Chapter 30
THIRTY
LINDSAY
The old Council chamber beneath the east wing smells of cold stone, iron, and centuries of secrets that were never meant to be spoken aloud again.
The containment runes carved into the floor and walls still glow a faint, sickly silver—holding but tired, like sentinels that have stood too long without relief.
Tamsin set up a small circle of salt and iron filings around the center sigil I drew in chalk earlier today; she insisted on the extra layer, even though I told her the chamber’s wards should be enough.
They’re not.
Nothing ever feels like enough anymore. And just being down here reminds me of when they tried to bind me.
Tamsin stands just outside the salt line, arms crossed, red hair lit by the single floating orb of witch light she conjured.
She’s trying to look casual—leaning against a pillar, one boot tapping—but I can see the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers keep flexing as though she’s ready to throw a shield spell at a moment’s notice.
“You sure about this?” she asks for the third time since we descended the hidden stairs.
“No,” I answer honestly. “But I’m doing it anyway.”
She nods once. “Then do it fast. I don’t love the way the air feels down here—like it’s watching us back.”
I kneel in the center of the chalk sigil, palms flat against the cold stone. The thorns-and-eyes design pulses once under my hands, warm, almost welcoming. I close my eyes and speak the words I memorized from the grimoire—old tongue, guttural, tasting of ash on my lips.
The chamber darkens.
Not like lights going out—more like the world itself pulling inward, folding around me until there’s only the sigil, the runes, and the pressure building behind my eyes.
Then it hits.
Knowledge pours in—not gentle or gradual. A flood. A blade. A scream that isn’t sound but memory slamming into the back of my skull.
I see.
Headmaster Veyne—tall, silver-haired, demon eyes that have watched empires rise and fall—standing on a windswept cliff long before the Veil existed.
No barrier yet. Just open sky between worlds, creatures of light and shadow moving freely between realms. He is not scheming, not cruel.
He is trying to help them. Mediating. Offering sanctuary when the first human mages began to fear what they could not control.
He speaks to refugees in low, careful tones, promising safety.
Then the Dravens arrive, the similarities to Auron and his father are undeniable.
Auron’s family—arrogant, hungry for power—see opportunity where Veyne saw suffering.
They do not negotiate. They contain. They forge the first seals, twist the Veil’s natural flow into a cage, siphon its energy to fuel their bloodline’s dominance.
The creatures scream as the barrier slams shut.
Their essence bleeds into the Draven line—tainting it, making every generation a living conduit for the very darkness they created.
The more they pull, the more the Veil hungers. The more it corrupts.
It echoes that if I destroy the line, they will be fully free. And not to feed on everyone else, but to live.
A flash forward in time, and I see Auron…
I see him as a child—small, pale, and terrified—watching his father carve the curse into his own palm with a ritual blade.
The sigil flares black. “No son of mine will ever be weakened by love,” the elder Draven hisses.
“No attachment. No mercy. Only obedience.” The curse locks around Auron’s heart like iron roots—punishing desire, punishing care, punishing anything that might make him choose someone over duty.
But the roots are not unbreakable. They were never meant to be.
The spell was tied to the father’s will.
If the father’s control falters—if the curse is redirected—it can turn back on its caster instead.
A loophole. A weakness. Hidden in plain sight.
The images fracture.
Pain lances through my temples—white-hot, blinding. My body lifts off the floor, weightless, hair floating around me like I’m underwater. My eyes burn. I feel them roll back, see nothing but endless white.
My head is too full. Too clear. Every secret I’ve chased, every half-truth I’ve been fed, every whispered doubt—it’s all there now, sharp-edged and undeniable.
I see the prophecy in full for the first time—not the fragmented lines the Council feeds students, not the sanitized version Kael recited once with his jaw tight and his shadows restless. The real words. The old words. Carved into something older than the academy itself.
A child born of two worlds, marked by the Veil’s own hand, shall stand at the thinning edge.
