The moment I stepped out of the Thorned Hall, the illusion around my face flickered.
Not much—just a shimmer at the edges of my vision, like heat rising off stone. But it was enough. My real eyes—storm-gray, the color of my mother’s last breath—flashed through for a fraction of a second before I clenched my jaw and forced the glamour back into place.
I leaned against the cold bark of a sentinel tree, pressing my palm flat against its pulse. Elderglen wasn’t just a city. It was alive. The trees breathed. The stones remembered. And right now, every root beneath my feet felt like it was watching me.
My hand still burned where Cassian had touched me.
I looked down. The mark—the Blood Concordance sigil—had faded to a faint tracery of red lines, like the ghost of a scar. But it was still there. Still *pulsing*. Still *real*.
No. Not possible. The Blood Concordance was a myth. A cursed fairy tale told to scare young witches into obedience. It only activated between two pure-blooded witches of matching lineage. Not half-breeds. Not exiles. Not *me*.
And certainly not with *him*.
Cassian was Fae. Pure. Untouchable. The Thorn King. The last thing he could be was witch-blooded.
But then why had the Chalice turned black when I bled into it?
Why had he *felt* it too?
And why, when his hand closed over mine, had my body responded like I’d been struck by lightning—like every nerve had been rewired to crave him?
I pressed my fingers to my temple. Focus. *Focus*. I hadn’t come this far to fall apart over a touch, a mark, a surge of unwanted heat between my thighs.
I had a mission.
Find the truth. Expose Cassian. Avenge my mother.
And this bond—whatever it was—was just another obstacle. Another lie to unravel.
I straightened, smoothing my gown. The Lyon Coven sigil on my wrist glowed faintly under the illusion, a reminder of the role I was playing. Diplomat. Envoy. Neutral party.
But I wasn’t neutral.
I was a weapon.
And I was already inside the walls.
—
The Royal Archives were housed in the Spire of Whispers, a narrow tower of black stone that spiraled into the twilight like a corkscrew. No guards. No locks. Just a single door carved with the sigil of memory—three eyes, one open, one closed, one weeping.
I approached slowly, my boots silent on the mossy path. The air here was heavier, thick with the scent of old parchment and dried herbs. The whispers weren’t metaphorical. Elderglen’s archives were enchanted—every scroll, every book, every drop of ink hummed with residual magic, murmuring secrets to those who knew how to listen.
I placed my hand on the door.
It didn’t open.
Instead, a voice—dry as dust, ancient as bone—whispered directly into my mind.
“Truth or lie?”
I didn’t flinch. “Truth.”
“Prove it.”
I exhaled, then pricked my finger with the silver needle I still carried from the ritual. A single drop of blood fell onto the sigil.
The door groaned open.
Inside, the air was cool, still. Rows of floating shelves spiraled upward, stacked with scrolls bound in thorned vines, books with covers of human skin, jars of preserved eyes that blinked as I passed. At the center of the chamber stood a pedestal—empty. The Archive Keeper, I assumed, was elsewhere.
Good.
I moved quickly, scanning the labels. *Trial Records: 302 A.E.* (After Exile). *Royal Bloodline: Sealed*. *Witch Executions: Index 7–12*. My fingers trembled as I reached for the last one.
But before I could pull it free, a voice cut through the silence.
“Looking for something… personal?”
I froze.
Slowly, I turned.
Lirien stood in the doorway.
She was tall, slender, draped in a gown of liquid silver that clung to her like moonlight. Her hair was pale as bone, her eyes the color of frost. And on her left hand—the ring. A band of black thorn, fused with a single drop of dried blood. The Thorn King’s consort ring.
Or so the rumors said.
She smiled, slow and sharp. “You’re not supposed to be here, *envoy*.”
I forced my voice calm. “The Archives are open to all envoys during diplomatic summits.”
“Are they?” She stepped forward, her heels silent on the stone. “And yet, you’re reaching for records that haven’t been touched in a century. Records sealed by the High Inquisitor himself.”
My pulse spiked. “Curiosity.”
“Curiosity killed the cat,” she purred, circling me like a predator. “But *envy*? Envy gets you flayed alive in this court.”
I didn’t move. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She stopped in front of me, close enough that I could smell her—jasmine and venom. “You looked at him today. At *my* king. With those *eyes*.”
My breath caught.
Did she know?
“I don’t know what you mean,” I said, but my voice wavered.
She leaned in, her lips brushing my ear. “You think you’re the first witch to try to ensnare him? You think you’re the first to feel that *pull* when he touches you?”
My skin prickled.
“He’s *mine*,” she whispered. “He fed me his blood. He let me wear his ring. He *bit* me.”
