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Elio

Dawn crept throughthe sanctuary, bathing the room in soft gold. The stars of my enchanted ceiling had faded to pale echoes, but the space still felt untouched by the world outside. Marigold lay curled beside me, wrapped in my shirt, her breathing slow and steady. Her magic lingered in the air, mingling with mine, a warmth I wasn’t sure I was ready to name.

For once, I didn’t reach for an illusion. No careful performance, no deflection—just reality, settling uncomfortably in my chest. I should have felt triumphant, taking something for myself instead of playing to the expectations of others. Instead, all I could think was: what now?

I traced my fingers over Echo’s scales as the familiar shifted restlessly, sensing my unease. Last night had changed something. I had changed something. And now, in daylight, I didn’t know what to do with it.

A crackling pulse of displaced magic sent Echo’s scales flashing crimson. My wards flared in protest as someone forced their way through.

Cyrus.

He stood in the doorway, his flames curling in tight, volatile movements, still tinged with that unnatural wellspring blue. His gaze swept over the room and landed on Marigold. He stilled.

The silence stretched, charged and brittle. His flames flared once, sharp and instinctive, before he forced them back under control.

“Your wards need work,” he muttered, stepping inside like he owned the place. His voice was rough, edged with exhaustion and something else I couldn’t place.

“They worked fine before you barged in,” I shot back, moving to block his path. My magic still hummed with disrupted energy where he had forced entry, and the invasion grated on my nerves. “How did you even—”

“I traced you here,” he interrupted, his tone sharp. His amber eyes gleamed with an intensity I didn’t like. “Did you really think I wouldn’t find you after last night?”

Before I could respond, Marigold stirred beside me. A slow inhale, her fingers tightening slightly in the fabric of my shirt as awareness settled in. She didn’t flinch, didn’t panic—but she took a measured breath before slipping free of the blankets, movements careful, deliberate.

Cyrus’s gaze flicked between us, unreadable. He didn’t say anything about what he saw, but the way his flames curled inward, controlled and contained, told me he was filing it away for later.

Instead of commenting, he dropped a stack of papers onto my desk. The edges were singed, the ink smudged in places.

“These were my mother’s,” he said. “They’ve been locked away for fifteen years, untouched.”

Marigold, now fully awake, moved toward the desk. She hesitated for only a second before picking up the first page. “I still have some pages from my father’s diary. They might connect to this.”

She searched for her coat and patted the pockets, frowning, then exhaled in relief as she pulled out the crumpled sheets. “I didn’t want to leave them behind.”

I set down my mother’s notes alongside them. “Then we put everything together.”

We worked in silence, piecing together fragments of stolen knowledge. Project Cornerstone was referenced repeatedly—sometimes clinical, sometimes desperate. Mentions of vampires. Blood magic. Corrupted wellsprings. Warnings about heir resonance.

“They weren’t just experimenting on Keane,” Marigold murmured, staring at one of the notes. “They were trying to find a way to do it to all of us.”

Cyrus’s flames burned hotter. “If they’ve already started, that means whatever Alstone is doing to Keane isn’t a mistake—it’s a blueprint.”

My stomach twisted. “And if it’s tied to blood magic…”

Marigold’s voice was barely a whisper. “Then it’s connected to the vampires.”

Cyrus flipped through another set of notes, his jaw tight. “This ‘Last Witness’—it comes up in both my mother’s notes and your father’s diary.”

Marigold scanned the pages, brow furrowing. “It’s never named. Just… referenced. Like they were protecting their identity.”

I exhaled sharply. “Or like they went into hiding.”

The weight of the realization settled over us. There was someone out there who knew the truth—someone Marigold’s and Cyrus’s parents had trusted. Someone the Council had failed to erase.

“We find them,” Cyrus said, his voice firm. “We get answers. And we stop this.”

Marigold nodded, her grip tightening on the last remnants of her father’s words. “No more running. No more waiting.”