Chapter 39
Terror floods my system, and with it, the withdrawal symptoms. My hands begin to shake violently, and a wave of nausea makes the small chamber spin around me.
I try to stand, to put distance between us, but my legs give out.
I’m forced to grip the stone bench to keep from collapsing entirely.
The familiar gnawing hunger beneath my skin has become a roar, demanding relief I can’t give it.
Isolde watches my deterioration with an expression of pity. “Your body can’t take much more.”
“I can f-fight,” I say, hearing how unconvincing it sounds. My voice shakes as badly as my hands.
“Can you?” She moves to the chamber’s entrance, checking the sealed stone panel. Satisfied we’re alone, she turns back to me. “I don’t think you can, darling.”
My hand slips into my pocket, fingers closing around the Mercury token Lady Tavia gave me at the start of the Conclave. The small metal disc is warm to the touch, humming faintly with stored energy.
In case of emergency, Lady Tavia had said. Mercury’s communication network spans the entire system.
This certainly qualifies as an emergency.
I press my thumb against the activation rune carved into its surface, the movement hidden by my body’s trembling. The token vibrates once against my palm – acknowledgment that it’s active, that somewhere, Mercury’s network is receiving my signal.
Now I just need to buy time until help arrives.
Isolde doesn’t seem to notice. She’s watching me with an aura I’ve never seen before – not the warm mentor or calculating politician, but something colder. More resigned.
“Why?” I ask, forcing the word past the nausea. “Why do this?”
“Because I was ordered to.” She says it simply, matter-of-factly, as if that explains everything.
“Ordered by who?”
“People who want to see the system burn, who’ve been working towards that goal for twenty years.” She pulls a dagger from somewhere in her amber dress, the blade catching the dim light from the air vent. “They’re called ‘The Architects’ because they’ll be the ones to design a new, better world.”
“And you’re one of their agents?”
“I lead Venus’s cell.” There’s pride in her voice, but also something heavier. “I joined after your father murdered my brother Paris. The Architects gave me purpose.”
She produces a second blade, holding one in each hand with practiced ease. The confined space of the safe room suddenly feels much smaller.
“And your purpose now is to kill me?” I ask, trying to keep her talking. Every second I stall is another second for help to arrive.
“My initial purpose was infiltrating the Conclave.” She moves closer, forcing me to shift along the wall to maintain distance. “Helping my faction position assets, gather intelligence, prepare for the Cardinal executions. You weren’t part of the plan.”
“Until they found out who I was.”
“Yes … until we discovered the Sun King’s daughter had emerged from hiding.” Her dark eyes narrow. “That changed everything. My superiors wanted to know more about you, wanted to assess whether you could be … useful.”
The mentorship offer. The guidance. The careful cultivation of trust.
All of it calculated.
“That’s why you offered to help me,” I say, the pieces falling into place. “You were gathering intelligence.”
“I was following orders.” There’s a flicker of discomfort, maybe, or regret, in her expression. “Get close to you, learn what you want. See if the Architects could use you.”
“What did you report back?”
“That you were unpredictable. That you were subverting the Cardinals’ authority in ways we hadn’t anticipated, and unexpectedly protected by shadow-wielders.” She circles slowly, and I turn with her, both of us moving along the chamber’s perimeter.
“So they ordered you to kill me.”
“They ordered me to eliminate an uncontrollable variable.” Her voice hardens.
“The Sun King’s daughter, gathering power, refusing to be manipulated, involved with forbidden magic.
You represent everything we’ve been fighting against – the ability of the old system to perpetuate itself through bloodline and legacy.
The idea that we should stick to the status quo and return to a Solar Sovereign. ”
The first blade strikes without warning.
I throw myself sideways, feeling steel whistle past my ribs. My body moves on instinct – Ren’s training overriding panic – but I’m too slow, too weak. The withdrawal symptoms make every movement feel like swimming through mud.
“That’s actually not bad,” Isolde says, spinning to face me again. “Your bodyguard taught you well.”
She advances, and I’m forced to retreat along the wall. The stone bench sits between us – minimal cover, but better than nothing.
“The masquerade attack,” I gasp, trying to keep her talking while my mind races for options. “That was you?”
