Page 32

CHAPTER 32

POV: Briar

I watch Cadeyrn until he vanishes between the ancient blackthorns, his silhouette dissolving into shadow. Even with everything I've learned about the courts' perversion of the Hunt, my body betrays me with a hollow ache as he disappears. The silver-blue markings across my skin throb with answering rhythm, as though some part of him remains anchored to me despite the growing distance.

"He's hunting," I state, more to convince myself than to inform the Survivor standing silent beside me. "He'll be gone at least an hour."

"Longer," she replies, mercury eyes assessing me with unnerving directness. "The Winter Prince is methodical in all things. He'll ensure you're properly fed after your... activities."

Heat crawls up my neck at her knowing tone. Despite the revelations in the underground chamber—or perhaps because of them—Cadeyrn and I had coupled twice since dawn, his claiming as demanding as ever. The markings across my collarbone still tingle where his teeth pressed into my flesh.

"You distrust him," I observe, noting the tension that crackles between them whenever they occupy the same space.

The Survivor's weathered face remains impassive. "Trust is a luxury rarely afforded to those who've survived what I have."

"And what exactly is that?" I press, weary of enigmatic half-truths. "You clearly share history with the Winter Court. With Cadeyrn specifically."

Rather than answering, she turns toward the massive oak anchoring the eastern edge of the haven. "Come. There's more you must see while your prince is occupied elsewhere."

I follow, irritation wrestling with curiosity. "He's not my prince."

Her only response is a skeptical glance at the silver-blue patterns now mapping most of my upper body, visible evidence of our connection.

The oak appears solid initially, but as we approach, I notice a narrow gap between enormous roots that coil around each other like intertwined serpents. The Survivor kneels beside this opening and whispers words in that ancient language she used before. The roots respond, shifting apart to reveal a steep staircase descending into darkness.

"What lies below?" I ask, peering into the shadows.

"The true history of the Hunt," she answers, producing a small crystal that illuminates at her touch. "Come."

The passage plunges deeper than expected, the air growing dense with the musty scent of aged parchment and dried herbs. After what feels like endless steps, we emerge into a vast chamber that halts my breath.

This isn't a natural cavity beneath the oak. Someone—or many someones—carved this space deliberately. Floor-to-ceiling shelves line the circular walls, packed with books, scrolls, and wooden containers. Free-standing cabinets create a labyrinth in the chamber's center, each drawer marked with symbols I don't recognize. Crystals similar to the one the Survivor holds cast the room in soft azure light from strategic positions.

"What is all this?" I whisper, reluctant to disturb the weighted silence.

"The archives." The Survivor navigates among the shelves with practiced familiarity. "For generations, those who escaped the Hunt have preserved what the courts would erase—evidence of what truly happens during the Hunt and afterward."

I approach a nearby shelf, drawn to a collection of small leather-bound journals. Each bears a date stamped on its spine, regular intervals stretching back decades.

"Hunt records," the Survivor explains, noticing my interest. "Testimonies from survivors, either through escape or by being deemed valuable enough to keep. I've dedicated my life to collecting them, alongside documents smuggled from court archives by sympathetic servants or seized during raids."

I extract one journal from the shelf, its leather cracked with age. Inside, cramped, desperate handwriting details a Hunt three cycles past. The account twists my insides—violent claimings, alphas fighting over omegas until their prey was torn apart, court physicians harvesting samples from the dead for undisclosed purposes.

"Why show me this?" I ask, though suspicion already forms.

"Because you're different." The Survivor touches the spiral pattern tracing up my arm. "The Wild Magic awakening in you is reviving something long dormant—something the courts have systematically suppressed for centuries."

She moves deeper into the chamber, toward shelves of newer construction and more precise organization. From a locked cabinet, she retrieves a stack of documents bound with black ribbon.

"These were most difficult to acquire." Her voice drops, as though the walls themselves might betray her words. "Winter Court execution orders from the past seven Hunt cycles."

My pulse stumbles as she places the bundle in my hands. The paper weighs heavier than anything made in human villages, its texture almost silken against my fingers. The ink shimmers with faint blue luminescence, and my stomach drops as I recognize the elegant signature at each page's bottom.

Prince Cadeyrn of the Winter Court, Seventh of His Line, Keeper of the Frost Throne.

"What are these?" My voice sounds distant, hollow.

"Authorization for the cullings. Explicit instructions on processing omegas deemed unsuitable for continued breeding."

I scan the pages, nausea rising at the clinical language describing living women. Subject displays insufficient magical receptivity. Cull and harvest magical essence. Subject shows weak blood response. Cull and preserve samples.

"He signed these," I whisper, tracing his signature with unsteady fingers. "Every one."

"For centuries." The Survivor's voice carries something resembling pity. "The Winter Prince has overseen more cullings than any other royal, his name authorizing more death warrants than all other courts combined."

