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CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CASSIEL

The tension in Isolde’s room is almost tangible, like a presence that weighs on my wings as I tuck them tightly against my back.

CJ’s revelation of his dragon heritage wasn’t a shock, seeing as I’d already figured it out, but the convergence of threats surrounding us has reached a critical mass.

These Hunters from another realm that are after him are concerning, even if he doesn’t seem too bothered by them. They pose a threat to Isolde if they get in the way of The Collectors and Damadere.

“We need to understand what we’re facing,” I say, breaking the contemplative silence that has fallen over the room. “Truly understand it, not just cobble together fragments of knowledge.”

Isolde looks up from where she sits on the edge of her bed. “What do you suggest?”

“The Sanctuary,” I reply, meeting William’s gaze. “You said it contained records, images. Information about Damadere and the Blood Crown ritual.”

William nods, a wicked gleam in his eyes. “Perhaps a more thorough exploration is in order.”

“All of us this time,” CJ adds firmly, clearly not thrilled about being left out of their earlier discovery.

“Agreed,” Isolde says, rising. “The Sanctuary recognised me somehow. Maybe it will reveal more with all of us present.”

The decision made, we move in silence, each lost in thought. My wings itch to manifest, to stretch and sense the currents of power that flow through SilverGate.

The Bell Tower looms ahead, silhouetted against the dark sky. Ancient and imposing, it holds secrets none of us fully comprehend. I’ve spent my life studying celestial and infernal texts, yet SilverGate’s mysteries run deeper than most.

“Are there wards we should be concerned about?” I ask as we approach the tower door.

William shakes his head. “Not against us, specifically. The tower’s protections are focused inward, containing what lies beneath rather than keeping people out.”

“Containing what, exactly?” CJ asks.

“Power,” Isolde answers before William can. “Raw, concentrated power. At least, that’s what it felt like when we were down there.”

We reach the door, which swings open at William’s touch, as if expecting us. The interior is dark, illuminated only by shafts of moonlight filtering through high windows.

Isolde steps forward without hesitation, biting into her wrist. Blood wells, silver-infused and potent, and she allows several drops to fall onto the ground.

For a moment, nothing happens. Then the blood sinks into the stone floor, disappearing completely. The tower trembles slightly, dust drifting down from above. The ground becomes a pool of absolute darkness that spreads across the floor in a perfect circle.

“Blood opens the way,” I murmur, recognising the ancient principle at work. Blood Magic, one of the oldest forms of power, connects to the essence of life itself.

“Everyone hold hands,” Isolde instructs. “The transition can be disorienting.”

We form a chain. Isolde, William, and CJ, with me at the end. Isolde steps into the darkness first, pulling us in after her one by one. The world falls away as I cross the threshold, my physical form momentarily disconnected from reality.

Then solid ground materialises beneath my feet, and light blooms around us. A soft, silver radiance shining out of the walls. We stand in a circular chamber with a raised dais of black stone at its centre. The walls are covered in intricate carvings.

But what captures my attention immediately are the symbols etched into the floor and walls. They are scripts I haven’t seen since my fall from grace.

“Celestial script,” I mutter, my wings snapping out involuntarily in response to the familiar symbols. “Ancient celestial script.”

“You can read it?” William asks, his interest piqued.

I nod, moving closer to examine the flowing characters that spiral outward from the central dais. “It’s a variant of Enochian, used primarily by the Seraphim for recording sacred knowledge.”

“What does it say?” Isolde asks, stepping beside me.

I trace the symbols with my fingertips, feeling a resonance in my uncelestial grace. “It’s a warning. ‘Beware the crown of blood, for it devours both vessel and spirit. What ascends must balance, lest the world tilt into darkness.’”

“Cheerful,” CJ mutters.

“There’s more,” I continue, following the spiral of text.

“It speaks of a nexus. A convergence of realities where blood power flows strongest. A sacred space created to contain that power, to channel it.” I look up, meeting their expectant gazes.

“I believe we’re standing in a fragment of that nexus. But not its centre.”

“Not its centre?” William repeats, his brow furrowing. “This isn’t the Sanctuary proper?”

“No,” I say with certainty. “This is an antechamber. A preparation space.” I gesture to a section of the wall where the carvings form what appears to be a tunnel entrance. “The true Sanctuary lies deeper.”

Isolde approaches the wall I indicated, running her fingers along the carved stone. “I don’t see an opening.”

