Chapter 39
Chapter
Thirty-Nine
“Stop it,” I snapped, standing between Zander and Teren, my shoulder still tender but healing fast. “Teren is only trying to help.”
Zander’s gaze snapped to me. “Is that what he’s doing?”
His voice was too calm, but the flicker of shadow across his face made my stomach twist. Then, slowly, his eyes faded back to normal, no longer black, no longer edged in Dark Fire.
Still guarded. Still watching.
I turned, trying to cool the fire between them, and found Tae lingering nearby, his arms crossed and expression unusually serious.
“Teren,” I said, “what have you learned about the sanctuary? How do Zander and I perform the spell to break the wards? And what’s inside that’s so important it’s worth killing over? Is it a weapon?”
He shook his head slowly. “I don’t know what’s inside. That’s the problem. No one does. Everyone thinks it’s a weapon, but there is no proof. I’ve only found the old fae words. I don’t know what they mean, or what to do with them.”
His eyes met mine. “I know they need the Dark Fire and the Storm to activate.”
Zander exhaled through his nose, still tense, but focused now. “Give me the spell,” he said to Teren. “I’ll take it to our contact in the castle.”
Teren hesitated for only a breath before pulling a small, time-worn piece of parchment from the inside of his vest. He handed it over carefully, the edges frayed, the script etched in looping silver ink.
“Don’t lose that,” he muttered. “It was hard enough to find.”
Zander took it with a nod, folding it into the inside of his tunic.
“I’m coming with you,” I said, stepping forward.
He looked at me for a long moment, like he wanted to argue. But he didn’t.
He just nodded once.
Because he knew better than anyone—
This was my fight too.
We made our way toward the castle without further discussion. The rest of the squad was focused on the riders who had either just finished the ashen trial or were about to attempt it.
The castle halls were quiet, the kind of quiet that held weight—not peace. Our boots echoed off the marble as I followed Zander down the winding corridor, torches flickering along stone walls that had seen centuries of secrets.
I stayed close behind him, my shoulder still aching faintly from the wound, my thoughts spinning harder than my steps.
“What will happen to Inderia?” I asked, voice low. “I find it hard to believe she was that careless. How could she not know the dragons communicate telepathically?”
Zander didn’t look back, but his jaw tightened.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Theron is… fond of her. He’ll find a way to twist this, to make it our fault. Or the Order’s. I don’t know how yet, but he will.”
He turned a corner, footsteps slowing slightly.
“But he also knows this—” Zander’s voice dropped, sharp and final. “I can no longer marry Inderia.”
My pulse picked up.
“Are you sure he can’t force you?” I asked, breath catching. “I mean, if he becomes king…”
Zander stopped then, turned to face me fully, his expression fierce in a way that made the torchlight tremble.
“First, that will not happen. Dorian is the rightful heir. And second…” He looked away for a brief second, then back again. “Hein will kill Inderia if she ever attempts to come to my bed. She is dead to us.”
The words shouldn’t have made me feel warm.
But they did.
I swallowed hard, finding comfort in their finality. “Can he make you choose another?”
“No,” Zander said. “My contract was with Inderia’s royal house. Now that it’s broken, I am free.”
His gaze met mine.
“I am free to choose my own bride.”
I nodded slowly, unsure of what burned hotter in my chest, relief, or the dangerous hope that threatened to rise with it.
We continued walking, the hall narrowing as the air turned damp and cold. The torches flickered weaker here, the scent of moss and iron creeping in.
Down ahead, the dungeon gates loomed—black and rusted, thick with old magic.
Whatever answers we sought—they were waiting in the lavish suite belonging to Alahathrial.
The dungeon should have felt cold.
Oppressive. Stone and iron and mildew.
But as Zander and I stepped through the heavy warded doors into the suite, the world changed.
Rich crimson and gold tapestries draped the walls, their embroidered edges woven with ancient sigils. The air was warm, perfumed with something spiced and unfamiliar.
The floor beneath our boots shifted from worn stone to a deep-violet rug, so plush it nearly silenced our steps.
A low table sat in the center of the room, carved from dark wood and inlaid with etched silver vines that seemed to move when the light hit them just right. Surrounding it were velvet chairs and a curved couch with black dragon-scale inlays along the arms—elegant, deadly, and clearly expensive.
Shelves lined the far wall, cluttered with tomes and crystalline decanters, their contents catching the light in fractured rainbows. The books bore no titles, just runes etched in fading ink and symbols I didn’t dare touch.
It was more a sanctuary than a cell.
But then again, what use was a locked door to a fae who could slip into any form, any face?
We barely had time to absorb the room before he emerged.
From behind an arched doorway, Alahathrial stepped out, as elegant as ever, robes of silver and midnight falling like smoke around him. His ageless face was unreadable, lips already curling into a smile.
“Well,” he said, his voice like velvet. “To what do I owe this pleasure, my son?”
Zander didn’t speak at first, just studied Alahathrial with his arms tense at his sides. The space between them hung taut with unspoken truths, bloodlines, and betrayals neither of them wanted to claim.
Then, without a word, Zander reached beneath his vest and pulled free the folded parchment Teren had given us.
He handed it to Alahathrial with a quiet firmness. “We need to know what this says.”
Alahathrial took the paper delicately, his long fingers brushing the edge like the script might bite. “And where did you find this?” he asked, almost idly.
Zander didn’t answer.
“This spell,” I cut in, “is supposed to break the wards guarding the Fae Sanctuary.”
Alahathrial’s golden eyes flicked up, interest sharpening.
He moved toward the table, laying the parchment flat against the polished wood and smoothing it with a single hand. The runes shimmered faintly in the light, a pulse of power hiding beneath the ink.
He began to read.
Not aloud, but with the subtle motion of his lips and the flick of his fingers, tracing each symbol like it was etched into his memory.
“This is ancient High Fae,” he murmured after a moment. “Predating the fall of the Twin Courts. The spell itself is a weave designed to interrupt dark power, not release it.”
He glanced at Zander. “Specifically, it’s meant to disrupt shadow-born wards. Those powered by corruption. It would only work against a sanctuary protected by light magic. Not blood wards.”
My breath caught.
“So if the spell doesn’t work…”
“It means the Fae Sanctuary is likely no longer protected by the High Fae,” Alahathrial said, his gaze piercing. “It is under the Blood King’s dominion now.”
Zander exhaled, jaw clenching. “And if that’s true, if we find the sanctuary, and it’s inside Blood Fae territory, what do Ashe and I have to do to get through the wards?”
Alahathrial studied us both for a long moment, then turned his gaze to me.
“Storm and Flame,” he said quietly. “Two powers. Both born of ancient lineages. To break the wards, you’ll need to synchronize your magic. Not just cast beside each other, but as one. It must be woven together, lightning feeding the flame, fire fueling the storm.”
Zander looked at me. “We’ve never done that before.”
Alahathrial tilted his head. “Then you’d best learn. Because if you fail... the sanctuary won’t kill you.”
He paused.
“It will use you.”