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SERAPHINE

T he room smells like bleach, blood, and bureaucracy.

It’s one of the high-security interview rooms at PEACE—plain steel table, mirrored wall, and a chair bolted to the floor for anyone who doesn’t want to sit still. They’ve done some upgrades since I was last in here, but nothing hides the stink of fear ground into the grout.

Jackson’s leaning against the wall across from me, arms crossed over his chest, eyes dark and still. His gun’s gone—confiscated before we were let in—but the sharpness in his posture hasn’t dulled a bit.

He’s not pacing.

He’s waiting.

And that’s worse.

The door opens, and Director Halbrook walks in.

No guards.

Just him.

In his pressed black suit and charcoal shirt, no tie, sleeves rolled just enough to hint at the white glyph ink laced up his arms—discreet enchantments, barely visible unless you know what to look for.

He looks at both of us like he’s already made up his mind.

“Nightshade. Cole.”

“Halbrook,” I say, cool.

He doesn’t sit.

He sets a tablet on the table, taps the screen once, and a security feed flickers to life. Grainy, black and white, timestamped twenty minutes ago.

It’s the killer we brought in.

He’s strapped into a containment chair, magic-nullifying cuffs glowing faintly at his wrists. His head is tilted back, lips parted like he’s tasting something no one else can smell.

“‘He rises,’” he whispers. “‘He walks the road of ash. The key is awake. The door will open.’”

My stomach knots.

Jackson doesn’t blink.

Halbrook taps the audio.

“Who is the key?” one of the PEACE interrogators asks offscreen.

The killer smiles. And says, “The human. The blood-tethered. The blade. ” He starts laughing. Unhinged. Guttural.“Jackson Cole.”

I glance at Jackson. He’s stone. No reaction.

But I feel him tense through the bond—like a chord pulled taut beneath his ribs.

The video ends.

Halbrook steps back.

“You’ve made a lot of noise,” he says. “This leak, this cult, this mess—it’s spiraling. And now this psychopath thinks my detective is some kind of prophecy trigger?” He looks directly at me. “What’s the truth, Seraphine?”

I straighten. “The truth is, they’re trying to raise a god. Not a metaphor. Not a warlord. A god. ”

“Tharos,” Halbrook says.

My breath stills. “You know the name.”

“I’ve heard whispers. Mostly through Council whispers and buried sigils. Until now, no one ever said it aloud.”

“Because saying it gives it power,” I murmur. “The old tongues are like that. They’re not just language—they’re spells in sound.”

Jackson finally speaks, voice low and rough. “What the hell is Tharos?”

I answer before Halbrook can.

“A god of destruction,” I say. “The end incarnate. Bound by the first witchblood and the last elf prince during the Sundering. Locked behind a veil of runes and soul-forged sacrifice. That spelling we figured out, the saying– That’s referring to him.”

Jackson raises a brow. “Sounds like a bedtime story.”

“It is,” I whisper. “The kind you tell so kids don’t go looking for the truth.”

Halbrook nods slowly. “The cult believes raising him will restore power to the old world. Burn the current one down and start fresh.”

“They’re not entirely wrong,” I say bitterly. “The world’s cracked. But Tharos doesn’t rebuild. He eats. He turns realms into cinders.”

Jackson rubs a hand down his jaw. “So I’m the key to unleashing that?”

“The bond made it real,” I say.

Halbrook folds his arms. “Do you believe it?”

Jackson looks at me. His eyes are tired. Frustrated. And filled with something else. Something terrifying.

“Yes,” he says.

And that breaks something in me. Because I wanted him to deny it. To laugh. To walk away. To not believe.

Halbrook’s next words hit like a hammer.

“Then you’re off duty, Cole. Effective immediately. No fieldwork. No exposure.”

“Bullshit,” Jackson snaps. “This is exactly when I should be in the field?—”

“You’re a liability,” Halbrook says. “To yourself. To her. To everyone.”

“You think locking me away will stop Tharos?” Jackson barks. “They’ll come for me anyway.”

“And they’ll find you protected.”

“I don’t need protecting,” he growls. “I need to fight. ”

“Enough,” I snap.

Both men freeze.

I step between them.

Jackson’s chest is heaving. Halbrook’s jaw is tight.

I look at the director. “You’re not wrong. But if you sideline him now, they’ll win. Because they want us separated. ”

He studies me.

Then gives a slight nod. “Fine. You keep him close. You keep this quiet. You report every damn movement.”

“I always do.”

He walks out without another word.

Back in the elevator, Jackson leans against the wall, eyes closed.

“They really marked me,” he mutters. “I’m the key. This is all real.”

I reach for his hand. He lets me.

“They think they can use you to unlock me,” I whisper. “To control me.”

“Can they?”

“No,” I say. “Not if you stay you.”

He opens his eyes and I see fear there. He heard me before, but now he truly believes.

But also something else.

Something that makes my heart ache.

He wants to stay. Even if it kills him.