Chapter 39
Chapter Thirty-Nine
We landed hard on the Ascension Grounds, the sun already leaning westward in the sky.
The others didn’t speak as we moved in sync, removing saddles from our dragons and slinging them across the rail posts lining the edge of the grounds.
Kaelith stretched her wings, casting a violet shadow across the ground.
The tension from the sanctuary still lingered in the air, but she didn’t seem to care.
Zander faced the group, his voice firm but quiet. “I’m taking Ashe and Cordelle to the archives.”
Remy crossed his arms. “I’m coming too.”
Zander arched a brow. “That’s not necessary.”
Remy didn’t budge. “I have unrestricted access. If anyone questions what you’re doing there, I can handle it. You’re not Theron’s favorite person right now.”
Zander’s jaw ticked at the remark, but he nodded. “Fine. It might actually draw less attention. But he won’t expect us back so soon. Let’s take advantage of that fact.”
“Agreed,” Remy said.
I turned to the others. “Get some rest. We won’t be long.”
Ferrula grunted. “If you’re not back by dawn, we’re breaking in.”
Riven waved her off. “We’ll be fine. Just go.”
We slipped through the training yard gates, the castle looming like a silent guardian. The torches hadn’t been lit yet—the halls dim with that eerie gray between day and dusk. We moved through the corridors with practiced steps, as quiet as ghosts.
The doors to the archive were carved from blackened oak, etched with golden runes that pulsed faintly as we approached. Zander pushed them open, and the scent of old paper, dust, and enchantments hit us immediately.
Inside, shelves towered toward a domed ceiling of stained glass.
Ladders ran the length of the walls. Scrolls and tomes in every imaginable language lined the shelves—categorized, protected, and enchanted to resist age and misuse.
At the center was a long table surrounded by plush chairs worn down by centuries of kings, scholars, and fools.
Cordelle sighed beside me. “This place is…”
“Sacred,” Remy finished.
Zander motioned to the table. “Let’s find out what Ashe’s key opens.”
We gathered around the wide oak table, its surface already cluttered with maps, aged scrolls, and scattered volumes. Dust caught in the fading light that streamed through the stained glass above, casting fractured rainbows across the worn stone floor.
Cordelle traced his fingers across the spine of a heavy tome before glancing at me.
“I’ve been focusing most of my efforts on your bloodline, Ashe,” he admitted.
“But now… I think we should expand that scope. We need to look for anything tied to the prophecy you’re connected to.
Especially anything that speaks of a Storm Reaper or mentions a child of the Blood and Light. ”
Zander nodded, arms crossed over his chest. “What else?”
“Anything on the Light Fae,” Cordelle continued, already drifting toward the second level. “And any weapons they were rumored to create before the war. They may have built safeguards against the Blood Fae—tools we’ve forgotten or buried in myth.”
I sat at the far edge of the table, pulling the vial from beneath my armor and holding it gently in my palm.
“I’ll focus on this,” I said quietly. “The healing elixir they gave us. If we’re going to save the king, I need to understand how it works.
We need to confirm the poison in his blood is fae-born. ”
“Excellent.” Zander’s voice was low, but steady as he moved toward the northern shelf. “Let’s spread out. We search until we find something that can help us.”
Remy didn’t speak. He already had a stack of books in his arms, eyes scanning titles as he slid into a chair at the edge of the room.
A hush settled over the archives, broken only by the soft creak of old leather bindings, the whisper of parchment turning, and the hum of protective wards.
We collected our chosen tomes and scrolls, the four of us settling around the long table like scholars instead of soldiers.
The air grew thick with dust and ink and the silent tension of purpose.
Zander flipped through a series of weathered journals while Cordelle skimmed intricate genealogies and Remy scrawled something across a sheet of parchment with tight precision.
The quiet stretched into an hour, broken only by the rustling of pages and the creak of the table as we shifted positions. My eyes ached from reading by lamplight, and I rubbed them as I stifled a yawn. Zander’s sudden intake of breath cut through the stillness like a sword unsheathing.
I looked up. “What did you find?”
He didn’t answer right away. His eyes scanned the parchment again before flicking toward Remy, who was already watching him with narrowed focus.
Zander finally spoke, his voice hushed. “Information on Alahathrial.”
I straightened as a chill ran through me.
Zander continued, reading from the page. “It says here he was a prominent member of the Light Fae court. Not just a warrior—he was their lorekeeper. A shadow scholar. Keeper of secrets and forbidden knowledge.”
Cordelle’s head snapped up, and even Remy stilled his pen.
“He was tasked with preserving their most sacred histories. But there’s a note here…” Zander tapped the side margin. “It says he vanished after the war. Not fled. Not exiled. Vanished. As if the court couldn’t even find him.”
“Because he didn’t want to be found,” Remy said softly, his voice edged with thought. “He was hiding. But how did he end up in the dungeon?”
I felt the weight of the vial under my armor. He was hiding… or protecting something.
“What else does it say?” I asked.
Zander looked at me, something unreadable flashing in his expression. “Just that he was an ally and had promised to do anything in his power to stop the Blood Fae.”
My fingers trembled slightly as I turned the page of my own text, the delicate script catching the glow of the nearby lantern like threads of moonlight stitched into parchment. The blood in my veins hummed louder as my eyes locked on the header written in bold, curling ink.
