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SIXTEEN

CASSIAN

T he steam hadn’t even faded from Seraphine’s skin when Cassian realized he had to leave.

Not for good. Not forever. Just… for a night.

Long enough to chase the ghost that had been scratching at the back of his skull ever since they found the third shard. The one buried beneath that petrified forest with roots like bones and wind that spoke in other people’s voices.

There’d been a whisper then. Not just wind. Not just hallucination.

“You don’t burn like them.”

He hadn’t told her.

But it hadn’t left him since.

Tonight, after watching her stiffen when their hands brushed, after seeing that look in her eyes—that split-second panic when she forgot to guard her expression—he knew she was crumbling inside.

If he didn’t figure out the truth of what the hell was inside him , then he had no business trying to catch her when she fell.

So, while the others slept, while the last coals hissed low, Cassian slipped from camp.

He left no tracks. No fire. Only silence.

The Hollow was thicker out here.

Not Veil-thick. Not like the borderlands where night bled into itself and monsters stitched from fear wandered the roads. But close. Close enough that his Stormfire flickered wrong when he summoned a small spark to light the path.

He found the ruin two hours later, just where the Eidolich’s dying whisper had hinted: under the cliffline, past the altar made of ribs and forgotten stone.

It wasn’t marked on any of their maps.

Cassian approached slowly, blade unsheathed, every muscle coiled.

The air was still. Too still.

She then stepped from the shadows.

Tall. Pale. Wrapped in black veils that shimmered like oil. Her eyes weren’t just dark—they ate light.

Cassian froze.

“Name yourself,” he growled.

She smiled, and the air grew colder.

“Mirael,” she said, voice like cracked silk. “Once daughter of the Veil. Now something else entirely.”

Cassian didn’t lower his blade. “You’re Hollow-born.”

“I’m a messenger,” she corrected. “One your blood called.”

His stomach tightened. “I didn’t call for shit.”

She laughed softly. “But you did. When you bled for the Eidolich. When you gave it the lullaby. That memory wasn’t yours to give—it was your mother’s. And her line… was not what you believed.”

Cassian’s grip on his sword tightened.

“Say what you came to say.”

Mirael stepped closer.

“Your fire, mercenary, isn’t Drakar. Not truly. It’s Stormfire—a relic of a bloodline erased before Seraphine’s House ever wore a crown. Your ancestors ruled flame when her family still walked with mortal feet. And when the Drakar took power, they purged yours.”

He laughed, bitter. “Convenient. Got any documents to back that up, or just riddles?”

“Would you like to see ?”

She raised one hand.

A flare of magic bloomed. Not white or purple. But gray.

Neutral. Unliving.

He didn’t stop her. And suddenly he saw it. A memory. Not his.

A man with his eyes, his fire, screaming as Whitefire consumed him. A Drakar lord standing above, saying: “The Storm line must end.”

The vision faded.

Cassian stumbled back.

“No—”

“You are the last of your blood,” Mirael whispered. “The spark that was meant to die with your mother. But the Hollow preserved you. It watched. Waited. Because it knows what you are. What you could be.”

His breath came ragged.

He wanted to scream. To fight. But the truth hit too fast, too hard.

The part that terrified him most was that he believed her.

Mirael stepped closer, almost tender.

“Tell her, and she will be forced to choose. Between her crown… and your life.”

He stared at her, trembling with fury.

“You think I won’t?”

Mirael smiled. “I think you already know how this ends.”

Cassian sat there for a moment, dumbstruck, unsure of what to do next. He wanted to go back to Seraphine, tell her what happened, but what really could he say? He knew too little.

The truth had only opened more hollows.

He reached for his pack, but Mirael spoke again—low and laced with smoke.

“If you want to know the rest… you’ll come. There’s more, Stormborn. About your mother. About the blade and the girl you’d burn the world for.”

His jaw tightened.

Mirael’s voice—or the Hollow’s—he couldn’t tell anymore. It slid through him like cold mercury.

“Bring us something. Give us a memory you’ve never spoken aloud. We’ll give you a glimpse of your fate. And hers. ”

He looked back at where camp lay if he had to turn back. Where Seraphine was. Then down at his hands, the same ones that had bled for her, burned for her, held her when she collapsed. The same hands that still trembled from the vision.

He didn’t move. Not yet because he knew—deep in the marrow of him that he’d have to pay that price. Because knowing the truth might be the only way to save her…

Or doom them both.

He turned to Mirael and straightened his stance now with determination and focus. No more hesitating or fear of the unknown. He had faced enough.

“Show me.”