Page 27

TWENTY-SEVEN

LUCIEN

T he message came by shadow.

A raven made of smoke and ink, its wings silent as the dead, perched beside their fire at first light. Lucien didn’t need to open the scroll tucked in its beak to guess who it was from.

Only one person sent crows with edges that sharp.

Cassian’s handwriting was as precise as ever. Too neat. Too deliberate.

She would like to meet the girl. She is curious what kind of wildfire could twist her favorite blade against her. No threats. No demands. Just tea and truth. – C

Lucien crumpled the note in his fist.

The paper cracked like bone between his fingers. It wasn’t just the message—it was the handwriting. Precise. Elegant. The kind of control that made his skin crawl.

Cassian never wrote in haste. Every curl of ink was calculated. A blade shaped in calligraphy.

The shadow raven that had delivered it dissolved into mist behind him, leaving only the stench of ink and rot. Lucien stared at the scroll, then tossed it into the fire.

It flared violet once, then disappeared.

Evryn looked up from the stream nearby, sleeves rolled past her elbows, bare forearms dusted with river silt. Her hair was pulled back from her face, damp strands clinging to her neck from the humid air.

She was stronger now. Quieter, too—but not from fear. From clarity.

Her eyes had changed. No longer wide with wondering. They narrowed, read, understood.

The Veil wasn’t a stranger to her anymore.

It saw her , and she saw it right back.

“Something wrong?” she asked, drying her hands slowly against the edge of her coat.

Lucien didn’t answer right away. His jaw tensed, teeth grinding against the words he didn’t want to speak.

Finally, he said, “My mother wants a meeting.”

Evryn stilled. Not startled. Just watchful .

“The Queen?” she said.

He nodded, voice low. “She’s not asking for a parley. She wants a performance. A puppet show where I bring the girl who made me disobey.”

Evryn raised an eyebrow. “So she’s feeling theatrical.”

“She always does before a kill.”

Evryn’s mouth tilted—not quite a smile. “You think it’s a trap?”

Lucien met her gaze. “I know it is.”

But she didn’t look away. Didn’t flinch. She stepped forward until they stood face-to-face in the fading golden light of early dusk, her boots crunching softly on the moss-carpeted stone.

Her voice was quiet, calm. “Then maybe we spring it first.”

Lucien stared at her.

He barely recognized the girl he’d followed through the misty alleys of Grayridge. That girl was still there, buried under the soot and sorrow and too much power—but now, she stood like she had nothing left to fear.

And it scared him more than anything. Because people like that didn’t stop until they won. Or burned out trying.

He exhaled, steadying himself. “Evryn?—”

“I’m not doing this to prove anything,” she said, eyes locking with his. “I just… I need to see her. See what the monster behind the masks looks like.”

Lucien’s chest tightened. “She’s not going to offer you kindness.”

Evryn’s jaw flexed, her posture straightening with something colder than defiance. “I’m not looking for it.”

Lucien swore softly under his breath, dragging a hand down his face. His shadows curled around his boots, agitated.

“She’s dangerous, Evryn. Not just because of what she can do—but because of what she knows . She’ll find every crack in your armor and smile while she breaks it wider.”

There was a long pause.

Evryn tilted her head. Her voice was like steel wrapped in velvet.

“Then it’s a good thing I stopped wearing armor.”

They left that evening.

The roads toward Umbraclaw Keep were narrow veins of stone and memory, cutting through ashwood forests and ridgelines carved with sigils older than any House. Lucien hadn’t walked this path in years.

Not since the last time he bled for her throne.

The wind grew colder the closer they got.

The trees more silent.

Evryn rode beside him on foot, her presence a calm shadow in the corner of his vision. She didn’t ask questions. But he knew she had them.

“You’ve been quiet,” she said eventually.

Lucien kept his gaze on the horizon. “Just remembering.”

“Good or bad?”

He hesitated. “Both. Mostly bad.”

She didn’t press.

That was something he’d come to crave about her. She didn’t demand pieces of him. She waited. And somehow, that made him want to give them more.

They stopped at the edge of a clearing near the final hill before the castle.

The sky above Umbraclaw Keep was always darker than it should’ve been. Not just weather—magic. The throne here bled shadow into the air, into the trees, into you.

The castle stood tall and cruel against the skyline. Blackstone towers. Curved archways. Balconies made for archers, not guests. And at the very top—a glass-steepled chamber where the Queen often sat, watching.

Waiting.

Lucien stared up at it, gut twisting.

Evryn stepped beside him.

“I won’t let her win,” she said softly.

Lucien turned to her, brushing a lock of hair from her face.

“She’s been winning for a long time,” he murmured.

“Then let’s change the game.”

A bitter smile tugged at his lips.

She reached for his hand. Laced her fingers through his making Lucien not just feel like a weapon walking into a war, but a man standing beside the only person who might actually survive it.