Our carriage lurched over Ostonia’s frost-slicked road, the wheels groaning against uneven stone, the breeze stiff with the sharp bite of melted ice and burning firewood.

Devon had sent Azriel ahead to the Grand Archive, tasked with finding something—anything—that could speed up Zaria’s recovery and, if we were lucky, a way to kill Mouriana once and for all.

It was his idea, technically.

I might not have suggested it if I hadn’t been forced to endure Azriel’s insufferable monologues about his unparalleled research prowess for as long as I’ve known him. But I had.

And Devon had naturally coaxed Azriel into proving himself.

Azriel was nothing if not prideful. And when his pride was baited, he snapped the hook like a starving fish.

Good. At least he’d be someone else’s problem for the next few hours.

I leaned against the window, fingers pressing into the frosted glass. Outside, the city was already bustling with preparations for Solstice’s End.

Lanterns glowed in hues of soft gold and deep cerulean, suspended between balconies like captured stars. Street performers warmed up their instruments, their notes trickling through the air.

A group of children sprinted past the carriage, their painted masks of elemental spirits grinning through the curling mist.

I envied them.

They had no idea what was coming, no concept of the war threatening the possible existence of our sovereignty.

They were playing pretend while I was hurtling toward an ancient archive, trying to out think a creature who had already turned me into her perfect pawn once before.

And the real kicker was that I still didn’t know why. That was the part that infuriated me the most. All I had was speculation.

I had played into Mouriana’s hands so seamlessly. Walked the path she had paved for me, carved the way she wanted me to carve it—and even now, I was still missing a piece of the puzzle.

I clenched my jaw.

“You’re grinding your teeth again,” Devon said.

I forced my jaw to relax, rolling my shoulders, unclenching my molars with a soft crack.

“Old habit,” I muttered.

“Bad habit,” he corrected.

I shot him a flat glare.

He didn’t even bother hiding the smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I just destroyed a fragment, nearly got turned into the Council’s scapegoat, and now I’m expected to dig through dusty tomes for a miracle,” I said, crossing my arms. “I deserve some teeth-grinding.”

“If you say so,” Devon drawled, leaning back against the plush seat. His posture was all effortless ease, but his eyes were sharp, his fingers tapping a restless rhythm against the hilt of his dagger.

That was the difference between us. I internalized my anxiety, and Devon planned for war.

“Besides,” I continued, shifting my gaze back to the window, “the Grand Archive has been mentioned in just about every account of Wridel’s history at the academy, but no one ever talks about what’s actually inside it. You’d think it was just a glorified warehouse for old records.”

Devon’s smirk widened, a knowing glint in his eyes.

“Only the Council knows,” he said. “And I hate to break it to you, but you’re about to be very disappointed.”

I sighed, watching the lantern-lit streets blur past the window.

“I hope not.”

Because if the answers weren’t there, I had no idea where else to look.

The thought had barely settled before a low, uneasy hum of magic vibrated under the streets of Ostonia—a thin, strained pull, like a thread stretched too far, trembling on the verge of snapping.

I pressed my palm against the carriage wall, feeling the energy writhe restlessly against my fingertips.

“The ley lines in Ostonia are already compromised,” I murmured.

Devon’s jaw tightened.

“Mouriana’s taking everything she can reach,” he said. “She’s already inside the ley lines.”

Of course, she was. Why scavenge for her discarded fragments when she could dig her claws into the very foundation of Wridel’s magic?

Ostonia was the heart of power. The seat of the Lycans, the Fire Orientals, and the Great House of Jojyre. A convergence of magic, strength, and influence, all woven into the capitol’s core.

And if Mouriana took control of that, it wouldn’t just be a fight for survival any more. It would be a massacre.

The carriage wheels screeched, metal grinding against stone as we turned sharply into the gated courtyard of the Grand Archive of Arcane Knowledge.

I peered out the window. The Archive was a massive, three-story structure carved directly into the bedrock of Ostonia Hill. Its weathered limestone outer wall bore the names of renowned scholars. Their words, their discoveries, their so-called wisdom immortalized in stone.

