Chapter 51
Fifty-One
M oonlight streamed through the high-arched windows of Australe Library, spilling across the tomes sprawled over the long table. Midnight had come and gone, yet Alaire still pored over page after page, searching for answers wrapped in one of Dawson’s soft sweaters.
The campus had grown quiet over the last week, most students having returned home for summer break. Most of their circle had stayed at the academy, except Archer, who had gone home to Gale Crossroads, the territory of House Cerebral, to dig for information.
Alaire’s curiosity had grown into a gnawing obsession. The geometric patterns she’d seen in the Serenity Gardens, in the bloodravagers’ cave, and again in Nebula’s Veil refused to let her rest. She knew they were connected—woven into everything that was happening.
Book after book revealed nothing she didn’t already know. Until?—
A flicker of movement. Shadows crept along the library walls, stretching long and thin in the moon’s pale light. They bent across the floor as though pointing. Directing.
And then his words struck her like lightning.
The shadow remembers what we forget… but light reveals where to look .
Professor Ross.
She hadn’t thought of his parting words in weeks, dismissing them as nothing more than the delirium of blood loss. But now they curled around her mind like smoke. What if they hadn’t been nonsense?
Her gaze darted to the window, where moonlight fractured against the glass and scattered silver patterns across the stone floor.
Light reveals where to look.
Her pulse quickened. The window—the way the light bent and splintered—it looked almost deliberate.
What if it wasn’t the window itself, but where it pointed?
Ross’s office held floor-to-ceiling shelves and a large arched window. She’d only been inside a few times, but what if…
Her thoughts sharpened to a single point. That book. The one she’d glimpsed in his arms the night she’d found the files. A Chronicle of Shadows: The Forgotten Histories of Elithian. A gift, he’d said. A story better left in the past.
Not forgotten. Hidden.
Hidden amongst his shelves. Waiting.
Alaire had been searching in the wrong place this entire time.
She needed to get to Professor Ross’s office. Now.
Racing down the steps, the double doors of Australe Library slammed shut behind her. Her boots struck the pavement in a steady rhythm, drowning out the pounding of her own heartbeat.
Sweat gathered at the nape of her neck despite the evening’s cool air. Alaire quickened her pace as the towering spires of Eclat Castle came into view, dense fog curling around the building like grasping fingers.
She clutched the strap of her bag tighter as it thumped against her back. What if I’m wrong? What if it’s only an old book? What if it’s not there?
But that pull inside her—the same one that had led her to Solflara, to the ruby ring, to the memories of the Star of Eternal Night—stirred in her chest. She had to be on to something.
Her footsteps echoed across the marble floors, ricocheting down empty hallways. Fixing her gaze ahead, she pushed on. Almost there.
At last, she reached Ross’s office. Her hand hovered over the brass handle, hesitating.
“ The only way to know is to open that door , Alaire .”
She took a deep breath. “ You’re right .”
Gritting her teeth, she pushed the door open.
The scent of aged leather and ink filled her lungs, mingling with a faint trace of pipe smoke. Orbs flared to life as she entered.
Books lined the right side of the ornate desk, a colossal slab of wood carved with curling flora. Across its surface, only unused parchment waited. The drawers held nothing out of place. Even the hidden compartment was empty.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves stretched along the far wall.
Dropping her satchel to the floor, she moved toward the towering rows. Her fingers hovered over the spines, searching for the one that had stuck with her.
She turned back to the window. Light reveals where to look . Shafts of moonlight cut across the shelves, glinting off the gilt lettering. She started there.
“Come on. Where are you?” she muttered, pulling volumes one after another, dust clinging to her fingertips. She wiped them against her leathers and began pacing.
Think. He left you a clue. He wanted you to find it.
Her heart thundered. She was sure the window was the key. She’d even checked the books where the orb light fell. Nothing.
“The shadow remembers what we forget… but light reveals where to look,” she repeated, scanning the shelves desperately.
A low hum vibrated through the air.
