The scent of burnt parchment still lingered in Cerys's hair.
They'd left the sanctuary behind hours ago, but the weight of what they'd uncovered — and what they'd destroyed — clung to her like soot.
Darian rode ahead in silence, his posture sharp and stiff against the night-chilled wind. He hadn't spoken since the fire. Not since he'd watched her toss the ledger of royal names — his name — into the flames without hesitation. Not since her voice had cracked when she whispered, "I'm tired of killing the ghosts of kings."
The road back to Hollowreach twisted through pine-thick forests, roots clawing the earth as if trying to keep the truth buried. Shadows danced between the trees, and Cerys, always alert, kept her hand close to her thigh where a blade was strapped beneath her coat.
They didn't speak until the forest broke.
Ahead, the ruins emerged from the mist like a beast raising its back — ancient stonework, scorched pillars, a crumbling hall of forgotten monarchs. Hollowreach had once been a ceremonial court, now little more than fractured legacy. But tonight, it was a place of answers.
Cerys dismounted and let her horse wander. She didn't look back when Darian followed. His boots struck the stone with precision. Measured. Royal. Even now.
"You brought me here for a reason," she said finally.
"I did." His voice was softer than she expected.
Inside the skeletal remnants of the throne hall, moonlight poured through broken arches, bathing everything in silver. Moss and frost had claimed the floor. The old thrones—two of them—stood at the far end, split down the center by time and war.
Darian walked past her and knelt beside the base of the throne. He pressed his hand to a worn sigil carved into the stone—a flame cradled by wings.
The stone groaned.
Then shifted.
A staircase unfolded beneath the dais, winding downward into shadow.
Cerys raised a brow. "Let me guess. Another secret vault of crownlies?"
"No," Darian murmured. "My mother's inheritance."
The word mother hit harder than she expected.
She followed him downward, each step echoing with cold breath and crumbling memory. The air grew older. Staler.
The chamber below was small. No more than a circular room carved into rock. In its center: a raised altar. Upon it, a chest bound in iron and scarlet ribbon. The seal of the royal line stamped into wax. Unbroken.
He hesitated.
"You've never opened it?" she asked.
"It's not mine to open," he said. "It's for the heir… once they lose everything."
His voice frayed on the last words.
Cerys stepped closer, her voice quiet. "What did she leave behind?"
He didn't answer immediately. His fingers brushed the wax, and for a moment, she saw it: the boy behind the prince. The son who never truly grieved.
When he cracked the seal, the ribbon fell away like blood unwinding from a wound.
Inside the chest: letters. Dozens of them. Scrolls bound in faded twine. A dagger wrapped in silk. A ring that shimmered with an opal flame.
But it was the journal tucked between them that Darian reached for.
He opened it… and the first page bore her name.
Cerys Vale.
Not written by him. Not written recently.
Written in a mother's hand.
She stepped back, heart skipping. "What—?"
Darian's hands shook.
"She knew you."
He flipped pages, skimming frantic lines — battlefields, names, whispers of the assassin child taken from the outskirts, raised in the Order, marked with fire.
Her legs locked. "No. That's not possible. I was nameless. Faceless. She couldn't have—"
"She wrote of a girl with eyes like burnt copper and silence sharper than steel. A girl she wanted to protect… but couldn't."
The room tilted. Not from motion, but from revelation.
"Why would your mother know who I was?"
Darian looked up, expression unreadable. "Because she helped save you."
Outside, the wind howled through the ruins like a warning.
Cerys paced, heartbeat pounding with ghosts she hadn't buried.
"If this is true—if your mother knew me—why did she let me vanish into the Order?"
"She tried to interfere," Darian said, sitting on the altar's edge. "The Council shut her out. Said the girl was too dangerous. But she never stopped watching. She left her own spies behind."
Cerys's mind reeled. "So the heir I was meant to kill… was the son of the one who once tried to save me?"
"Maybe that's why you hesitated," he murmured. "That night on the cliff."
She looked at him sharply. "I didn't hesitate."
"You did."
They stood there, past unraveling between them like torn banners.
Then he added, "I'm not accusing you. I'm… grateful."
His hand brushed hers. Not enough to hold, but enough to offer.
She didn't pull away.
Instead, she whispered, "She's gone. And I never knew her. What am I supposed to do with that?"
Darian's voice was steady. "You carry it forward. Like ash on wind."
-
Hours later, they burned one of the letters.
Cerys watched the flame devour her name — not in denial, but in defiance. She would not be defined by what they had taken. Not again.
Darian stood beside her, silent.
For the first time, the air between them didn't hum with war. It hummed with memory. With choices not yet made.
-
And somewhere in the shadows above, a pair of eyes watched — unseen, patient, calculating.
Thorne whispered to no one, "Now it begins."