The fortress did not recover from Malrik's visit.
It shifted.
Guards doubled. Allies whispered in corridors instead of speaking openly. Some pack banners that had flown proudly in the courtyard at dawn were gone by nightfall.
They had left without pledging loyalty.
Ronan said nothing about it.
But I felt the tension in him like a drawn blade.
Tonight, he stood before the war map in the strategy chamber, bare forearms braced against the stone table, jaw tight. Candlelight flickered across the scars on his skin—new and old. The Rite of Ash and Fang still pulsed faintly beneath his veins, ancient symbols glowing like embers.
"You don't trust him," Ronan said without turning.
"No," I answered honestly. "But I don't think he lied."
Silence stretched between us.
"That's worse," he muttered.
I stepped closer, resting my palm over my stomach. The triplets were unusually still tonight.
Listening.
"I need to see the sealed archives," I said.
Ronan turned sharply. "Those texts were locked by the first king himself."
"Exactly."
His gaze softened slightly—but only slightly. "If the prophecy was altered…"
"Then someone wanted control over how it ended."
He exhaled slowly. "If you go digging into forbidden history, the packs will see it as weakness."
I met his eyes. "Let them."
He crossed the distance between us in two strides, hands framing my face. "You don't understand what's happening politically," he said quietly. "Three packs have already requested private counsel. They're testing my resolve."
"And if your resolve chooses truth over pride?"
His expression darkened—not at me, but at the implication.
"You're asking me to risk the throne."
"I'm asking you to risk the lie."
That silenced him.
The sealed archives were buried beneath the fortress—past the council chambers, beyond the elder vaults, guarded by wards that recognized only royal blood.
When Ronan pressed his palm to the final door, the runes flared and parted like obedient flames.
Dust and age filled the air.
Ancient tapestries lined the walls, each depicting the reign of past kings. But near the end—near the founding of the Purge—there was damage.
A section burned away.
Deliberately.
Ronan noticed it too.
"That wasn't war damage," he said grimly.
The third triplet stirred—slow and thoughtful.
There, he murmured inside me.
I moved toward a stone pedestal at the center of the chamber. A cracked obsidian tablet rested atop it, etched with faded silver script.
When I touched it—
Pain exploded through me.
Not physical.
Memory.
A vision slammed into my mind.
A king kneeling before a circle of elders. Voices arguing. Words like balance and containment. A ritual binding three strands of power into one bloodline.
And then—
A blade.
Cutting the prophecy in half.
Sealing part of it away.
I gasped, stumbling backward. Ronan caught me instantly.
"What did you see?"
"They were afraid," I whispered. "Not of destruction… of liberation."
"Liberation from what?"
"The crown itself."
Ronan went very still.
The first triplet surged sharply.
He comes, he warned.
The air shifted.
But this time, it wasn't Malrik.
It was something smaller.
Closer.
A tremor rolled through my body—and suddenly the silence inside me shattered.
"Mother."
The voice echoed in the chamber.
Not in my mind.
Out loud.
Ronan froze.
My breath caught in my throat.
It was faint. Ethereal. But undeniably real.
The second triplet.
"Mother," she said again, clearer this time.
Tears flooded my eyes. "I hear you," I whispered shakily.
Ronan's expression shifted from shock to awe to something dangerously protective. "How is this possible?"
The third triplet answered—not aloud, but calm and steady inside me.
The veil thins.
The obsidian tablet began to glow faintly.
And then the first triplet did something none of us expected.
He projected.
A shadow peeled away from my body—forming a small, flickering silhouette in the air before us. It was not fully solid. Not fully real.
But it had shape.
Three faint outlines intertwined like flame.
Ronan dropped to one knee instinctively—not in submission, but in instinctual reverence.
"They're manifesting," he breathed.
The shadow-child tilted its head slightly.
"Danger," it whispered in three overlapping tones.
The chamber doors above us slammed open violently.
A roar echoed through the fortress.
Not Purge.
Not pack.
Rebellion.
One of the visiting packs had turned.
Ronan surged to his feet instantly. "Stone Ridge," he growled. "Darius."
The shadow-child flickered urgently.
"Betrayal spreads," the second voice chimed softly.
The third added, calm and chilling:
"Choice approaches."
The projection vanished.
The silence that followed was heavier than before.
Ronan looked at me—not as king, not as warrior.
As a male standing at the edge of losing everything.
"If the prophecy truly ends the crown…" he began.
"It doesn't have to destroy you," I said firmly.
"It could."
"Or it could change what ruling means."
Above us, the sounds of fighting grew louder.
Ronan extended his hand to me.
"Then we fight," he said. "Not for the throne."
"For what?"
"For the right to decide what it becomes."
I took his hand.
The bond flared—stronger, deeper, more united than ever before.
Above, war had begun inside our own walls.
Below, truth had awakened.
And inside me?
Three voices were no longer whispers.
They were becoming something far more dangerous.
They were becoming will.