The first hunt after the decree is not for blood.
It’s for truth.
Not the kind whispered in shadows or written in ancient scrolls.
The kind that lives in silence. In absence. In the hollow where a name should be.
We move through the underbelly of the Fae High Court—Cassian and I—our footsteps silent against the damp stone, our breaths low, our bond humming beneath our skin like a second pulse. No torches. No wards. No scent trails. Just the cold kiss of magic in the air, the distant echo of dripping water, the weight of centuries pressing down on us. This is the Archive of the Forgotten—the deepest vault beneath the Council chambers, where records of exile, execution, and erased bloodlines are buried in silence. The kind of place even the oldest fae avoid. The kind of place where names go to die.
And mine is in here.
Not just mine.
My mother’s.
“You don’t have to do this,” Cassian murmurs, his voice a whisper against the dark. His hand finds mine, fingers interlacing, his grip firm, grounding. “We’ve already proven your claim. The magic sees you. The Council obeys. You don’t need a piece of parchment to tell you who you are.”
“I don’t need it,” I say, not looking at him. My storm-gray eyes are fixed on the arched doorway ahead, its stone etched with runes of silence and severance. “I want it.”
“Why?”
“Because they burned her body,” I whisper. “They scattered her ashes. They erased her name from every register, every lineage scroll, every oath-bound record. They wanted her gone. Not just dead. Unmade.” My fingers tighten around his. “I want to find the lie. I want to see the seal. I want to hold in my hands the order that killed her—and then I want to burn it.”
He doesn’t argue.
Just pulls me closer, pressing his forehead to mine, his fangs grazing my temple in a gesture that’s not hunger, but claim. “Then we burn it together.”
The door groans as it opens—centuries of silence breaking like glass. The Archive is a cavern of shadow and memory, its vaulted ceiling lost in darkness, its walls lined with blackened shelves holding scrolls sealed in iron, books bound in ash, jars of dried blood labeled with names no one dares speak. The air is thick with the scent of decay and old magic, the silence so deep it hums. No guards. No watchers. Just the weight of what was lost.
And what was stolen.
I step inside first.
Not because I’m braver.
Because this is mine.
My grief. My rage. My truth.
Cassian follows, his presence a wall of cold fire at my back, his fangs extended, his black eyes scanning the shadows. He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t rush. Just lets me move at my own pace, his hand still in mine, his body a silent vow: I’m here.
“Where do we start?” he asks.
“With the Blood Oaths,” I say, my voice steady. “They didn’t just execute her. They branded her a traitor. That kind of sentence requires a Blood Oath—a binding decree signed by the Council and sealed in blood. If it exists, it’ll be here. And if it’s been altered—” I press my palm to my chest, where the sigils pulse beneath my skin “—I’ll feel it.”
We move through the rows—slow, deliberate—our fingers brushing the spines of ancient tomes, the seals of iron-bound scrolls. No labels. No organization. Just the weight of silence. The Archive doesn’t care about order. It only remembers.
And then—
I feel it.
Not a sound.
Not a scent.
A pulse.
Low. Faint. Wrong.
It comes from the far wall—a narrow alcove sealed behind a grate of black iron, its runes cracked, its lock rusted. The air around it is colder, the shadows deeper, the silence heavier. I don’t speak. Just step toward it, my magic flaring, sigils burning across my skin. Cassian tenses, his grip on my hand tightening.
“Something’s in there,” he murmurs.
“Not something.” I press my palm to the grate. “Someone.”
The iron groans as it breaks—rusted hinges snapping, runes shattering. Inside, a single scroll rests on a stone pedestal, its parchment yellowed, its seal cracked, its ribbon black with age. No name. No title. Just a single sigil burned into the wax—a serpent coiled around a dagger. The mark of the Unseelie Court. Of Malrik.
My breath hitches.
Because I know what this is.
“Don’t open it,” Cassian says, stepping in front of me. “It could be trapped. Cursed. A memory snare.”
“I don’t care.” I push past him, my fingers trembling as I reach for the scroll. “I need to see.”
He doesn’t stop me.
Just watches—really watches—as I break the seal, unroll the parchment, and read the words etched in blood-black ink.
By order of the Fae High Court, under the authority of Lord Malrik of the Unseelie, the witch Elara Amarys is hereby declared guilty of Blood Treason for consorting with forbidden magic and bearing a hybrid child. She is to be executed by fire, her heart removed, her name erased from all records. Her daughter, Vivienne, is to be presumed dead. This decree is sealed in blood and binding oath.
The signature at the bottom isn’t Cassian’s.
It’s Malrik’s.
And beneath it—
A second signature.
Faint. Smudged. But there.
Cassian’s.
My breath stops.
Not from shock.
From betrayal.
“You signed it,” I whisper, my voice breaking. I look up at him, my eyes burning. “You signed her death warrant.”
“I didn’t,” he says, his voice low, rough. “I was never asked. Never consulted. I was in the North, securing the border with the werewolves. Malrik forged my signature. He used my seal. He made it look like I approved.”
“And you didn’t know?”