Alaire spun.
The window rippled.
Her eyes widened as the glass shimmered, the night sky dissolving like ink in a basin.
When the ripples stilled, she saw it—an image she thought she’d only ever see again in memory.
Rows of grand windows flooded a vast space with golden daylight. Ivory shelves, trimmed with gilt edges, stretched into a vaulted ceiling with frescoes of phoenixes and Aurelia’s history painted above.
Alaire’s breath caught.
Her favorite room, the Dawnspire library, alive again before her eyes—untouched by destruction, war, or time.
The illusion zoomed through the aisles until it stopped at an unfamiliar section. Nestled between volumes was the book: A Chronicle of Shadows: The Forgotten Histories of Elithian.
Her pulse quickened as she raised a hand toward the glass. Professor Ross had left this for her, hidden within magic that tethered her past to the present.
A deep breath steadied her trembling fingers before she reached into the illusion and pulled the book free. The moment her hand touched the worn leather, the vision fractured. The golden glow dissolved into the night sky.
“ You did it ,” Solflara said in awe.
Alaire exhaled slowly, clutching the book to her chest before lowering herself into Professor Ross’s chair. When she opened the first page, she found a handwritten note sprawled in rushed cursive:
It was never mine to keep… only to hold. This belongs to you now. Be wary of the shadows.
A lump formed in her throat.
The brittle pages cracked when she turned them. Her heart stuttered at the words House Mortis . Goosebumps prickled across her skin. She’d never heard of House Mortis. It was listed amongst the hallowed records of Elithian’s eight great houses—not seven, as she’d always believed.
Blood pounded in her ears as she read, drawn into the shadowed past. House Mortis, whose element was shadow, had been devoted to Umbra, their worship reverent and unwavering.
Denied the adulation granted to Lysia, Umbra reveled in their devotion.
As a gift to his faithful followers, he entrusted them with a grimoire containing some of his most closely guarded knowledge—a way to raise the dead.
But nothing could fully restore a fae or mortal with a soul.
Necromancy.
Alaire’s fingers traced the arcane symbols sketched into the parchment, the same sigils that had haunted her nightmares and branded the ground months ago. Professor Ross had been right: You never know what lurks deep in the shadows. Or more importantly, who it’s looking for.
They were looking for her.
She pressed on.
House Mortis had become enthralled with their dominion over life and death.
But there was always a price. Each act of dark magic devoured a piece of their soul, feeding the insatiable hunger of darkness itself.
To sustain death, it must consume light.
These sigils—source signs—required blood to wield.
Desperate to harness this power, the fae of House Mortis birthed something new, something monstrous: vampires. Born of blood magic, they inherited a thirst that could never be quenched. Their madness became hunger incarnate.
Alaire’s breath hitched as she read of the depravity House Mortis unleashed on Elithian.
In their frenzy, the vampires turned on their creators. House Mortis, once mighty, fell to its own creation. Fae were turned or slaughtered.
Alaire gasped. Everyone had believed only humans could be turned—but fae were just as susceptible. It explained how vampires had adopted a superior sense of speed, strength, and night vision; traits inherited from the fae. “We are both old and new,” the hybrid bat had claimed.
In a desperate bid to contain the chaos, Umbra cursed the vampires, binding them to the night and banishing them from the light of day. But with each dusk, their resentment grew, festering as they evolved into creatures more cunning and ruthless.
Until one rose above them all. A leader with power unlike any before him, determined to reclaim the glory of the eighth house—and all of Elithian. Now it made sense why they’d targeted Aurelia.
Alaire knew the rest: the rise of the Voidshade Sovereign.
Her fingers trembled as she closed the tome. Echoes of the past bled into the present, one thing abundantly clear: This was larger and more intricate than she’d ever imagined. Who had known? Who had buried this history?
She slipped the book into her satchel, tightening the clasp with care. Dawson needed to know.
Her boots struck the marble corridors in a steady rhythm, heart pounding with each revelation. She reached Dawson’s door, breathless, and knocked softly. No answer.
