The moon hung low, swathed in mist, casting an eerie silver glow over the valley. The fire had long since burned down to embers, but no one moved. Aria's breath came in shallow gasps as she stared at Rowan.
"You're one of them," she whispered.
Rowan stood at the center of the clearing, shirt torn, chest streaked with the blood he had used to open the seal beneath the altar. The earth itself had responded to him—cracked, shifted, and revealed the truth buried in bone and time. His blood had awakened the stones, something not even Solene had anticipated.
"I didn't know," Rowan said hoarsely. "I swear, Aria. I didn't know."
Caleb's eyes narrowed. "You're descended from Nyros. From the First King."
The name hung in the air like smoke.
"Not just descended," Solene murmured, stepping forward with the ancient parchment in her trembling hands. "His direct heir. That's why the Circle reacted to him. That's why the blood spoke."
