The frost on the windows hadn't melted with the morning sun. Cold light streamed through the fractured glass, painting the manor's foyer in pale shards of gold and shadow. The silence was thick—an absence that rang louder than footsteps, louder than breath.
Seraphina stood motionless beneath the great chandelier, her pulse pounding against her ribs like fists against a door. The words still echoed in her skull.
"You were never supposed to know."
Her fingers curled into fists at her sides.
Behind her, Julian leaned against the marble banister, arms crossed, his silhouette sharp against the winter light. But the usual mask of calm on his face—slick, charming, unreadable—was gone. Something raw shimmered just beneath the surface. A glint of guilt. Of panic. Of knowing this was the beginning of his end with her.
"I'm not sure what's worse," she said quietly, her voice thin and hoarse. "That you knew… or that you let me fall in love with a lie."
Julian flinched—barely—but she saw it. He pushed away from the banister and stepped closer, but not close enough to touch. Not this time.
"It was never a lie, Seraphina."
Her gaze snapped to his. "You drugged me with illusions. Fed me dreams like honey and wrapped them in thorns."
"I protected you," he said, voice rising. "From them. From the Council. From your own damn blood."
"I never asked for your protection," she snapped. "I asked for your honesty. And you gave me fairytales laced with poison."
His jaw clenched, fury and heartbreak bleeding into one. "Would you have preferred the truth? That your soul is cursed? That you were marked in the womb by something ancient and damning?"
"Yes!" she said, stepping forward. "Because maybe then I wouldn't have mistaken you for the cure."
The silence that followed was deafening.
He looked like he wanted to reach for her, but his hands stayed at his sides. For once, Julian Blackmoor had nothing left to say.
And that terrified her more than anything.
---
Outside, Ravenhold wore its winter veil with quiet menace. The trees bowed beneath layers of frost, and the fog slithered low along the stone path like a serpent waiting to strike.
Rowan waited in the east garden, his cloak billowing like smoke in the wind, boots rooted to the frozen earth. He looked like something out of a tragic poem—mythical, angry, aching.
She approached slowly, the gravel crunching beneath her steps.
"You came," he said, not turning.
"I needed to hear it from you," she said. "The real truth."
Rowan turned then, eyes shadowed by guilt—or grief. She couldn't tell which hurt more.
"You weren't supposed to meet Julian," he said. "He was meant to guide you to the Rite and then disappear. That was the deal."
Seraphina's breath hitched. "And what were you supposed to be?"
His mouth twisted. "I was the contingency plan. The one who would watch from afar and step in if things got too close to the edge."
"You mean—if I became too much of a threat."
His silence was answer enough.
Her voice cracked. "So both of you were watching me. Not loving me. Not really."
His shoulders tensed. "I loved you before the plan ever mattered."
She laughed bitterly. "Then why did you leave me with him?"
"I was hunting the thing that marked you," he said. "The creature that slipped through the Veil and cursed your blood before you could speak your first word. I thought if I found it—if I killed it—maybe I could undo what it did to you."
"And become the tragic hero?" she spat. "Save the girl you abandoned?"
He looked away, shame painting his profile in sharp lines.
"I was seventeen when the Council found me," he said. "They told me there was a girl, marked before birth. That she'd be dangerous. Or divine. Maybe both. They said she'd bring the Veil down, and with it, the balance."
"And you believed them?" she whispered.
"I didn't have a choice."
She turned away, fury boiling beneath her skin like molten magic. "Neither did I. And now you both expect me to forgive you."
"No," he said. "I just hope you don't lose yourself because of us."
She didn't respond. Couldn't. The storm inside her had no words—only fire.
---
Later, as the manor's torches flickered to life and shadows crept through the corridors like living things, Seraphina walked the west wing alone.
Julian stood at the far end of the hallway, arms braced against the stone wall, eyes closed.
She almost walked past him.
"Don't," he said without turning. "Don't walk away."
"I asked you not to follow me."
"I didn't," he said. "But I can still feel when you're near. That's the bond, isn't it?"
She hesitated.
"I didn't want to love you," he whispered. "Not like this. But I couldn't help it."
"You don't get to call it love when it's built on control."
He turned now, and the agony in his expression nearly undid her.
"You think I had control?" he said. "I've been a puppet since the day I took your file from the Council archives."
She blinked. "You saw my file?"
He nodded. "Everything. The prophecy. The bloodmark. The truth about your mother."
Her stomach dropped. "What truth?"
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded parchment. "This is what they never wanted you to see."
She unfolded it slowly.
It was a Council record—sealed in red wax, dated before she was born.
Subject: Seraphina Vale. Bloodline: Active. Veil-Class Threat: HIGH.
Notes: "Daughter of the Exiled One. Subject displays latent ancestral memory, unstable aura resonance, and recurring signs of preternatural possession. Potential to awaken dormant Veil Gates confirmed."
She nearly dropped the page.
"My mother wasn't just exiled," she breathed. "She was part of the original rebellion."
"They buried it," Julian said. "Burned the records. But someone in the archives kept this. For you. Maybe so you'd understand."
The breath caught in her throat. "I was born a threat."
"No," he said, stepping closer. "You were born power incarnate. And now the price of knowing that truth… is war."
---
Night fell hard.
In the sanctuary of her room, Seraphina stood before the mirror. Her breath fogged the glass, but still she saw the faint violet glow just beneath her collarbone—the witch's mark, pulsing like a second heartbeat.
It throbbed with heat, and suddenly, names whispered inside her skull.
Names of ancient things. Lost things. Things that were never supposed to have lived at all.
And then—
A voice.
Not hers. Not Julian's. Not Rowan's.
Something older.
"Choose your king, Seraphina Vale. The wrong one will burn your world. The right one will damn you."
Her breath caught.
She stumbled back from the mirror, heart hammering.
Below, in the courtyard, a raven cried out—a harsh, broken sound like bone against iron.
The price of truth was not just pain.
It was prophecy.
And hers had just begun.
---