I wasn’t feeling particularly reverent about their contributions today.

The main entrance was a slab of ironwood, its runes pulsing in recognition of our presence, the security enchantments verifying that we weren’t about to burn the place down.

Tempting.

I stepped out first, the sharp bite of the air jolting me awake, cutting through the exhaustion pressing against my bones.

Above the entrance, glowing script shimmered into view: Knowledge is the light that breaks the dark.

Devon scoffed. “Ironically optimistic, isn’t it?”

“Painfully so,” I muttered, pushing the heavy door open.

The moment my boots touched the stone path inside, I felt the ley line running below the Archive. They were erratic and strained, as if something had nested inside it, corrupting its pulse from within.

“Something’s off,” Devon said, stepping beside me as his eyes scanned the surroundings.

“It’s Mouriana,” I murmured. “She’s here, in Ostonia.”

He nodded once. “Let’s move.”

We ascended the marble steps and passed through the massive oak doors.

The interior of the Archive was cool, and the scent of parchment and dried ink was pungent, with the ever-present hush of a place that held centuries of knowledge.

Above us, floating lanterns suspended over the polished marble floors, their light reflecting off the spiralling bookshelves that stretched up three levels high.

The walls curved inward, designed like a massive hollow tower, with archivists using suspended crystal platforms to reach the highest shelves.

The grand mosaic of Wridel’s ley line network was inlaid beneath our feet, veins of gold and blue normally.

Then, there was the other smell. Behind the parchment and ink, beneath the ancient spell work woven into the Archive’s foundations, that acrid stench was hard to miss.

Burnt ozone. Brackish water. Corruption.

We crossed the main floor, moving toward the spiral staircase leading to the restricted archives. Devon kept one hand loosely on his dagger, his instincts thrumming as sharply as mine.

We reached the heavy oak door. The sentinel on duty—a young woman in archive robes too pristine for someone who actually worked with books—bowed deeply before pressing her hand to the ward stone embedded in the door frame.

The ironwood groaned. The runes flared. The door swung open. Inside, Azriel Bloodworth was waiting.

He stood hunched over a massive central table, cluttered with open tomes and floating holographic projections of ley line charts. His hair was dishevelled, his coat wrinkled, and his magic stirred restlessly around him, water currents wrapping around his wrists like tethers trying to anchor him in place.

“You look like hell,” I said.

Azriel snorted without looking up.

“Well, it’s been an eventful season,” he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair.

He straightened, rubbing his temples.

“Took me half a day just to get access to these charts. The Council had everything locked down and sealed away. I don’t get how nobody seems to understand that the point of a place like this is to have information readily available when faced with an imminent catastrophe. How is the best course of action is to bury all relevant knowledge under bureaucratic nonsense?”

“Imagine my shock,” I deadpanned.

“Exactly!” Azriel gestured at me as if I had just proven his entire life’s work. “Someone, finally, with sense.”

“Don’t get used to it,” I shot back.

“Whoever is in charge of maintaining these records should be put on a pillory and stoned to death,” he continued.

“Ha!” I let out a sharp laugh, then forced the amusement off my face. “Now, now, Azriel. We’re not beasts.” I let the words hang there for a beat. “I’d much rather burn them to death.”

Azriel’s smirk twitched at the corner of his mouth, but he didn’t argue.

“Celeste.”

A new, and very familiar voice.

I turned.

Thalion Perseus was stepping out from one of the private reading rooms, his sharp grey eyes flickering over me with far too much familiarity.

I blinked, my mind catching up to what I was seeing. What was Thalion doing here? And standing way too comfortably next to Azriel.

Surprise flickered through me, but so did confusion. Sure, Azriel and Thalion had crossed paths before—Thalion had visited me enough times at the academy for them to be acquainted—but they had never been the type to work together on anything.

Especially not something this classified.

