
But I wasn’t looking at her.
I was looking at her.
Seraphine.
She stood in the doorway, her silver hair spilling over her shoulders, her gown shimmering between frost and flame, her crimson eyes locked onto mine. Not with hatred. Not with challenge.
With knowledge.
And in her hand—
A vial.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: *“For Power.”*
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
Not because I hadn’t seen it before.
But because she was holding it like a weapon.
Like a truth.
Like a *threat*.
“You’ve been busy,” she purred, stepping into the hall, her boots silent on the blood-slicked stone. “Rescuing children. Defying the Council. Sleeping with the enemy.” Her gaze flicked to Lysander, then back to me. “Tell me, Cordelia—do you still hate him? Or has he finally made you forget your mother’s death?”
My fingers tightened around Elara, but I didn’t answer.
Because the bond—steady now, pulsing between Lysander and me—was no longer screaming.
It was answering.
And I was listening.
“You don’t have to answer her,” Lysander said, stepping beside me, his voice low, rough. His fangs were bared, his aura flaring crimson, his body a wall between us and the Fae. “She’s not here to talk.”
“No,” Seraphine agreed, smiling. “I’m here to warn you.”
“Warn us of what?” Mira asked, stepping forward, her dagger drawn, her stance tense. “That Nyx sent assassins? We already knew that.”
“No,” Seraphine said, her voice dropping. “That she’s coming for the grimoire. Not just to destroy it. To use it.”
Elara stiffened in my arms.
“The grimoire?” I asked, my voice sharp. “Why?”
Seraphine’s smile faded. “Because it’s not just your mother’s spellbook. It’s a key. A bloodline artifact. And if Nyx gets it, she won’t just break your bond—she’ll break the Accord. She’ll rewrite the truth. And she’ll make it look like you did it.”
My blood ran cold.
Because she was right.
I’d felt it the moment I touched the grimoire—something deeper than magic. Something older. A hum beneath the runes, a pulse in the ink, a whisper in the spine. It wasn’t just a book.
It was a legacy.
And now—now I knew what my mother had died to protect.
“Then we destroy it,” Lysander said, his voice flat. “Before she can take it.”
“No,” I said, stepping forward. “We use it.”
He turned to me, his crimson eyes burning. “You don’t know what it can do.”
“I know what I can do,” I said. “I’m not just a witch. I’m a Vale. And my bloodline doesn’t just see lies.”
“What does it do?” Mira asked.
I exhaled, a slow, controlled breath. “It breaks contracts. Not just magical ones. All of them. Blood pacts. Oaths. The Accord itself. If I perform the Rite of Unveiling with the grimoire, I can expose the truth—about the massacre, about Nyx, about everything.”
“And if it kills you?” Lysander asked, his voice tight.
“Then it kills me,” I said. “But my mother died for this. And I won’t let her sacrifice be in vain.”
Long silence.
Then—
Seraphine laughed.
Not cruel. Not mocking.
With something like relief.
“You’re not like the others,” she said, stepping closer. “You don’t just want revenge. You want truth.”
“And you?” I asked. “What do you want?”
She didn’t answer.
Just held out the vial.
“Take it,” she said. “It’s not a weapon. It’s a record. Fae blood carries memory. If you extract it, you’ll see what happened last winter. You’ll see why I did what I did.”
I stared at her.
Not with suspicion.
With recognition.
Because she wasn’t just a rival.
She was a survivor.
And in this world—
That made her dangerous.
But not my enemy.
“Why give it to me?” I asked.
“Because I’m tired of lying,” she said. “And because if Nyx wins, we all lose.”
I took the vial.
The glass was cold against my skin, the dried blood inside dark as sin. But it wasn’t just blood.
It was a memory.
A truth.
And I was going to use it.
---
We left the school at dawn.
Not to Geneva. Not to Lyon.
To London’s undercity—a labyrinth of forgotten tunnels beneath the Thames, where the old covens once gathered, where the magic was thick and unmonitored, where no vampire or Fae dared to tread.
The entrance was hidden beneath a rusted manhole in Whitechapel, its cover etched with runes that pulsed faintly in the low light. Mira went first, her dagger drawn, her senses sharp. Elara followed, her hand gripping mine, her face pale but determined. Lysander brought up the rear, his presence a storm, his fangs grazing his lower lip in concentration.
And me—
I carried the grimoire.
Not in my arms.
In my blood.
Because the moment I’d touched it, something had awakened.
Not just the magic.
The lineage.
My mother’s voice—faint, distant, but real—whispered in the back of my mind. Not in words. In feeling. In memory. In the way my fingers trembled when I traced the runes, the way my breath caught when I read the incantations, the way my magic flared when I spoke the old tongue.