Heir to the Crimson Line shall rise, bearing both ruin and redemption.
The Blood King’s line.
I froze, heart hammering as I ran my fingers just beneath the curling script of the paragraph below it, only to realize I couldn’t read the rest. The letters weren’t in any language I knew. They shimmered slightly, as if they existed just beyond the reach of reality.
“I found something,” I said, and the edge in my voice drew Zander immediately to my side.
He leaned in over my shoulder, brow furrowing. “That passage… it’s in Ancient Fae. But older than anything I’ve seen in our records. I’m not sure anyone can translate it.”
A whisper stirred at the edge of my consciousness. Let me see, little storm.
Kaelith? I breathed her name in my mind, and suddenly I felt her—not just hovering at the edge of our bond, but anchoring deeper. A new tether threaded between us, not of words, but of sight.
She was seeing through my eyes. Reading the runes with a clarity I didn’t possess.
You should not have found this yet, she said, almost gently. But it is yours, nonetheless.
What does it say? I asked.
Kaelith was quiet for a moment. Then the translation came in her voice, each word burning into me with complete certainty.
“The Storm-born child of two thrones, descended of Light, heir of Blood, shall rise when the twin moons bleed. She shall awaken the sleeping flame and silence the final ward. She may rule with mercy… or burn the world for its sins.”
The breath caught in my lungs.
Kaelith added, softer this time, It speaks not just of your potential to save this realm… but to claim the Blood Throne for yourself. You could be their queen, Ashlyn. Not through conquest. By right.
I felt Zander’s hand gently touch my shoulder.
“What did she say?” he asked quietly.
I didn’t look at him. My eyes stayed fixed on the prophecy as the truth uncoiled like a dragon from slumber.
“That if I wanted to… I could rule the Blood Fae.”
Zander’s hand tightened slightly on my shoulder, his warmth grounding me even as my chest pulled tight with a weight I couldn’t name. The idea of ruling the Blood Fae coiled in my chest like a dormant storm, waiting.
“You’re not them, Ashe,” Cordelle said softly, his voice steady despite the worry in his eyes. “You never were.”
“I’ve seen you choose mercy,” Remy added, leaning back in his chair with a rare seriousness. “More times than I can count. A conqueror wouldn’t hesitate. You do.”
Cordelle paused from reading his tome. “Even if you were born of fire and blood… you’ve already rewritten what that legacy means.”
Zander nodded, fierce and loyal. You’re ours. And we don’t follow tyrants, he said privately.
But I’m not just yours, I thought, staring down at the script still glowing on the page. I’m theirs, too. Whether I like it or not.
I nodded, my throat dry. “I just… I can’t seem to outrun it. My past. My blood. Everything I didn’t ask for.”
“You don’t have to outrun it,” Zander said quietly. “Just outrun the version of you they think they own.”
Before the weight could fully settle, Cordelle cleared his throat, drawing our eyes to the scroll now unrolled beside him. His fingers trailed the lines with care.
“I found something about the fae elixir,” he said. “It won’t work alone. Not on a poison that was designed to warp the king’s mind. The Light Fae created a ritual to activate its full power.”
He sat straighter, green eyes focused behind the soft glow of the table lantern. “It’s called the Purging Flame. The elixir has to be consumed at the center of a magical circle, woven with four elemental anchors. Earth. Air. Fire. Water. Each infused with rare ingredients attuned to the Light Fae.”
“What kind of ingredients?” Remy asked.
Cordelle ticked them off one by one. “We’ll need skyroot bark harvested during a storm for air.
Ashes from a living flame tree—those are native only to the Wilding Wastes.
Pure river crystal for water, untainted and uncut.
And for earth…” He hesitated. “Bloodroot. From a plant that only grows in the ruins of the fae capital. The Blood Isle.”
Of course. Always the Blood Isle.
“None of that sounds easy to get,” Remy muttered.
“No,” Cordelle agreed. “But it’s the only way to remove the poison entirely. And save the king.”
Zander’s voice cut in. “Then we find them. All of them.”
I exhaled slowly, the prophecy still echoing in my mind.
Cordelle was quiet, his hand still resting on the edge of the scroll. The candlelight flickered over his face, casting shadows across his freckles and the deep furrow between his brows.
“It won’t break a dark spell,” he said finally. “If there’s one bound to the poison… a curse that’s keeping it tethered to the king… then the elixir won’t be enough.”
I straightened in my chair. “What do you mean?”
Cordelle met my gaze, then looked to the others. “If a dark spell is anchoring the poison. If someone cursed him before or after it was administered, then we have to sever that tie manually.”
Zander’s jaw flexed. “By killing the caster.”
Cordelle didn’t blink. “Yes.”
Zander let out a short grunt, the sound almost feral. “No problem.”
Remy leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, one brow arching. “I second that. In fact, I’d prefer it.”
Zander gave a curt nod. “Let’s just hope they show their face soon.”
“Or make a mistake,” Cordelle added quietly. “Because the king doesn’t have time for us to wait around.”
I exhaled, slow and deep, my fingers tightening around the edge of the table. “So the elixir is a cure, but only if we eliminate the source.”
Cordelle nodded. “We’ll know more once we test the ritual. If the spell resists… we’ll feel it.”
Zander’s hand brushed mine beneath the table. “Then we find whoever cursed him. And we end it.”
I nodded. “No matter who it is.”