She pulled back, smiling as she turned her neck—revealing, just for a second, a faint scar just below her ear. A bite mark.
My stomach twisted.
“And you?” she said, stepping back. “You’re nothing. A false name. A borrowed face. A *lie*.”
Then she was gone, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
I stood there, trembling.
Not from fear.
From rage.
And something else—something I didn’t want to name.
Jealousy.
I clenched my fists. I didn’t care about her. Didn’t care about her ring, her blood, her *bite mark*. Cassian was a target. A symbol. A means to an end.
And yet—
I looked down at my hand. The mark still pulsed.
And between my thighs, the ache returned.
—
I didn’t find what I was looking for in the Archives. The records were either missing or warded with blood magic I couldn’t break without drawing attention. But I didn’t leave empty-handed.
I took a scrap—a single page torn from a ledger, dated the night of my mother’s execution. A list of witnesses. One name stood out.
Mira, Oracle of the Veil.
My mentor. My protector. The woman who had smuggled me out of Elderglen ten years ago.
She was still alive.
And she had been there.
I folded the scrap and tucked it into my corset, next to the knife. If anyone knew the truth, it was her.
But I wouldn’t find her tonight.
Because tonight, I had another ritual to survive.
—
The Truth-Sense Ceremony was held in the Moon Garden, a circular clearing ringed with silver trees that wept light. Envoys stood in a ring, hands clasped, as a Fae priestess chanted in the Old Tongue. The purpose was simple: to ensure no lies were spoken during the summit. A thin mist rose from the earth, swirling around us, seeking cracks in our illusions.
I kept my head down, my breath steady. My glamour was strong. Woven from blood and moonlight, reinforced with sigils etched into my skin. It had held through the Chalice. It would hold through this.
But then—
The mist curled toward me.
And my vision *shattered*.
It wasn’t pain. It was worse. It was *unraveling*. Like my skin was being peeled back, layer by layer, until only the truth remained.
I gasped, staggering.
And in that moment—just for a second—my illusion failed.
My violet eyes flickered. Storm-gray flashed through.
And across the circle, Cassian *saw*.
His gold eyes locked onto mine. Not with surprise. Not with anger.
With *recognition*.
My blood turned to ice.
The mist settled. The ceremony ended. The envoys broke apart, murmuring. No one had noticed. No one but him.
I turned to leave.
“You.”
His voice stopped me.
I didn’t turn. “Your Majesty.”
“A word.”
It wasn’t a request.
I followed him into a shadowed alcove, my pulse hammering. The air here was thick with the scent of night-blooming thorn lilies. He turned to face me, his expression unreadable.
Then, without warning, he reached out.
His hand closed around my wrist.
And the bond *ignited*.
Fire. Again. Molten, electric, *inescapable*. It surged up my arm, straight to my core. My breath punched out of me. My back arched. My thighs clenched, slick with sudden, shameful wetness.
His grip tightened.
“You’re not who you say you are,” he murmured, his voice low, rough.
I tried to pull away. “I don’t know what you’re—”
“Don’t.” He stepped closer. His free hand lifted, brushing the side of my face. “Don’t lie to me. I *know* that look. I’ve seen it in the mirror. The eyes of a hunted thing.”
My breath hitched.
“You’re not Lyon blood,” he said. “You’re not even Fae.”
I said nothing.
“You’re a hybrid,” he whispered. “Like me.”
The words hit me like a blade.
My head snapped up. “You—”
“Shh.” His thumb traced my jaw. “I won’t expose you. Not yet.”
My heart pounded. “Why?”
“Because,” he said, stepping back, releasing me, “I want to know *why* you’re here. What you’re after.”
He turned, walking away.
Then, over his shoulder—
“And Seraphina?”
I froze.
He smiled, cold and knowing. “Welcome home.”
—
I didn’t sleep that night.
I sat by the window of my chamber, staring out at the city of thorns and shadows. The bond pulsed beneath my skin, a slow, insistent throb. My body still hummed from his touch. My mind still burned with his words.
Like me.
Was it possible? Was Cassian truly half-witch? Was that why the Chalice had reacted? Why the bond had flared?
And if so—had my mother been telling the truth? Had she been executed not for cursing the royal bloodline… but for *exposing* it?
I pressed my fingers to my temple.
Too many questions. Too many lies.
But one thing was certain.
The game had changed.
I wasn’t just hunting Cassian anymore.
I was hunting the truth.
And he was the only one who might have it.
Outside, the wind stirred the thorns.
And somewhere, deep in the heart of the city, a wolf howled.
The full moon was coming.
And the bond was growing stronger.