More concerning, however, was the underlying tension curling in my stomach. Because as much as I trusted Thalion’s skills, as grateful as I was that the Fangs had officially allied with me—There was still the problem of Thalion’s persistent romantic interest in me.

And now he was in the same room as my mate, Along with Azriel, whose lingering glances had long since crossed the line of platonic interest.

Oh, this was going to be spectacularly uncomfortable.

Devon stepped up beside me, his presence shifting with a quiet but unmistakable territoriality.

“Thalion. Odd seeing you here,” he said, but his gaze stayed locked on Azriel, like he was waiting for an explanation that would make sense of this ridiculous arrangement.

Azriel didn’t offer one.

“It shouldn’t be, High Lord Irving,” he said before dipping into a graceful, well-practiced bow. “The House of Perseus is responsible for keeping the Archive.”

Devon’s smirk widened, all teeth, all amusement that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Ah,” he said, drawing out the syllable just enough to be a deliberate insult. “So you’re the ones who’ve failed spectacularly in maintaining the place.”

Thalion’s expression remained placid, but I saw the flicker of irritation tightening at the corners of his mouth, the slight shift in his stance.

Devon wasn’t done. “You should be burnt at the stake any day now,” he added, with mock sympathy.

Fantastic. I shot Devon a pointed glare, barely resisting the urge to elbow him in the ribs.

Great nod to my earlier comment, mate. Really appreciate it.

Thalion didn’t bite the insult. Instead, he tilted his head slightly, that unreadable half-smile still fixed in place.

“I’m only here to help in any way I can,” he said smoothly. Then he looked at me.

And for some reason, I couldn’t hold his gaze. Which was absurd, because I had nothing to feel guilty about. I never promised Thalion anything. I never told him I would marry him, never gave him false hope, never once led him to believe that I would choose him.

And yet that look in his eyes made my stomach twist in a way I didn’t like. It wasn’t pity or remorse. Just an irritating, persistent guilt that I didn’t understand.

It’s why I had spent so much time trying to push him away—but good Gaia, was he persistent. And now, standing here, I didn’t want him here. Didn’t want him looking at me like that, or know how much learning about Devon and I had hurt him.

I could easily dig into his mind to find out, but I wouldn’t, because I didn’t want to know.

“Lady Irving.” The way he said it—calm, pointed—wasn’t just an acknowledgment of my title.

He wanted me to know that he knew that I was Devon’s now. But how did he feel about that? I wasn’t sure, and I wasn’t about to ask.

“I take it you two know each other?” Devon asked, his voice too neutral, too casual to be genuine.

“Oh yeah, known each other longer than she knows me even,” Azriel cut in before I could respond. “Friends with her brother Cullen.”

“Right, friends.” Thalion’s tone wasn’t outright hostile, but it was close enough to make my head ache.

I sighed. “You see, Thalion was set on making me his mate,” I said, watching Devon’s reaction carefully.

He didn’t flinch, didn’t tense, but I knew him well enough to notice the small shift in his breathing, the barely-there twitch in his jaw.

Oh, he had opinions. I just wasn’t going to hear them right now.

I turned back to Thalion, arching a pointed brow. “Has been for over ten seasons, actually.”

Thalion didn’t blink, didn’t shift, didn’t react at all. Typical.

“You marking me as your mate screwed things up for him,” I continued, letting the words settle, then glanced at Azriel. “And Azriel too, if I’m not mistaken.”

Azriel sighed dramatically, rubbing his temples. “Are we really doing this now?”

“No, because none of this is relevant right now, is it?” I said, turning back to Thalion before he could open his mouth to respond.

I didn’t let him.

“Because if you were really here to help, you’d know we’re pressed for time. And if we don’t get this done, in the end, it wouldn’t matter who I ended up with—because we’d all be dead.”

For one brief, beautiful moment, there was silence.

Then Devon exhaled, shooting me a pointed look, and even he couldn’t hide the smirk curling at the edges of his lips.

“What did you find?” he asked Azriel, finally shifting the conversation back to something that actually mattered.

