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ELEVEN

LUCIEN

T he old outpost stank of dust and rusted iron.

Lucien moved through it first—always first—pushing open the warped doors of the long-abandoned waystation carved into Hollowreach’s ridge wall.

It used to belong to Thalia’s people, back when rebellion had teeth instead of whispers.

You could still see the faded sigils of House Shadeborn branded into the floor tiles—white ink, worn with age and ash.

Evryn stepped inside slowly behind him.

She said nothing, but he felt her eyes on his back.

Still shaken from the shadowbeast ambush. Still coiled tight from what she’d done to survive.

She’d killed one of them.

And the way the shadows had responded to her—flinching back, then circling like they knew her—it wasn’t subtle.

Lucien watched her settle against a bench half-collapsed by mold and rot. She rubbed at the side of her neck, eyes unfocused, chest still rising and falling like she hadn’t fully come back from the fight.

The silence stretched, brittle as old glass.

He broke it first. “You fought like someone born in the Veil.”

Her gaze lifted slowly to meet his. “I wasn’t.”

“I know.”

Lucien crouched by one of the broken crates, rummaging until he found a sealed bottle of bloodroot tonic. He tossed it to her gently.

She caught it without flinching.

“What did you see?” he asked, low.

“During the fight?”

“No. After. The way the shadows reacted… that doesn’t happen for most Sighted.”

She hesitated.

“I don’t know what it was,” she said honestly. “They looked at me like I was... familiar. Like I reminded them of something they forgot.”

Lucien nodded slowly, letting her words settle.

That was exactly the problem.

He stood and crossed the room, leaning against a stone pillar near her, arms folded. The fractured light from a broken window caught on the silver in his eyes, making him look too sharp. Too focused.

“Evryn,” he said. “What do you actually know about your parents?”

Her breath caught, almost imperceptibly.

She didn’t answer at first. Just gripped the tonic tighter.

“I was told they died in a fire,” she said. “When I was two. Eamon never told me more.”

“And you never asked?”

“I asked,” she said, voice tight. “He wouldn’t answer. Said it was better not to know.”

Lucien exhaled slowly. Shadows pulsed faintly behind him.

He dropped into a crouch in front of her, meeting her eye level.

“You bear a mark on your shoulder,” he said. “Left side. Just beneath the collar.”

Evryn froze.

He saw it, her whole body reacting, like someone had pulled a memory from under her skin.

“How do you know that?” she whispered.

“I’ve seen it before,” Lucien said. “But not in this century.”

Her throat worked on a swallow.

“What is it?”

He held her gaze.

“It’s called the First Mark.”

She blinked. “That doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“It should. It belonged to the direct descendants of the original Panther queens. The ones born before the Accorded Bloodlines even existed. It’s a mark of royal inheritance. Not political— divine .”

Evryn stared at him, something flickering in her deep violet-looking eyes—fear, maybe. But also something deeper. A desperate kind of hope she didn’t want to believe.

“No one’s had that in generations,” Lucien said quietly. “Not since the bloodline culling after the First War. My mother made sure of that.”

Evryn’s voice dropped to a whisper. “So what does that make me?”

Lucien stood slowly.

“It makes you the one person who could challenge her.”

The silence was deafening.

Evryn set the tonic down, arms wrapping around herself.

“But I don’t know anything. I didn’t grow up in this world. I didn’t even know who you were until I saw your face in a book Eamon made me read like it was homework. I don’t know the laws. I don’t know the lines. I don’t know what the mark does , if it even means anything anymore.”

Lucien moved toward the broken hearth. He needed to be doing something. The truth tasted too raw in the air.

“She doesn’t care what you know,” he said over his shoulder. “Thalia wants your blood for power. My mother wants your head for silence.”

Evryn stood now too. She stepped closer. Not angry. Not afraid.

Just… exposed.

“You said I’m not ready for war.”

“You’re not.”

“But it’s coming anyway, isn’t it?”

He turned.

The way she looked in that moment, dusty, scuffed, eyes burning with a dozen emotions she didn’t have names for—it made something break loose in him. Something dangerous.

She reached for the hem of her shirt and lifted it slightly, revealing her shoulder.

There it was.

The First Mark. Faint, but there. Like ink pressed into her soul, not her skin.

Lucien stepped closer.

She didn’t flinch.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to be,” she said softly.

He stared at the mark. At her.

“You’re not supposed to be anything,” he replied. “You are .”

Evryn’s voice dropped.

“And what if that’s not enough?”

Lucien hesitated. Then, voice lower still.“It already is.”