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Lasar’s gaze flickered, but he offered no confirmation. “Most Serpents keep personal journals. If you want answers, that’s where you’ll find them.”

Heat rose in my limbs, curling through me like flame hunting for air. “Where would I even look?”

“Ports,” he said simply. “If you’re his blood, it’ll open.”

Archer’s jaw locked. “We are not breaking into Wrathi’s port.”

My fingers brushed the cracked bracelet Veravine once wore—her port. It had opened for me.

“I want to,” I said. “I have to. Just distract Hadrian for long enough for me to find them.”

“Severyn, why now? You’re chasing chaos in a place built to devour it.”

“Because this might be the only chance I get,” I snapped. “My blood is mudded and lined with betrayal. I need to know who I am.”

He exhaled a long breath, then nodded. “Okay, fine. Be done before the quell show begins. I’ll handle Hadrian. But you get in, get out. No wandering. No risks. To find his port, call for it. If it answers… walk away.”

My pulse pounded as I slipped into the crowd.

Hadrian stood in the courtyard, he was still deep in conversation with Motava and Bridger. This was it, if Hadrian had a port, it would be in his study. Or I prayed it would be. But how the hell did one summon a port? Did I speak to it? Will it open? Gods, I should’ve asked more questions.

Three guards flanked the base of the main staircase, spears upright, gazes sharp beneath silver helms. Another stood farther down, ushering a small group of barren civilians into a side corridor.

I pulled my hood lower and fell into step.

The air grew colder as we descended the hall, the stone walls narrowing with each step.

Torches flickered against damp brick, casting restless shadows.

Halfway down, my boot caught on a splintered wooden plank jutting from the floor.

I stumbled, and suddenly a rough hand snatched my arm, yanking me upright with bruising force.

“Stumbling makes you look weak, barren,” the guard snarled, breath hot and sour against my cheek.

“I’m not—” I started, but he shoved me sideways before I could finish.

I crashed through an unmarked door and landed hardon my knees inside a pitch-dark room. The door slammed behind me with a final, echoing thud.

“Archer?” I called, my voice tight with panic.

No answer.

Instead, another voice rose from the shadows. “The walls are warded. No one can hear you.”

My pulse skipped. “I’m not barren,” I said, forcing the words to hold weight.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “Every Serpent gathering... they host bids for us. The barrens.”

Rage flared hot in my chest. My grandfather was king. And this was happening under his reign? Under his roof?

Holy realms, this was worse than I thought.

The door creaked again, and four Serpents stepped inside, silhouettes haloed by the torchlight. Snakes coiled across their skin—twisting around wrists, necks, even their fingers. One of them, though, wore no mark at all.

And somehow, that made him the most dangerous .

“Two for the price of one,” said the man in the black hat. His grin was crooked, soulless. He swept his gaze across the room like a butcher appraising meat. “Lucky night.”

“They’re powerless,” the guard muttered behind him. “Good for scrubbing floors and cooking.”

One of the Serpents tipped his head toward me. “Can’t see her face under that hood.”

Rough fingers clamped around my jaw and yanked my hood back.

“A neval girl,” someone murmured. “They say they carry forbidden quells.”

“This one’s triple,” the guard added, a gleam in his eyes that made bile rise in my throat.

“A thousand gold,” called a voice from the back—casual, like he was picking fruit from a stall.

“Two,” the guard countered.

“Done,” said another.

My fingers curled into fists. If this man thought he could buy me, he was in for a surprise. The moment I stepped out of this room, I’d light his hair on fire and burn every last one of them who thought powerlessness made someone property.

Then a third voice cut through the room. “Three thousand. She leaves with me now.”

Not a single Serpent outbid him.

“Sold to the Winter heir,” the guard announced.

Winter heir—

A hand clamped around my wrist, yanking me forward before I could even react.

“Come,” the man barked, already dragging me out into the corridor.

I stumbled after him, boots slipping on polished stone, my heart pounding like a war drum. And then I saw it, the flash of silver hair .

Bridger.

Instinct surged before reason. I drove my knee into his groin with enough force to drop a lesser man.

He doubled over, groaning. “Gods, what is wrong with you?”

“What the hell are you doing?” I hissed, backing away. Flame bloomed at my fingertips, wild and pulsing. “Touch me again and I swear, I’ll burn you down.”

“Shut up and walk,” he snapped. He straightened with effort, face twisted in pain. Then, before I could stop him, he reached for me again, gripping my elbow.