Azriel exhaled, palming the air, and the ley line projection shifted, displaying Wridel’s entire network of magical conduits.

The ley lines should have pulsed with golden-blue energy, each one connected like a circulatory system, flowing in harmony.

But instead, dark veins webbed through the chart, twisting into the ley lines like roots of rot, slowly choking the flow of Wridel’s magic dry.

My stomach tightened. “That looks bad,” I said.

“It is,” Azriel said. “This is Ostonia’s ley line system. And these’” He gestured to the dark veins pulsing through it. “’are Mouriana’s threads infecting it. This is the primary convergence underneath the Temple of the Wealdel. It’s already being siphoned.”

I rubbed the scar on my chest, dread coiling tighter.

“How deep does it go?” Devon asked, stepping closer.

Azriel zoomed in.

“That’s the problem,” he said with a grim huff. “It’s not just inside the ley lines. It’s spreading through the foundation of Wridel’s magical architecture—wards, enchantments, elemental cycles. Mouriana isn’t just stealing magic.”

Thalion muttered something in Fangspeak under his breath. I didn’t need a translation to know it wasn’t flattering.

“She’s rewriting their flow,” he said.

Azriel gestured again, and the map shifted, displaying a wider view of Wridel. Three points glowed brighter than the others:

The Great Wealdel Tree—the site of the High Council’s attack, where Mouriana had consumed the core of Gaia’s first gift.

The Circle of the Willow Coven in Nelwost—the strongest ley line concentration in Wridel, already lost to her fragment’s corruption.

And finally, the Temple of the Wealdel—where the ley lines writhed beneath our feet, the aquifer core of the Sovereignty, and her next move.

The three marks glowed red, connected by thickening crimson lines, pulsing like a vascular system gone wrong.

“These locations weren’t random,” Azriel said.

Thalion’s jaw tightened. “She’s targeting Wridel’s primordial magical sites.”

I stared at the map, my mind racing as the pieces finally clicked into place. Without seeing them mapped out like this, I might have never pieced it together. Three sacred anchors, each one woven into Wridel’s foundation by Gaia.

“What happens if she takes the temple’s anchor?” Devon asked.

Azriel scratched his brow. “I fear she will become the dark sovereign,” he said flatly. “She won’t just have access to her fragments, all elemental magic will become dark magic that comes from her.”

“She’s turning Wridel into her own domain,” I said.

Azriel gave a sharp nod. “Exactly. And Solstice’s End is the perfect time to do it. The Aether Cycle resets the magical equilibrium every fifty years. If Mouriana claims the ley lines during that reset’”

“She’ll imprint herself on the magic before Gaia’s natural order can restore balance,” I said, my throat dry.

Devon inhaled deeply, as if already calculating the fight ahead. “How long until she fully takes control?”

Azriel hesitated, and I hated that hesitation. “Best guess?” he finally said. “A few days.”

“Worst guess?” Thalion asked.

Then he pressed his lips together. “A few hours.”

“When does the Aether cycle peak?” Devon asked.

Azriel zoomed in on the Temple of the Wealdel, where the ley lines converged in a storm of red veins pulsing erratically.

“Midnight,” Azriel said grimly. “At Solstice’s End. That’s when the ley lines are at their weakest. That’s when she’ll move to finish it.”

The timing made sense, but something still felt off. I still didn’t understand why the Shadow Orientals had chosen the Le Torneau Manor to unleash the dark veil experiment. I’d assumed it was personal, an attempt to take my mother down before of her prowess and her being the fire oriental elder.

But with all of this laid out before me, it felt like I was missing something major.

“Azriel,” I said slowly, my mind circling the missing piece, “is there anything special about Morinpar Hill?”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

“Why did Mouriana make those Orientals drop the dark veil there?” I asked, stepping closer to the holographic projection. “I thought it was a strategic attack against my family. A test run for the veil’s reach. But what if it wasn’t just that?”

Azriel waved his hand over the map, shifting the focus to Morinpar Hill.

