Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Zander braced both hands against the underside of the hatch and pushed.
With a groan and a soft scrape of wood on stone, the square above us creaked open, revealing dusty beams and a floor warped from water damage. A shaft of golden morning light spilled into the catacombs, catching on the haze of dust that swirled in the still air.
He climbed up first, and I followed, hauling myself through the opening.
We stepped into a dim, rundown room. It had wooden floorboards buckled in places, and the windows clouded with grime.
Silk curtains hung limp, moth-eaten, and delicate perfume clung to the air like a ghost of its former self.
Velvet lounges sagged beneath years of neglect.
Paint peeled from the walls in curling ribbons.
Zander turned, surveying the empty space with a wary eye. “Where are we?”
I blew a breath through my nose. “This is a… brothel.”
His brows lifted.
I shrugged. “Cyran owns it. And I highly doubt he knows the tunnel ends here.”
We both crouched, sliding the hatch doors back into place. The wood settled with a quiet thud, and within seconds, the floor looked exactly as it had before—dusty, warped, forgotten. Invisible.
Zander straightened, glancing around the room again. “How long has this been here?”
“The brothel?” I asked dryly.
He gave me a flat stare.
“The tunnel entrance,” he clarified.
I moved toward the center of the room, crouching again to study the hatch. There was no latch. No ring. No catch to pull it open from this side.
“There’s no way back in,” I said slowly.
Zander’s voice was quiet, thoughtful. “Unless someone lets you in.”
“Good point.”
We slipped through the half-collapsed archway into the narrow hall, weaving through the lower level of the house. The air smelled of dust and old perfume, but I knew the paths well. Cyran didn’t spend much time here. This was just one of his many shadows.
We turned a corner and froze.
Medira.
She stood in the threshold of a storage room, a box of linens in her arms, her eyes wide with confusion. “Ashe?” she blinked. “What are you doing here?”
“Hi, Medira,” I said with a small smile. “I’m looking for Cyran. I need a meeting. Immediately. Get word to Solei for me.”
Her gaze shifted to Zander, then back to me—but she didn’t question it. Just nodded. “Wait in Room One.”
I exhaled and nodded my thanks.
“This way,” I said to Zander, already leading him down the dim hallway.
Because if anyone could help us unravel the web we’d fallen into—
It was the man who spun most of them.
* * *
The room Medira assigned us was small, barely wide enough for the narrow bed pressed into one corner and the single side table beside it. A chipped glass of water sat forgotten on the sill, and the air smelled faintly of clove and old perfume.
Zander stepped inside and gave the place a once-over.
“Not the most savory of places,” he commented, his voice mild but edged with amusement.
I bristled. “We don’t all live in a castle.”
His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t argue. Just gave a soft nod and sat on the rumpled bed.
Immediately, I regretted my tone.
It wasn’t like he’d chosen to be born into privilege. And considering what I knew now, that his father wasn’t the king at all, and that his nobility might be stripped along with his title. Whatever his bloodline, his life had been anything but charmed these past weeks.
I sighed, rubbing the back of my neck. “Sorry. I’m just… irritable. I don’t like asking Cyran for anything. There are always strings attached.”
Zander leaned forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “There always are,” he said quietly, “when dealing with family.”
I didn’t answer right away.
Instead, I moved to the window, arms folded across my chest, staring out at the rust-colored shingles and alleyways below. I stood there in silence for at least five minutes, my magic coiled tight in my veins, Kaelith’s absence a constant ache.
The door opened behind us.
Soft footsteps.
And then a familiar voice, colder than winter steel.
“What is he doing here?”
Solei.
Her gaze locked on Zander, and I could practically feel the weight of her disapproval fill the room like a storm rolling in from the east.
“Solei, wait,” I said, stepping between her and Zander before her dagger-hardened eyes could slice any deeper.
She paused, but only just.
“He’s the reason we left the castle,” I said quickly. “Theron wants him dead. He’s accused Zander of working with Cyran… to assassinate the king.”
Solei blinked, slow and calculating. “What?”
“He claimed Zander and Cyran got their hands on some kind of dark magic potion,” I continued, voice calm despite the ache rising in my chest, “that came from the Blood Fae. Says that Cyran and Zander worked together to poison him.”
At that, Solei’s hands fisted at her sides, her knuckles pale.
“Theron is accusing Cyran of working with the Blood Fae?” Her voice was soft, dangerous.
“Yes,” I confirmed.
Her eyes darted between us, calculating, weighing every unspoken thread behind my words.
Then she turned. “Come with me.”
Without waiting for a response, she opened the door and strode into the hall, her cloak fluttering like a shadow in motion.
We followed without a word.