“Probably because it’s sealed,” I explain, moving to join her. “Like the entrance above, it requires a key.”

“Blood,” William states.

“Yes, but not just any blood this time.” I examine the symbols surrounding the concealed entrance. “It needs blood mixed with uncelestial grace.”

“So, yours, then?” CJ asks.

“Yes,” I say. “The celestial script recognises fallen angels as guardians of certain boundaries.”

“Why?” Isolde asks. “What’s the connection between fallen angels and Sanguinarchs?”

“Our blood,” I explain. “When the first angels fell, some mingled their essence with humans. Those unions produced beings of extraordinary power. Some became what you know as Nephilim. Others, those with a particular affinity for blood essence, vampires, became the first Sanguinarchs.”

“When did you discover this?” CJ spits out.

“It was in the book I was reading when I came across the Blood Crown.”

“And you didn’t think to mention this before?”

“I was waiting for the right moment.”

“Well, I guess this is it,” Isolde mutters. “So, you are saying Sanguinarchs are part angel?”

“Distantly,” I confirm. “Very distantly. The bloodline has been diluted over millennia, but the celestial spark remains. It’s what allows you to manipulate blood beyond normal vampiric abilities. To hear the whispers of blood memory. To channel power in ways no ordinary vampire could.”

“That explains why fallen angel blood is one of the key components of the Blood Crown ritual,” William says thoughtfully. “It’s reawakening that original connection.”

“Yes,” I agree. “The ritual essentially supercharges the dormant celestial aspects of a Sanguinarch’s nature, amplifying them to godlike proportions.”

“At the cost of morality,” Isolde murmurs, understanding dawning in her eyes. “That’s the balance the warning speaks of. The more the celestial power grows, the less balanced the vessel remains.”

“Precisely.” I turn back to the sealed entrance. “Shall we proceed?”

Without waiting for a response, I offer my wrist to Issy. She takes it warily and drags her claw over the veins. I approach the wall and press my bleeding wrist against the central symbol, a stylised key surrounded by seven stars.

The effect is immediate and dramatic. The symbols glow with silver-blue light, spreading outward from my blood in concentric circles. A rumbling vibration passes through the chamber, and the wall dissolves, revealing a dark tunnel beyond.

“Well,” CJ says dryly, “that was impressive.”

“It’s not over,” I warn, feeling a shift in the air currents against my wings. “The tunnel is protected.”

The darkness within the tunnel ignites with patterns of light. Sigils and wards that glow with ancient power. They flow along the walls, ceiling, and floor, creating a gauntlet of mystical barriers.

“What kind of protection?” William asks, his expression calculating as he studies the illuminated passage.

“Truth wards,” I explain, recognising the patterns. “Designed to strip away illusion, to reveal the essence of those who pass.” I glance at each of them in turn. “Whatever secrets you still hold, whatever masks you wear, the tunnel will expose them.”

“Meaning what, exactly?” CJ asks, tension evident in his stance.

“Meaning we’ll see each other as we truly are,” I reply. “Not just physically, but the truth of our nature, our intentions.” I meet his gaze directly. “Your dragon heritage won’t remain hidden. William’s darker impulses, my fallen state, all will be visible to everyone.”

“Good thing we have no more secrets then,” William murmurs.

“And me?” Isolde asks quietly.

“You most of all,” I say. “The Sanctuary was built for Sanguinarchs. It will show you what you are becoming, what potential lies within your blood.”

A moment of silence follows as they absorb this information. Such exposure is no small thing for beings like us, each carrying burdens and secrets that define our existence.

“We need to know what’s in there,” William says finally. “The risk is acceptable.”

“Speak for yourself,” CJ mutters, but there’s no real resistance in his tone. He knows as well as the rest of us that we’re past the point of hiding.

“Together, then,” Isolde decides, stepping forward to take my hand. William takes her other hand, and after a moment’s hesitation, CJ completes our chain.

We step into the tunnel as one, and immediately the wards activate fully. Light surges around us, through us, illuminating our essences. My wings expand involuntarily, growing to their full span, their once-pristine white now black as coal, the visible manifestation of my fall.

Beside me, William’s form wavers, momentarily overlaid with the ghostly echo of what he was during his century of spectral existence. Blood seeps from the runes carved into his spine, forming patterns that mirror the carvings on the tunnel walls. He grunts as this causes him pain.