The silver-blue markings on my skin react to my distress, spreading across my back in jagged, erratic formations rather than the smooth spirals that formed during claiming. I picture Cadeyrn's hands on my body, his mouth at my throat, his consciousness intertwined with mine during our deepest connections. The same hands that authorized this systematized cruelty disguised as necessity.

"I don't understand." I shuffle through more documents, each bearing his unmistakable signature. "He's changed since claiming me. I've felt it through our bond."

"Perhaps." The Survivor retrieves another box from a different section, containing maps marked with symbols I don't recognize. "But seven centuries of habitual cruelty doesn't vanish in a fortnight, regardless of how unprecedented your connection."

She unfolds a map of territories surrounding the Bloodmoon Forest, drawing my attention to an area northeast of the central haven. One symbol appears repeatedly throughout this region—a black crescent moon encircled.

"What do these marks indicate?"

"Disposal sites." Her voice hardens like steel. "Where they discard what they no longer require."

Cold dread pools in my abdomen. "The omegas who don't survive culling."

"Among other things." She returns the map to its container, expression grim. "There's more you must witness, but not here. Not in drawings or documents or secondhand accounts."

"What do you mean?"

"Some truths require firsthand witness to be believed." She presses a small cloth bundle into my palm. "Take this. You'll need its protection where we're going."

I unwrap the bundle to find a pendant of twisted iron and silver, unusual herbs bound at its center. The metal weighs unnaturally heavy against my skin, as though charged with purpose beyond its physical mass.

"Wear it," she commands. "It offers limited protection from what we'll encounter."

"Where are we going?" I slip the pendant over my head, its weight settling against my chest like a stone.

"To witness the reality behind those documents you're holding." She gestures toward the stack of execution orders still clutched in my hand. "To understand what your prince has authorized for centuries."

"He's not my—" I begin automatically, then stop, the protest withering on my tongue. The silver-blue markings connecting us suggest otherwise, regardless of my wishes in this moment.

"Isn't he?" The Survivor's eyes shift in the crystal light, darkening to the deep crimson of old blood. "That's what you must decide, girl. Is he the alpha whose touch awakens magic in your blood? Or the prince who signed these death warrants?"

I stare at the damning evidence in my hands, the elegant signature at each page's bottom seeming to mock my naivety. My fingertips trace the marking patterns spanning my collarbone where Cadeyrn's claiming bite still pulses with phantom sensation.

"Can he be both?" I whisper, the question meant for myself rather than her.

"That's what you must determine." She reclaims the documents, returning them to their cabinet. "But to make that choice, you need to see everything. No courtly explanations or pretty words softening the truth."

As we climb back toward daylight, I mentally catalog every touch, every word, every shared moment between Cadeyrn and me, searching for glimpses of the cold, calculating prince who authorized such atrocities. The male who has claimed me repeatedly, whose mind has melded with mine during our deepest connections, seems incongruous with the methodical executioner who sanctioned countless deaths with that elegant script.

Yet they are the same person. The silver-blue patterns across my skin—evidence of our unprecedented bond—also link me to centuries of calculated cruelty I'm only beginning to comprehend.

We emerge from the hidden archive into late afternoon light. The haven feels altered now, its peaceful sanctuary tainted by knowledge I can't unlearn. The stone circle no longer glows with welcoming power but watches like silent, judging sentinels.

"How much time remains before he returns?" I ask, bracing myself for whatever comes next.

The Survivor scans the forest boundary with her unsettling gaze. "Sufficient. The Winter Prince hunts far from here, ensuring no rival alphas approach during his absence." Her mouth twists with bitter knowledge. "Always the tactician, even in something as primal as securing food for his claimed omega."

I touch the pendant hanging heavy against my sternum, drawing resolve from its solid weight. "Then show me what I need to see. All of it."

"Be certain, girl." Her voice softens with something like compassion. "Some knowledge can't be unlearned once witnessed. Some truths change everything."

I think of the documents bearing Cadeyrn's signature, of the clinical language describing women as "subjects" for termination, of the silver-blue markings that spread across my skin with each claiming. Whatever waits beyond the haven's protection, I must face it before he returns, before the claiming bond clouds my judgment again.

"I'm certain," I say, my voice steadier than my pounding heart. "Show me the truth he's concealed."

The Survivor nods once, her expression grim as she leads me toward the haven's boundary. The pendant grows heavier with each step, as though conscious of the burden of knowledge it will help me bear.

Behind us, the ancient oak concealing the archive stands sentinel, its roots once more tightly interwoven to hide evidence of centuries of calculated brutality. Ahead, beyond the haven's protection, lies a truth I suspect will shatter whatever remains of my illusions about the Winter Prince—and about the bond that now connects us through magic, blood, and silver-blue across my skin.