The landscape expanded, showing the Le Torneau estate, the ancient orchard surrounding it, and the old ley lines running through the foundation and mountains.

But the moment he adjusted the filters to show active magical anomalies, I felt the breath leave my lungs. A fourth anchor point appeared. It was faint, almost imperceptible.

“Oh, shit,” Azriel muttered.

Devon inhaled sharply beside me. Morinpar Hill was an unmarked primordial site.

“That’s impossible,” Azriel muttered, his magic flaring around his fingers as he cross-checked the records. “There are only three recorded anchor points in Wridel. The Wealdel Tree. The Willow Coven. The Temple. The records don’t say anything about Morinpar Hill.”

But I knew better. I felt it every time I was there. The way my magic hummed stronger in the mountains. Our wards had always been stronger too, with a visible warping you could feel singing through your bones.

“The records are wrong,” I said quietly. “Or they’ve been altered.”

Thalion exhaled sharply, and his jaw tensed. “The Fangs have nothing to do with that,” he said, too quickly, like I had just accused him of treason. “We simply preserve what is deposited here. We don’t interfere with what’s written.”

Way too defensive. Interesting. Our eyes locked, tension settling between us again.

“Thalion, I wasn’t accusing you or the Fangs,” I said, watching him carefully. “I have no evidence of who’s guilty of this.”

“Just putting it out there before conjectures bear ugly fruits.” He shrugged, but it was too casual, too dismissive as if he needed to wave the conversation away.

My eyes narrowed. “If I wanted to accuse you,” I said slowly, “I’d start by asking why you knew about the dark veil cult and the magic eater curse and said nothing.”

Thalion’s gaze sharpened, but he didn’t move.

I tilted my head, pressing harder. “Not even when we ran into that Fae friend of yours.”

Devon’s posture shifted beside me, his focus now fully locked onto Thalion, and for the first time since we walked in here, Thalion’s smirk flickered slightly.

Azriel exhaled sharply, rubbing his temples. “I think we’re going off-topic here, Celeste. Thalion.” His voice was husky, the thin veneer of patience cracking.

Thalion held my gaze for a second longer, then, slowly, he looked away first. Good.

“So,” I said, turning my attention back to the matter at hand, “we’ve established that the Fangs knew about the magic eater curse and the dark veil and did nothing. And we’ve also established that Mouriana used the dark veil to corrupt the fourth anchor before we even knew it existed.”

Thalion’s jaw ticked. “I can point fingers too if that’s what we’re doing.”

I arched a brow, bracing for whatever nonsense he was about to spew.

“Like say,” he continued, “how you contracted the dark Faerie Mouriana knowing fully well what she is capable of!”

Azriel muttered a curse under his breath, rubbing a hand down his face. Devon, to his credit, remained stone-faced. I, however, didn’t react.

Because here’s the thing: I didn’t actually know enough about her. Mouriana had shunned Julia from telling me anything, kept me blind, trapped me in her carefully woven web, and I had walked into it willingly, convinced I was in control.

Then I led her into Morinpar Hill, helped her consume the fragment there, while simultaneously stripping Gaia’s fourth gift from the land.

I had been such a fool. An unsuspecting, foolish tool, and now this was getting personal. I have been playing into her hands since the beginning, like a perfect little pawn.

Now, she was moving on the Temple of the Wealdel. She was preparing for this decades ago.

Azriel clenched his jaw. “If the fourth anchor has already been tainted, she might not need to wait for midnight at all.”

Devon looked between me and Thalion, but said nothing of our misplaced aggression. “We need to make a move before she does,” he said.

The ley lines pulsed erratically, the dark veins twisting just slightly, like something was moving through them.

A whisper followed.

Ah” I wondered when you would show up.

Mouriana’s voice slithered through the Archive, curling through the air like a serpent coiling through the rafters, wrapping itself around us with a lover’s whisper and an executioner’s promise.

The light dimmed, the temperature dropped, and for the first time since stepping into this room, I felt her.

Like, really felt her.

And she was watching us.