“That was us.” She vaults over the bench with fluid grace, forcing me to dive under her strike. “We hired professionals, gave them access codes, perfect timing.”
I come up on the other side of the bench, blood pounding in my ears. “But it failed.”
“Obviously.” There’s frustration in her voice now. “Four assassins, and they still couldn’t finish the job. Between your bodyguard, Lord Castor, Lord Zevran, and that shadow-wielding bastard from Pluto, you had more protection than we anticipated.”
“So they sent you to finish it personally?”
“They sent me because I had access.” She feints left, then strikes right. I barely dodge, feeling the blade slice through fabric at my shoulder. “Because you trusted me. Because I could get close when no one else could.”
The Mercury token continues its steady hum in my pocket, still recording. Every confession, every admission.
If I survive this, Lady Tavia’s people will have everything.
When I survive this.
“What about the attack in my quarters?” I ask, buying more time.
“That wasn’t us.” She circles again, both blades ready. “Someone else wants you dead, Cyra. The Architects aren’t your only enemies.”
The revelation should terrify me, but there’s no room for it. Not when Isolde is advancing again.
“Do you really want to do this, Isolde?”
That question makes her stop in her tracks for a split second. I watch as her eyes soften slightly.
“I don’t have a choice.”
I hold her gaze, both of us frozen in place.
“You always have a choice.”
Her expression twists with what looks like pain. “You don’t understand how this works. The Architects gave me purpose. Family. A cause worth dying for. When they give an order, you follow it.”
“Even when you don’t want to?”
The question lands. I see it in the way her grip tightens on the blades, the way her brows furrow. We circle each other again, predator and prey in this confined stone box. But now I can see the cracks in her composure, the hesitation she’s fighting to overcome.
“You liked me,” I say.
“That was the problem.” The admission comes out harsh, angry – at herself, not me. “I was supposed to assess you. Report back, and stay detached. But you made that difficult.”
Blood runs down my arm, hot and sticky. The withdrawal symptoms spike with the injury, making my vision blur.
Isolde continues, her voice rough with emotion I’ve never heard from her before. “Every conversation, every moment of real connection between us – it made the mission harder. Made you harder to kill.”
I try another of Ren’s defensive moves, stepping inside her guard, but she anticipates it. Her knee comes up toward my ribs. I twist away, taking a glancing blow that steals my breath.
She attacks with renewed violence, driving me back toward the chamber’s centre where she’ll have more angles to work with. I resist, clinging to the wall’s relative safety, but I’m weakening. Blood loss and withdrawal and exhaustion all compound into a perfect storm of physical failure.
“I joined the Architects to prevent another brother from being murdered by tyrants,” she says, her voice shaking with rage and grief.
“To build something where power couldn’t be manipulated or inherited by monsters like your father.
But look at me now – I’m the one with blood on my hands. I’m the one doing the murdering.”
She drives forward with both blades, and I’m forced to dive under the stone bench again. This time I don’t come up as quickly. My body is shutting down, the withdrawal symptoms reaching critical levels.
“You want to know the worst part?” Isolde continues, her voice breaking.
“I don’t even know what we’re building anymore.
The Architects want to burn everything down, but they won’t tell me what comes after.
They say we’ll figure it out once the old order is ashes.
What if we’re just replacing one nightmare with another? ”
I pull myself up using the bench, every muscle screaming. “Then stop. Help me instead. We can—”
“No.” She cuts me off. “It’s too late for that. I’ve already helped to kill Cardinals today. I’ve already crossed every line there is to cross. There’s no going back now, Cyra.”
She vaults over the bench again, and this time I’m too slow. Her blade catches my thigh, opening a long gash that sends me stumbling. I go down hard, my back hitting the stone wall.
Isolde stands over me, both blades ready for the final strike.
“I’m sorry,” she says, and she actually sounds like she means it, tears stinging her eyes. “I’m sorry it has to be like this.”
She raises the blades.
That’s when something inside me unleashes.
A shiver rakes down my spine, sharp and cold. The air seems to bend, reality tilting as dangerous emotions uncoil in my chest. The sun sigil burns beneath my skin, responding to mortal threat with ancient instinct.
My pulse slows. The room narrows to Isolde’s face. The withdrawal symptoms fade, replaced by something colder and infinitely more dangerous.