She paced. Knocking harder. Still nothing. Time pressed in on her. This couldn’t wait until morning.
Her hand hovered over the handle, the brass cool against her palm. She froze as a faint hum rippled against her skin—a ward. Static prickled over her hand. She swallowed hard. Magic this intricate was delicate, dangerous. Not something she was trained for.
But she couldn’t wait, and fire, in this case, didn’t need finesse.
She summoned a flicker of heat. Violet flames curled at her fingertips, wavering in and out. The ward pulsed in response, her magic drawn closer as if eager to unravel it.
Alaire bit her lip. Is that supposed to happen?
The shimmer rippled—and then, slowly, the ward began to unravel.
Just like in the cavern, her magic responded to his. The door unlocked.
Slipping inside, she froze at the sight before her.
Dawson lay stretched across the bed, shirtless, one arm tucked behind his head in the easy sprawl of deep, unguarded sleep.
Her lips quirked into a smile despite herself, the tension in her muscles easing at the rhythm of his chest rising and falling, moonlight painting his olive skin in silver.
Drawn closer, she braced a knee on the edge of the bed, her satchel sliding against her back so it wouldn’t be in the way. Her lips hovered above his, ready to close the distance between them.
But then she saw it.
The sheets shifted with her movement, baring the inside of his arm.
Her gaze fell to the ink there—geometric lines, sharp and unyielding, linked in a pattern she knew too well.
The same sigils carved into Nebula’s Veil, where Professor Ross had given his life to free her.
Source signs. Dark magic belonging to House Mortis. To the Voidshade Sovereign.
Her blood turned to ice. She stumbled back, breath catching, mind reeling. No. Not Dawson. Not the one person she’d dared to trust with her heart.
She pressed a hand to her mouth, choking back a sob as realization set in. She’d trusted him.
A cruel, jagged edge of betrayal cut through her. How could she have missed something this monumental?
There had to have been signs—signs she’d ignored because she was consumed by her feelings .
Alaire backed away, vision blurring as tears filled her eyes. Dawson was tied to the one who’d stolen everything from her—her family, her hope, her future. She’d trusted him with their story, their truth. Had let him into her heart and offered him the fragile pieces that remained.
Pieces now shattered into fragments, never to be whole again.
She fled the room, steps frantic, mind a whirlwind of pain and fury.
She’d been such a fool to believe in him, a fool to think she could find peace in the arms of someone who saw her darkness and didn’t flinch.
The betrayal was a knife twisting in her gut, deeper and deeper until she could barely breathe.
Her chest constricted.
As she tore down the hallway, the walls seemed to close in, suffocating her beneath the weight of her mistake. She’d cared for him, trusted him, and he’d decimated her world.
“ Alaire .” Solflara’s voice broke through the bond, laced with panic.
“ Not now !” Alaire roared, slamming down her mental shields. She would not let anyone witness her foolishness.
Alaire ran until the pain in her chest dulled, until her legs gave out and she collapsed, sobs tearing through the silence.
Heartbroken.
Shaking hands fumbled for her breathbind reliquary as the familiar tightness seized her lungs. A few steady inhalations pried them open, just enough to drag air through. At last, the spasms eased.
Slowly, her tears dried as she brushed the last droplets from her lashes. The heartbreak still coiled around her heart, python-tight, threatening to suffocate. But she wouldn’t let it. She would turn it into fire.
Dawson had underestimated her. Forgotten who she was. What she’d survived.
The loss of her parents. Years of hunger and fear. Trials meant to break her. She had walked through Umbra’s seven hells and refused to stay there.
Now she embraced it all—the ghosts of her past, the pain, the rage—as the flames that forged her.
People depended on her, and she would not fail them.
For now, Dawson could believe he still held the upper hand. Let him think she was none the wiser.
Alaire Eloire Vallorian was no one’s pawn.
After all, light was not the absence of darkness—but the defiance of it.