The air in the Blood Tower’s private archives is thick with the scent of old parchment, dried blood, and the faint metallic tang of ancient magic. Dust motes drift in the narrow shafts of dawn light that slice through the high, arched windows, illuminating rows of blackened bookshelves, iron-bound tomes, and scrolls sealed with wax the color of dried roses. This is not a library. It’s a tomb of secrets. A vault of lies. And somewhere in its depths—buried beneath centuries of forged decrees and falsified records—is the truth I’ve spent my life hunting.
The truth that Cassian D’Vaire signed my mother’s execution order.
Or so I believed.
I move through the silence, my bare feet whispering against cold stone, my fingers trailing over spines etched with vampire runes. The sigils on my arms pulse faintly—golden lines that have stopped hiding, stopped fading, stopped pretending. They burn now, not with magic, but with certainty. I am no longer the woman who came here to destroy. I am the heir who has returned. The claimant. The chosen. And I will not leave this place until I know what really happened the night my mother burned.
Behind me, Cassian leans against the doorway, arms crossed, fangs retracted, his presence a quiet storm. He didn’t argue when I said I needed to come here. Didn’t try to stop me. Just followed, silent, watchful, his black eyes tracking every shift in my expression, every tremor in my breath.
He knows what I’m looking for.
And he’s afraid of what I’ll do when I find it.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says, voice low. “You’ve already proven your claim. The Trial Stone accepted you. The Council fears you. You don’t need this.”
“I need to know,” I say, not turning. “Not for the throne. Not for power. For *me*. For the girl who watched her mother die and was told it was justice.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pushes off the doorframe and moves deeper into the chamber, his boots echoing against stone. He stops beside a narrow desk, its surface littered with scrolls, quills, and a silver dagger—mine, from the ritual. He picks it up, turning it in his fingers, the blade catching the light.
“Malrik kept his records here,” he says. “Not in the Fae Court. Not in the Undercroft. Here. Where I couldn’t reach them. Where even I didn’t dare look.”
“Because you were afraid,” I whisper, finally turning to face him. “Afraid of what you’d find. Afraid of what you’d become if you knew the truth.”
His jaw tightens. “I was afraid of *you*.”
“And now?”
He steps closer, slow, deliberate, until he’s within reach. His hand lifts, not to touch me, but to hover just above the sigil flaring across my collarbone. “Now I’m afraid of losing you.”
My breath hitches.
Because he’s not lying.
And I hate that.
“Then help me,” I say, pressing my palm to his chest. “Not because you love me. Not because of the bond. But because it’s the right thing to do.”
He closes his eyes. “The execution records are in the third vault. Behind the false wall.”
“You’ve seen them.”
“I’ve seen *something*.” His voice is rough. “But I didn’t read it. I couldn’t. I knew if I did, I’d have to act. And I wasn’t ready.”
“You are now.” I step past him, moving toward the back of the chamber, where a section of the wall looks slightly darker, the stone too smooth. I press my palm to it, whispering the unlocking phrase Maeve taught me—*“Veritas sanguis”*—and the wall shivers, then slides open with a soft groan.
Inside: a single scroll.
Sealed in black wax. Bound in silver thread. Marked with the sigil of the Fae High Court.
And beneath it—
A name.
Lysara Amarys.
My mother.
I don’t breathe. Don’t move. Just stare at it, my heart pounding like a war drum, my magic surging beneath my skin. This is it. The proof. The truth. The end of everything I thought I knew.
“Don’t,” Cassian says, stepping forward. “Whatever’s in there—don’t let it destroy you.”
“It’s too late for that,” I whisper. “It’s been too late since the fire.”
And then—
I break the seal.
The scroll unrolls with a soft hiss, the parchment brittle, the ink faded but still legible. I scan it—fast, desperate—and then slow, my breath catching as the words sink in.
“By order of the Fae High Court, Queen Lysara Amarys is hereby condemned for Blood Treason, consorting with forbidden magic, and endangering the balance of power. Sentence: execution by fire. Signed—”
And there it is.
The signature.
Not Cassian’s.
Not the jagged, elegant script I’ve seen on a hundred decrees.
But something else.
Something familiar.
Malrik.
Not just his name.
His seal.
The silver raven with eyes of obsidian.
The mark of the Unseelie Court.
My knees buckle.
I catch myself on the edge of the desk, the scroll slipping from my fingers, my vision blurring. The room tilts. The air thickens. And then—
Memory.