Through back alleys and into the rear entrance of the Rusty Tankard tavern, the scent of smoke and roasted meat barely masking the tension curling tighter with every step. Solei didn’t pause at the main room, she led us straight to the old cellar door and down into the tunnels below.
Zander’s eyes scanned everything, cataloging details like the trained soldier he was. But he didn’t speak. Neither of us did.
Solei’s boots echoed down the passage until we reached the metal-reinforced door at the end. She pushed it open and stepped inside.
Cyran sat at his desk, ink-stained fingers steepled, a ledger open before him.
His eyes lifted, and the moment they landed on Zander, they narrowed.
“Well,” Cyran said dramatically, “isn’t this interesting.”
The door closed behind us with a heavy click, and I felt the walls close in with it.
Because the only thing more dangerous than Theron…
Was Cyran when cornered.
I stood across from Cyran’s heavy desk, its dark wood gleaming even in the dim tunnel light. The air was thick with tension, made worse by the weight of what I was about to say.
“Theron’s accusing you and Zander of working together,” I began, voice steady. “Says you got a dark magic potion from the Blood Fae, one used to poison the king. That it’s the source of the king’s madness.”
Cyran leaned back, his fingers still steepled. But the burn that lit in his eyes wasn’t shock, it was fury, coiled tight and barely contained.
He laughed once—short, bitter. “Of course he is. Blame the man in the shadows, as always.” Then he leaned forward, sharp and cold. “But that is no reason to bring a child of King Emlem Rayne into my home.”
“I am not the son of Emlem Rayne,” Zander said, stepping forward.
Cyran’s brows rose high.
“Really?” he asked, his voice laced with interest, not disbelief.
“My mother was the queen,” Zander admitted. “But my father was a fae prisoner.”
Cyran’s gaze narrowed, the pieces aligning in his mind like blades locking into place. “Alahathrial?”
I blinked. “You know him?”
“Yes,” Cyran said, resting one elbow on the arm of his chair. “He makes arrangements with all the Order leaders. Only my most trusted people know about him. He has… certain needs.” His lips quirked. “And our ladies do love him.”
My eyes slid to Zander. He was stoic, tense, silent.
“I trust you’ll keep this confidence,” I said carefully, not quite a plea, but close.
Cyran studied Zander a moment longer, then nodded. “This does… complicate things. But I promised Alahathrial that any children of his would be protected under my watch. It seems,” he said, folding his hands again, “Zander falls under that oath.”
I stared at him. “I’m surprised you believe him.”
Solei’s voice came from my left, thoughtful and oddly soft. “It’s the eyes. We should’ve guessed before.”
Cyran scoffed. “He rarely uses his fae form outside the palace. The human one has blue eyes.”
Right. Alahathrial’s glamour. I’d forgotten he didn’t just shift, he rewrote how people saw him. That magic ran deeper than flesh, and it was clear now that Zander had inherited more than a title and a burden.
He’d inherited power.
And if Cyran was right… also protection.
I stared at Cyran, the weight of his words crashing into me like stone on glass. Everything clicked—the secrecy, the strange looks, the way he always hovered around my past without ever touching it.
“You didn’t trust me,” I said quietly. “At least not enough to tell me about Alahathrial.”
Cyran’s sigh was long, tired in a way I hadn’t heard before. “That wasn’t out of mistrust, Ashe. It was… protection.” He leaned back in his chair. “He saw you once. Not long after you came to us. You were playing with Solei. She was teaching you how to throw daggers at the gutter rats.”
I snorted under my breath. That definitely hadn’t been one of my favorite games. Solei’s idea of entertainment was… not exactly child-friendly.
“What happened?” I asked, voice softer now.
Cyran shrugged, his fingers tapping on the desk. “He must have recognized something. Your heritage, maybe. He watched you for less than a minute and then said I was blessed. To have such a unique child under my care.”
My brows knit. “You thought he meant my healing ability…”
Cyran shook his head. “Apparently, he saw more than he let on.”
Zander stepped closer, his hand brushing against my arm, grounding me. “Mine and Ashlyn’s parentage isn’t the issue right now,” he said firmly. “We need to find out who’s framing me… and you.”
Cyran laughed, not unkindly, but bitter. “How naive you are, prince.”
Zander tensed beside me, but Cyran just waved a hand, standing to pace.
“First, you’re more noble than you realize, and that only proves one thing.”
He stopped, looking between us.
“The war is coming faster than any of us wants to admit.”
“We’re trying to stop it,” I said.
His lips curled, almost like he pitied me. “You’ve been defending a kingdom that plans to bleed you dry.”
The room was silent for a beat, the truth of it crackling in the air like a storm waiting to strike.
And maybe he was right.
Maybe the kingdom Zander and I fought for… was already lost.