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THIRTY-ONE

LUCIEN

L ucien knelt in the overgrown alcove behind the crumbling Hall of Ancients, his fingers stained with blood—none of it his own. Two guards lay crumpled in the corridor behind him, unconscious. He’d spared them.

Barely.

The message had to go now.

He dragged a dagger across the inside of his forearm, whispering the spell as the blood ran. His shadows responded instantly, curling around the wound like ink pulled to a quill.

A raven formed from the black mist, its feathers edged in pale flame— a call to Seraphine.

“To Seraphine Drakar,” Lucien said under his breath. “The Queen has taken her. Tell Calder. Tell Malrik. Tell the old rebels. It’s time.”

He sealed the message with a slice of his will—no more secrecy, no more half-truths—and the shadow raven blinked once, then vanished into the stone like it had always been part of the Keep’s bones.

Lucien didn’t wait to see if it would reach her.

He turned and ran.

The tunnels beneath Umbraclaw were older than the throne. Dug when the House was first raised from blood and conquest. Most had been sealed, forgotten, or collapsed under time and spellcraft—but Lucien knew them all.

He’d trained in them. Bled in them.

And now, he hunted in them.

He moved without torchlight, trusting his sight, his shadow sense. The halls were damp, sweat-slick, echoing with the distant groan of stone.

“Evryn…”

He said her name like a prayer.

Like a promise.

He’d let her go. Again.

And now, she was somewhere in the Queen’s grip, gods knew how deep beneath the Keep—and he could feel her like a knife at the edge of his ribs. Not just her power, not just the way the Veil hummed louder near her.

But her .

That part of his soul he didn’t know he’d been missing until she breathed life into it.

“Come on,” he whispered, pressing a palm to one of the old spell-locked doors. “Come on, show me.”

He forced his shadow into the lock. The sigils hissed and spat, protesting—but his bloodline still had sway. The stone groaned, and the door opened, stale air rushing past him.

He plunged into the dark.

The deeper he went, the stranger the magic felt.

It wasn’t the Queen’s anymore.

The Veil bent oddly here. Not hostile. Not welcoming.

Watching.

His boots struck the stone rhythmically as he dropped lower, past catacombs, past cursed chambers where the air didn’t move.

Then he heard it.

Low at first. Like thunder. Like something breaking.

No, not breaking… a roar.

It wasn’t human. And it wasn’t animal either. It was older .

Lucien stopped mid-stride. The tunnel vibrated beneath his feet.

That sound— it carried something in it. Power. Rage. Grief. Memory. And something else.

“…Evryn.”

It wasn’t just her voice carried in that roar. It was her blood.

The primal panther. The throne-bearer. The Queen that time had tried to forget.

She had awakened.