The palace archives were buried beneath the eastern wing—quiet, forgotten, and filled with the ghosts of old ink.
Aveline moved like a shadow between the rows of crumbling scrolls and leather-bound volumes, Elise at her side with a lantern held low. Dust clung to everything, thick with the weight of centuries.
"This place smells like secrets," Elise whispered.
"Good," Aveline said. "That's exactly what I'm looking for."
She moved with purpose now—toward a locked alcove near the back. Her fingers traced the runes etched along the iron door.
"They sealed this after the Rebellion," she murmured. "But not well."
She drew a thin silver pin from her sleeve, turned it into the lock, and twisted.
A soft click. The door gave.
Inside, the air was colder.
Shelves lined the walls, but Aveline bypassed them for the chest at the center—ancient, carved with warding symbols now faded with time.
"What's in it?" Elise asked.
Aveline hesitated only a moment before lifting the lid.
Inside: scrolls. Dozens. Some still sealed with royal wax, others cracked and worn with age.
"Petitions. Trials. Confessions," she said, scanning the tops quickly. "Some of them from nobles still sitting on the court today."
Her fingers stopped on one scroll, older than the rest—blackened at the edges, as if it had barely escaped a fire.
She read the name scrawled in the corner and froze.
"Elira D'Amara," she whispered.
"Your mother?" Elise breathed.
Aveline nodded slowly. "This… this was sealed. Hidden."
She unrolled it carefully.
And what she saw made her blood run cold.
Her mother hadn't been just a noble's daughter framed for sorcery—she had once stood trial for treason against the Crown, accused by the same bloodlines who now whispered Aveline's name with poison on their tongues.
Aveline rolled the scroll back with trembling fingers.
"They knew," she said. "They knew who I was the moment I stepped into court."
"What are we going to do?" Elise asked.
Aveline looked up, eyes burning.
"We're going to show them that blood remembers."
Later That Night — Calista's Private Study
A servant bowed low and placed a sealed report on Calista's writing desk. She dismissed him with a flick of her fingers, her eyes never leaving the mirror across from her.
The mask she wore was still perfect—lips painted rose, hair coiled in elegant precision. But in the glass, her gaze narrowed.
She broke the seal, eyes scanning the page quickly.
Her fingers paused halfway through.
A whisper of motion. A soft curse under her breath.
"She found the archive."
A beat passed.
Then a slow, tight smile curved her lips.
"How clever," she murmured, tapping the edge of the page with a sharp nail. "Digging through the ashes, are we?"
She stood, pacing.
"That scroll should have burned with the rest. And yet…"
Her smile faded.
Aveline was no longer playing by the rules.
"She'll go to the court with it," said a voice from the corner—her attendant, half-hidden by the curtains. "She'll name names."
Calista turned sharply. "Then we name her first."
She crossed to her desk, pulled out a velvet pouch, and dropped it on the wood with a quiet clink.
Inside: a ring.
Old. Ornate. Bearing the sigil of the Obsidian Order—a faction whispered to be disbanded, long erased from the records.
But Calista knew better.
"Send word to the Order. Tell them the chessboard has changed."
Her attendant hesitated. "But the prince—"
"Is no longer neutral," she snapped. "And if Lucien sides with her, he falls with her."
She turned to the window, watching the lights of the palace flicker far below.
"Let the court prepare their games. We're moving into war."
Early Morning — Outside the Grand Court Hall
The bell tolled once—sharp, cold, final.
It was the sound that marked the beginning of a hearing.
Aveline stood just beyond the hall's towering doors, flanked by two guards who wouldn't meet her gaze. Elise adjusted her cloak nervously, eyes scanning every noble who entered ahead of them.
"You don't have to do this today," she whispered. "We could wait. Plan more—"
Aveline shook her head. "They're ready to hang a verdict on my silence. I won't give it to them."
She stepped forward.
The doors groaned open, and the court turned.
The nobles were already seated, the High Magister at the front, flanked by temple clerics and council members. The air was thick with expectation—and quiet malice.
Lucien wasn't in his seat.
Not yet.
Good.
She preferred to move without him seeing.
Aveline walked the length of the hall with slow, steady steps, letting the hush build around her. The moment she reached the center dais, she unfurled the scroll and held it up for all to see.
"I believe you've misplaced something," she said, voice clear.
The High Magister's brows knit. "What is that?"
"A trial record," Aveline replied. "One buried in the eastern archives. A trial led by this very court."
Gasps echoed.
Whispers rose—then hushed again as Aveline continued.
"Your court tried a woman for treason twenty-one years ago. You erased her name. You sealed the documents. You claimed she had no child."
She held the scroll higher.
"But I exist. And her blood runs through mine."
The High Magister's face darkened. "Elira D'Amara was a traitor—"
"She was framed," Aveline cut in. "By the same noble families that fear my presence now. And I have evidence."
She stepped forward.
"If I fall today… I fall with the truth in my hand. And your secrets fall with me."
The court erupted—shouts, protests, fear.
Aveline stood in the center of it all—still, composed, unflinching.
And then the doors opened again.
Lucien stepped inside.
Not dressed in court robes—but in black, silver-threaded formal wear, a blade at his hip.
He walked past the nobles without looking at them.
Straight to her.
And when he stood beside her—shoulder to shoulder—he faced the court and said:
"If you raise your hand against her, you raise it against me."