“I found out too late.” His hand closes over mine, the scroll trembling between us. “By the time I returned, she was already gone. The Council told me it was necessary. That she was dangerous. That her magic threatened the balance.”
“And you believed them?”
“I didn’t have a choice.” His black eyes burn at the edges, crimson bleeding into the darkness. “I was king. I had to maintain order. But I never wanted her dead. I never wanted you erased.”
I pull my hand away.
Not because I don’t believe him.
Because I do.
And that’s what destroys me.
“You could have fought,” I say, my voice raw. “You could have demanded the truth. You could have protected her.”
“And started a war?” He steps closer, his presence a wall of cold fire. “Malrik had the Council on his side. The East House supported him. The South House wanted her blood. If I’d challenged it, it would have torn the Court apart. And you—” his voice breaks “—you would have been hunted. Not hidden. Not protected. Destroyed.”
“So you let them kill her.”
“I let them think she was dead.” His fingers brush the mark on my neck, where his fangs still hum beneath my skin. “I let them believe you were gone. Because Maeve took you. Because I knew Malrik would never stop if he thought you were alive. So I let the lie stand. I let the world believe you were dead—so you could live.”
My breath hitches.
Because I know he’s telling the truth.
Not just from the bond.
From the way his voice breaks. From the way his fangs retract, just slightly, like he’s afraid to scare me. From the way his hand trembles as it reaches for mine.
“You protected me,” I whisper.
“I failed her,” he says. “But I saved you. And if I had to make that choice again—” his voice drops to a whisper “—I’d make it the same way.”
Tears burn behind my eyes.
Not from anger.
From grief.
For her. For him. For the years I spent hating the wrong man. For the truth I was too blind to see.
“I came here to destroy you,” I say, my voice breaking. “And all this time, you were the one who kept me alive.”
He doesn’t answer.
Just pulls me into his arms, burying his face in my neck, breathing me in, his body warm against mine. The bond hums—low, deep, alive—golden light flickering across our skin. I don’t fight it. Don’t pull away. Just press closer, my fingers tangling in his hair, my breath ragged.
And then—
I take the scroll.
Not to keep.
Not to hide.
But to burn.
I press it to the torch on the wall—flame licking the parchment, blackening the ink, consuming the lie. The sigil melts. The names vanish. The seal crumbles to ash. And as it burns, I feel it—something deep inside me, something old and broken, finally release.
“It’s done,” I whisper.
“It’s not,” he says, pulling back. His black eyes burn at the edges, his fangs extended, his voice low. “Malrik’s still out there. He still has power. He still wants you dead.”
“Then we end it.” I step toward the door, my voice steel. “Not with fire. Not with blood. With truth.”
“How?”
“By showing the Council what he did.” I turn to him, my storm-gray eyes locking onto his. “They think he’s a noble. A guardian of tradition. But he’s a murderer. A liar. A coward. And I’m going to make them see it.”
He doesn’t smile.
Just pulls me into his arms, pressing his forehead to mine. “Then we do this together.”
“Always.”
We don’t return to the North Tower.
Not yet.
Instead, we go to the Chamber of Echoes—empty now, silent, its runes still dark from the last ritual. I don’t speak. Just walk to the center, pressing my palm to the stone floor, calling the magic. It answers—slow, deep, alive—golden light flickering beneath my skin. I close my eyes. Focus. Pull.
And then—
I show them.
Not with words.
With memory.
The magic rises—golden fire spiraling from my palm, forming images in the air: Malrik signing the decree. Cassian’s forged signature. The flames consuming my mother. The Council watching, silent, complicit. Maeve taking me. Cassian letting the lie stand. The years of hiding. The years of rage. The bond. The decree. The truth.
It plays like a dream—silent, vivid, real.
And when it ends—
The Chamber is silent.
Then—
Footsteps.
Slow. Deliberate.
From the corridor.
The Council enters—thrones rising like jagged teeth, faces unreadable. They don’t speak. Don’t challenge. Just watch the fading embers of the vision, their eyes wide, their breaths shallow.
“Now you know,” I say, my voice cutting through the silence. “Now you see.”
“And what do you want?” the fae lord asks, his voice tight.
“Justice,” I say. “Malrik dies. Not by my hand. Not by Cassian’s. By the Council’s decree. For treason. For murder. For corruption of the Blood Oath.”
“You ask for blood,” the witch says.
“I ask for truth,” I say. “And if you won’t give it—” I press my palm to the mark on my neck “—then we’ll take it.”
Silence.
Then—
The hands rise.
One by one.
Unanimous.
“Lord Malrik is hereby sentenced to exile and execution,” the fae lord says, his voice hollow. “May the balance hold.”
“The balance was broken long before I walked in here,” I say. “Now we rebuild it. On truth.”
They don’t argue.
They don’t move.
Because the magic has spoken.
And the magic believes.
We don’t celebrate.
Not yet.
Because the hunt isn’t over.
It’s just begun.
“What now?” I ask, my head resting against Cassian’s shoulder.
“Now?” He presses his lips to my temple. “We find him.”
“Together?”
“Always.”