When I speak, the voice that comes out isn’t entirely mine. It’s deeper, crueler, echoing with power I don’t fully control.
“Maybe your brother died because he was weak.” The words taste like poison in my mouth, but I can’t stop them. “And he would be disgusted if he knew what you’ve become.”
Isolde freezes, her eyes going wide with shock and fury. The blades tremble in her hands.
“What did you just say?”
“You heard me.” The cruel voice continues, and I’m horrified to realize I’m enjoying the way she flinches.
“Maybe your brother was weak, and my father knew it. Maybe your cause is pointless. And maybe you’re hiding behind his corpse because you’re too afraid to admit your entire life is built on a lie. ”
“Don’t you dare—” Her voice breaks. “Don’t you dare talk about Paris.”
But the damage is done. I can see it in her eyes – the grief I just weaponized, the rage I just unleashed.
She lunges with wild, uncontrolled fury. No technique, no grace, just pure emotion driving the blades toward my heart.
But anger makes her sloppy.
I catch her wrist – moving with impossible speed – and skin meets skin.
The sun sigil blazes to life on my chest, visible through my torn clothing. Golden light spills across the chamber, casting everything in sharp relief. Pain magic pours through my hands and into Isolde’s body.
The euphoria hits immediately.
This time, it’s not just the familiar high. This time it’s overwhelming, a sensation so intense it feels like my nervous system is on fire. Isolde’s scream fills the chamber – raw, animalistic, the sound of someone experiencing agony beyond description.
And I’m revelling in it.
The way her body convulses under my touch, the terror bleeding into her eyes, the complete control over her suffering. It feeds this dark and hungry thing inside me, something that recognizes this power and wants more.
“S-stop,” Isolde gasps weakly, blood trickling from her nose. “Please...”
But I don’t want to stop. I want to hurt her more, to make her pay for Lord Evander’s death, for the Cardinals, for the betrayal, for everything. To prove I’m stronger, more dangerous—
“You look exactly like him,” she whispers suddenly, blood now running from the corner of her mouth. Her eyes focus on my face with terrible clarity. “You look like your father when he killed Paris.”
Horror crashes over me.
I see myself reflected in her eyes – face twisted with demonic satisfaction, the sun sigil blazing on my chest, golden light making me look divine and terrible at once. The monster I’ve always feared I was underneath.
I release her immediately, staggering backward in revulsion. My hands shake, still tingling with residual magic.
“I’m not...” I start, but the words die in my throat.
Because she’s right.
In that moment, torturing her, reveling in her pain – I was exactly like him.
Isolde collapses, coughing blood. Her amber dress is torn and stained, her perfect hair disheveled. But she’s still moving, still conscious.
She crawls toward a section of wall that looks identical to all the others, leaving a trail of blood behind her. Her fingers find something hidden in the stone – a small indentation I would never have noticed.
She presses it.
A panel slides open with a grinding sound, revealing a narrow passage carved into the rock itself.
“You are exactly like him,” she says, pulling herself through the opening despite her injuries. Blood drips from her mouth with every word. “And that’s why you have to die.”
The panel begins to slide shut.
“Isolde, wait—”
The panel closes with finality, leaving me alone in the chamber.
I collapse to my knees, the overdose of magic leaving me drained and trembling. My body feels hollow, scraped clean from the inside. But the physical pain is nothing compared to the emotional devastation.
The Mercury token is silent in my pocket now. I pull it out with shaking hands, staring at the small metal disc. Lady Tavia’s people heard everything – Isolde’s confession, her network, her plans.
But they also heard me lose control, heard me torture someone with my father’s magic.
The withdrawal symptoms return with doubled intensity, made worse by the magical overdose. Nausea rolls through me in waves so intense I can barely breathe. My hands won’t stop shaking. The cuts on my arm and thigh throb with every heartbeat, blood pooling beneath me on the cold stone.
I lay my head down on the cold stone floor and close my eyes, walls pressing closer as darkness creeps in at the edges of my vision. I’m dying – from blood loss or magical exhaustion or just my body finally giving up – I don’t know which.
I let death come.
The Mercury token slips from my fingers, clattering against stone.
The last thing I think before unconsciousness takes me is that Isolde was right about everything.
I am exactly like my father.
Maybe I always have been.