Not mine.
Not his.
Something older.
The chamber dissolves—stone melting into shadow, light bending into dream. And I’m not in the archives anymore.
I’m in the Royal Gardens.
Before the fire.
Before the blood.
Before the lies.
The silver-barked willows sway in the wind, their leaves shimmering like moonlight. The air is thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and old magic. And there, beneath the largest tree, is my mother.
Queen Lysara.
Not as I remember her—broken, burning, screaming.
But as she was.
Alive.
Laughing.
Her golden hair loose, her storm-gray eyes bright, her hand in another’s—
Malrik.
Not the cold, calculating lord. Not the murderer. But a man. Younger. Softer. *Human* in a way I’ve never seen. He’s smiling—really smiling—and his thumb brushes her cheek, his voice low, tender.
“You don’t have to do this,” he says. “You can run. I’ll help you. We can disappear.”
“And leave my people?” she asks, voice sharp. “Leave my daughter? No. I made my choice. I love him. I won’t hide it.”
“Then they’ll kill you.”
“Then let them.” She presses her forehead to his. “But promise me one thing.”
“Anything.”
“Protect her. If I die. If they come for her. You keep her safe. You hide her. You make them think she’s dead.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls her into his arms, holding her like he’ll never let go.
And then—
The dream shatters.
I gasp—jolting back into the archives, my heart hammering, my breath ragged. Cassian is at my side in an instant, his hands on my arms, his voice urgent.
“Vivienne—”
“He loved her,” I whisper. “Malrik loved her.”
“What?”
“And she loved him.” I press a hand to my mouth, tears burning my eyes. “She didn’t betray the throne. She *defied* it. For love. And they killed her for it.”
Cassian doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t look away. Just watches me—really watches—with something fierce, something *primal* in his gaze. “And me?”
“You didn’t sign it.” I turn to him, the scroll trembling in my hand. “It was *him*. Malrik. He forged your signature. He used your name. He made you watch.”
He closes his eyes. “I knew something was wrong. I knew the order didn’t feel right. But I was young. I was afraid. And when I saw her burn…” He opens his eyes, black but warm at the edges. “I thought I’d failed her. That I hadn’t been strong enough to save her.”
“And I thought you’d killed her.” My voice breaks. “I spent my life hating you. Planning your downfall. And all this time—”
“You were hunting the wrong enemy.”
I don’t answer.
Just collapse into his arms, my body trembling, my breath ragging. He holds me—tight, fierce, *needing*—his hands cradling the back of my head, his fangs grazing my temple, his voice a low murmur against my skin.
“You were never wrong to seek justice,” he says. “You were just aiming at the shadow instead of the hand that cast it.”
“I almost destroyed you,” I whisper. “I almost destroyed *us*.”
“But you didn’t.” He pulls back, cupping my face, his thumbs brushing my cheeks. “You saved me. Again. And now?”
“Now I make it right.” I press my palm to the sigil flaring across my chest. “I clear your name. I expose Malrik’s lies. And I make sure the world knows the truth.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t nod. Just presses his forehead to mine. “Then we do it together.”
“Always.”
And then—
Knock.
Not from the door.
From inside.
My magic—still charged from the Claim—flares, sigils burning across my skin. And I feel it. A presence. Close. Familiar.
“Maeve,” I whisper.
“Here,” a voice says from the shadows.
The door creaks open, and she steps inside—silver hair braided, gray robe simple, eyes pale blue and knowing. She doesn’t look at Cassian. Just at me.
“You’ve found it,” she says.
“I have.” I hold up the scroll. “And I know the truth.”
She nods. “Good. Then you know what must be done.”
“I do.” I turn to Cassian. “We go to the Council. We present the scroll. We expose Malrik’s lies.”
“And if they don’t believe you?” Maeve asks.
“Then we make them.” I press my palm to the sigil on my neck—the bite that sealed our bond. “The Trial Stone accepted me. The bond is unbreakable. And now? Now I have proof.”
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t argue. Just steps forward, placing a hand on my shoulder. “Then go. And when you stand before them, remember this: you are not just heir. You are not just Claimed. You are *truth*. And truth cannot be silenced.”
I don’t answer.
Just pull Cassian into my arms, pressing my forehead to his. “Together.”
“Always.”
Outside, the city wakes.
Inside, the bond burns.
And somewhere in the shadows, Seraphine watches.
And for the first time—
She *fears*.