Five hearts bound to hers—five powers woven through her blood—will either mend the tear or widen it beyond repair.
The shadow prince must choose mercy over duty.
The fox must choose loyalty over blood. The scholar must choose courage over caution.
The watcher must choose truth over games.
The cursed must choose love over obedience.
Only then can the conduit become the bridge instead of the blade.
Me.
I’m the child born of two worlds—human and Veil-touched, dragged back through the rift instead of dissolving like I should have.
The marks on my skin aren’t a curse; they are a key.
And the five of them—Nolan, Raiden, Kael, Dorian, Auron—they aren’t accidents.
They’re the balance. The prophecy doesn’t call for one savior. It calls for six. Together.
If any one of them falters—if any one of them chooses wrong—the Veil doesn’t just thin. It tears. And everything on both sides drowns in the flood.
I blink hard. The white glare fades from my vision, leaving spots dancing at the edges. My body feels heavy, like gravity reasserted itself too fast.
Tamsin is suddenly right in front of me, hands hovering like she wants to grab me but isn’t sure I’ll break if she does.
“Holy shit,” she breathes. “Your eyes went pure white. Like, full-moon white. And you levitated. Actual levitation. I thought you were about to implode or turn into a pillar of salt or—something biblical. I’m so glad my best friend didn’t explode into cosmic confetti.”
I manage a weak, breathless laugh. “Cosmic glitter?”
“Priorities. You were floating, Lindsay.” She finally grabs my shoulders, steadying me as I sway. “What did you see? You look like you just watched the entire history of the universe on fast-forward.”
I drag in a shaky breath. “The prophecy. The real one. Not the watered-down version they teach in class.”
Her brows shoot up. “And?”
“It’s not about one person saving the world.
” My voice still sounds distant, like it’s coming from someone else.
“It’s about six. Me…and them. All five of them.
Nolan, Raiden, Kael, Dorian, Auron. The prophecy says we either mend the tear together or rip it wide open.
Each of them has to make a choice—mercy, loyalty, courage, truth, love. If even one of them chooses wrong…”
Tamsin exhales slowly. “No pressure or anything.”
“Yeah.” I rub my temples, trying to ease the lingering ache.
“And the Veil isn’t just some mindless force trying to break free.
It’s… wounded. Starving. The Dravens didn’t just build the barrier—they poisoned it.
Every time they pulled power from the other side, they tainted their own bloodline.
Auron’s family turned themselves into walking conduits for the darkness they created.
That’s why the Veil keeps pushing. It’s trying to reclaim what was stolen. ”
Tamsin whistles low. “So Auron’s dad basically built a monster and then blamed everyone else when it got hungry.”
“Pretty much.” I meet her eyes. “And Auron…his curse isn’t unbreakable. It’s tied to his father’s will. If we can redirect it—turn the punishment back on the caster instead of him…”
Her expression shifts from shock to something fierce and calculating. “You’re thinking of flipping the script on the whole Draven dynasty.”
“I’m thinking if Auron chooses me—really chooses, not just obeys—then the curse snaps back on his father. And maybe…maybe that weakens the conduit enough for us to actually make all of this right.”
Tamsin stares at me for a long beat.
Then she grins—slow, reckless, and beautiful.
“That’s my girl. Going from ‘I hate him’ to ‘let’s break his curse and save the world with the power of love’ in one spell session. Peak romance arc.”
I huff a laugh, shaky but real. “It’s not that simple.”
“Nothing worth doing ever is.” She stands, offering both hands to pull me up.
“Come on. You look like you just ran a marathon through someone else’s memories.
We need food, water, and probably a very strong protection spell before you start telling the guys what you saw.
Because Kael and Raiden are going to lose their minds when they realize you did this without them. ”
I let her haul me to my feet. My legs still feel like they belong to someone else, but the weight in my chest is different now.
The prophecy isn’t a death sentence.
It’s a choice.