She was still with me.
And she was guiding me.
The tunnels were narrow—stone walls slick with moisture, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and old magic. The only light came from Mira’s torch, its flame flickering with blue fire, casting long, wavering shadows across the walls. And then—
We felt it.
Not a sound. Not a sight.
A pull.
Deep in the earth. Deep in the magic. Deep in my blood.
“It’s here,” I said, my voice low. “The sanctum.”
Lysander didn’t ask how I knew.
Just followed.
We turned a corner—then another—then another—until the tunnel opened into a vast chamber, its ceiling lost in shadow, its walls lined with ancient runes, its floor carved with a massive sigil. At the center—
A stone altar.
Black as obsidian, its surface etched with the same runes as the grimoire, its edges stained with old blood.
And above it—
A single word, carved into the stone:
Vale.
My breath caught.
Because this wasn’t just a sanctuary.
It was a birthplace.
“This is where your coven performed the Rite of Unveiling,” Mira said, her voice hushed. “The last one was the night they died.”
I didn’t answer.
Just stepped forward, my fingers brushing the altar, the runes flaring beneath my touch. The grimoire trembled in my hands, its pages whispering, its ink glowing faintly.
And then—
I saw it.
Not a vision.
A memory.
My mother—standing here, her storm-gray eyes burning, her dagger raised, her voice chanting the incantation. The air crackling with magic. The sigil flaring with light. And then—
Nyx.
Appearing in a swirl of frost and shadow, her gown shimmering like frozen roses, her eyes like shards of ice. “You cannot break the Accord,” she said. “It is law.”
“It is lies,” my mother said. “And I will burn them all.”
And then—
The fire.
The roof caving in.
Elara screaming.
Lysander in the shadows, his crimson eyes burning with grief.
And my mother—
Throwing herself in front of the altar.
Shielding the grimoire.
Dying.
“Cordelia.”
Lysander’s voice cut through the memory like a blade.
I turned to him, my vision blurred with tears, my breath unsteady. “She didn’t die for nothing.”
“No,” he said. “She died to protect you.”
“No,” I said. “She died to protect this.”
I placed the grimoire on the altar.
And then—
I took the vial.
“The Rite of Unveiling requires blood,” I said, my voice steady. “Not just mine. Theirs.”
“And if it kills you?” Lysander asked, stepping closer.
“Then it kills me,” I said. “But if I don’t do it, the lies win. And I won’t let that happen.”
He didn’t argue.
Just nodded.
And then—
I broke the vial.
The glass shattered in my palm, the dried blood inside dissolving into a shimmering mist that curled through the air like smoke. I raised my hand, my dagger in the other, and sliced across my palm.
Blood welled—dark, rich, alive—and I let it drip onto the grimoire, onto the altar, onto the sigil.
And then—
I began to chant.
The words came not from memory, but from blood. From the lineage. From the magic that had been passed down through centuries of Vales. The runes flared—gold, then crimson, then black—light pulsing through the chamber, the air crackling with power.
And then—
The memory came.
Not mine.
Hers.
Seraphine.
Last winter. The Shadow Court. A rival’s poison in her veins. Weak. Bleeding. Dying. And then—
Lysander.
Standing over her, his crimson eyes burning, his voice low. “I can save you. But not with magic. Not with medicine. With blood.”
“And if I refuse?” she asked.
“Then you die,” he said. “And your death starts a war I don’t need.”
She didn’t hesitate.
Just nodded.
And he gave her the vial.
Not in passion.
Not in desire.
In mercy.
And then—
The vision ended.
I gasped, collapsing to my knees, my breath coming fast, my magic flaring. The grimoire glowed—its pages shimmering with truth, its ink burning with power.
“You saw it,” Lysander said, kneeling beside me, his hand on my back.
“I saw everything,” I whispered. “The truth. The lie. The debt.”
“And now?” Mira asked.
I looked up, my storm-gray eyes burning. “Now we go to war.”
“With what?” Elara asked.
I stood, my body trembling, my blood still dripping from my palm. And then—
I smiled.
“With the truth,” I said. “And I’m going to make them see it.”
---
Later, as the sun rose over London, as the city lights flickered to life, I found it.
Hidden in the inner seam of his coat—a vial of blood.
Old. Dried. Labeled in delicate script: “For Power.”
And beneath it, a name.
Seraphine.
My breath caught.
He’d lied.
Again.
But this time—
I wasn’t afraid.
Because the bond hummed between us, a live wire of magic and desire, and I knew, with cold certainty, that I wasn’t losing.
I was winning.
And if he thought I wouldn’t find the truth—
He didn’t know me at all.
But I knew him.
And I would spend every damn day proving I deserved it.