Power surged up my arm and spilled onto his skin. He shouted and recoiled, slamming his palm against a marble column to steady himself. A raw burn bloomed across his hand.

“Gods, Severyn,” he growled. “I’m helping you. And you burn me?”

“I don’t need your help,” I said coldly.

Bridger scoffed and rubbed the burn on his arm. “Your precious shadow ruler didn’t seem to care. I saw you disappear with the barrens.”

“He didn’t send me,” I snapped, shaking my head. “I was trying to find Hadrian’s study. I don’t have time for whatever this is.”

He looked ready to argue, but then something shifted. His expression softened, just slightly. “Then let me help.”

I blinked. “Why?”

His voice dropped low. “Because I owe you an apology.”

My breath caught. “Go on.”

“For how I treated you at the Academy,” he said, quieter now, like the words physically pained him. “I was cruel. You didn’t deserve it.”

I stared at him, unsure whether it was some manipulation or something real. “So, you heard,” I murmured. “I’m not Andri’s blood. ”

Bridger shook his head, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “No. I heard what your father did to ration food. The choices he had to make. I didn’t know. And I judged you for things that were never your fault.”

Something in me flinched. I didn’t want his pity. But I did need his help.

“Fine,” I said, steadying my voice. “I’m looking for a port. One tied to a Serpent from over twenty years ago. You can either guard the door or help me tear this place apart.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Why a Serpent’s port?”

“I think Hadrian might be my father,” I said.

I yanked open the nearest set of doors and was met with nothing but neatly folded linens and a row of polished bathing basins. My shoulders dropped with a groan. “Gods. Why does he need so many useless rooms?”

“Here,” Bridger said, pausing in front of a carved wooden door that stood out against the rest. The grain was untouched, the edges sharp, the surface too pristine to have been passed through often. “Hadrian’s office.”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, sharp and growing louder.

“Shit,” I breathed. “Get inside.”

We slipped through the door, shutting it behind us in one smooth motion.

The room opened wider than I expected. Shelves lined the walls, packed with relics I didn’t recognize.

Carved trinkets. Leather-bound tomes. Glass domes encasing preserved petals and feathers that shimmered faintly in the low light.

I moved fast, dragging my fingers across the nearest shelf, letting instinct guide me.

“Hey, Port,” I whispered. “Are you here?”

Bridger stilled from across the room. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Calling it,” I replied, as if it were obvious .

He raised an eyebrow. “You think it just answers?”

I shrugged, still scanning. “Apparently, they can.”

He scoffed and tugged open a drawer with far more force than necessary. “Sorry, I don’t speak entitled.”

I shot him a glare. “Really? That’s what we’re doing now? You’ll have one someday, too. It’s not about entitlement.”

Bridger rolled his eyes and returned to rifling through the desk. “A Serpent’s port could be anything. They don’t leave legacies lying around like heirlooms in a nursery.”

“Look for rings,” I said quickly, my pulse beginning to thrum beneath my ribs. “They store memory in those more often than not.”

“Letters,” he muttered, tossing aside a parchment. “Useless.”

The footsteps outside grew louder, no longer distant but steady and deliberate.

“It has to be here,” I whispered. “I can’t leave without it.”

Bridger crouched low, dragging a small chest from beneath the table. “This one’s different,” he said after a pause. “I can feel the warding.”

“Port?” I murmured again, quieter this time. “Are you in there?”

The chest gave a shudder, the faintest tremor that made the hairs on my arms rise.

Bridger stepped back, tension flickering across his features. “Either that thing’s haunted, or you just found your port.”

“When I strike it with flame, ice it immediately. The shock might break the seal.”

Without hesitation, he pressed a hand to the chain binding the chest. Frost coiled along the metal links as I summoned fire into my palm. Our power met where the lock sat, heat and cold warping the ward. It resisted, whined, then cracked with a sharp metallic snap.

I kicked the lid open .

Bridger dropped beside me, scanning the contents. “Serpent pins,” he breathed. “Same kind they gave us at the academy.”

“Find Summer’s,” I said. My voice was steady, but my pulse roared.

He moved quickly, practiced fingers sliding over the polished emblems until one caught his attention—a sun-shaped pin, golden and sharp-edged, its surface catching the torchlight in a flicker of flame.

“If this breaks, there’s no going back,” he warned. “Destroying a ruler’s port could be considered an act of war. I’ve heard they’re sometimes used for binding wills.”

I closed my fingers around it, breath held in my chest. “Release,” I whispered. “Or something.”