Record It
? Ivy ?
The word Vance changes the archive room.
It hangs between the black case, the table, and King Grant’s still face, and no one repeats it. Even Jace, who rarely knows when silence would serve him better, seems to understand that something older than his wounded pride has entered the room.
Roman’s hand rests near mine beneath the edge of the table. He doesn’t squeeze it or explain what he knows, which may be the worst part. Roman knows the name. Grant knows it. Rowan knows enough to fold the page as though it might cut him.
I know only that the first trail to my mother has led to a raid record and a name the king looks afraid to hear.
Rowan turns the page over once, then sets his palm flat against it. “The Vance material remains under council seal until the compact files are retrieved and authenticated.”
Grant’s gaze sharpens. “You can’t seal crown-linked material against the crown.”
“I’m not sealing it against the crown,” Rowan says. “I’m sealing it against interference.”
A clerk near the shelves goes very still. Grant notices, because men like him always notice fear.
“You’re implying interference from the throne.”
“I’m acknowledging that someone with authority beyond ordinary council access opened a restricted archive recently,” Rowan replies. “Until I know who it was, nothing connected to this file leaves my custody.”
Grant’s mouth curves without warmth. “Careful, Elder. You’re stepping close to accusation.”
“No,” Rowan says. “I’m standing inside caution. You’re the one deciding it looks like accusation.”
Grant glances toward the black case. “This review was called to examine vow stability, not reopen foreign grievances.”
“The Vance line is Northern,” Rowan says before I can speak. “Its surviving wolves were driven beyond the western border after the raid. The compact records are foreign only because refuge had to be found elsewhere.”
My bloodline. My mother’s missing history. A name treated like it has enough power to make the king argue with an elder in front of half the council.
Grant’s attention shifts to me. “Roots can be poisoned.”
“My bloodline was used against my vow.” The arch and the records have scraped me hollow, but my voice holds. “You can’t drag my origin into this chamber, then complain that it has roots.”
“Thrones can be poisoned too,” Roman says.
Rowan lifts one hand before either man can turn the archive room into a battlefield.
“This inquiry recesses for two hours while the requested records are secured. The Vance name remains under council seal. No one present is dismissed from availability, and there will be no private departures or unsupervised messages.”
Sloane’s lashes lower for half a second. She’s afraid of the black case, though not the way I am. I’m afraid there’s a shape of my mother somewhere inside those pages. Sloane is afraid because paper has stopped behaving like a servant.
Grant turns back to Rowan. “You intend to hold the royal family under guard?”
“I intend to keep witnesses available,” Rowan replies. “Titles may make the chairs more comfortable. They don’t make the doors less locked.”
Dane lowers his head, probably to keep from smiling.
Jace steps forward. “I’m not a witness to this.”
“You’re part of the vow review,” Rowan says.
“The review is suspended.”
“It’s recessed.”
Jace’s jaw tightens. In this place, every word is a gate.
Rowan assigns guards to the archive door and corridor, with a clerk to record everyone who enters or leaves. Holt marks the copied pages with red thread, closes his case, and follows us into the hall.
The corridor outside is too bright after the shelves and lamplight.
Courtiers wait at the far end, pretending not to watch.
They don’t know what happened in the archive, but they can see my face, the guards, and the black case under Holt’s arm.
That’ll be enough to feed the capital until someone decides to invent the rest.
Nora comes to my side. “You need water.”
“I’m not fainting.”
“I didn’t say you were fainting. I said you need water.”
Dane falls into step behind us. “She also means food, rest, and possibly sitting down before the council discovers another way to make paperwork violent.”
Nora looks at him. “Don’t encourage me to carry sedatives for politicians.”
“I’d never encourage you,” Dane says. “I’d merely admire the efficiency.”
A laugh almost escapes me. Roman hears it before it happens, and something soft moves through his eyes before he folds it away for the court.
Rowan leads us to a waiting chamber off the council corridor. It has a long table, a weak fire, and tall windows overlooking the inner courtyard. There are no flowers, no silver arch, and no polished floor built to turn a woman’s answer into a spectacle.
Grant is sent to a separate room with clerks and guards. Jace and Sloane are placed in the adjoining chamber under supervision.
Wade and Marissa are allowed into ours because Rowan still considers them part of the guardianship inquiry. Marissa sits without waiting to be asked, pale beneath her careful powder. Wade remains by the window, stiff through the shoulders, with eyes that refuse to land on me for more than a second.
I take a chair before anyone can suggest it. Nora sets water in front of me, and I drink because arguing with her would be a poor use of survival instinct.
Near the hearth, Holt speaks quietly with Rowan about compact records, old seals, and the time required to authenticate documents hidden for twenty-two years.
Part of me wants to tear open every archive in the palace until my mother’s name falls out.
Another part is terrified of finding the truth while Grant watches for the exact place it’ll hurt me most. Roman remains beside my chair.
“You know the name,” I say.
His jaw shifts.
“Vance,” I say quietly. Rowan’s order covers the council seal, and this room is still held under it. “You know it.”
“Yes.”
“From your first vow?”
His gaze moves once toward Wade and Marissa, then returns to me. “From the years around it.”
That isn’t an answer, but it’s all he can safely give me here.
“I’ll tell you what I know when I can tell you without handing the court a cleaner weapon,” he says.
“I hate that sentence.”
“So do I.”
The hurt remains, but his honesty keeps me from turning it into an accusation. Roman has spent the day giving me choices instead of answers that would make him feel useful.
A soft knock sounds at the adjoining door. A guard opens it halfway.
“Lady Sloane requests to speak with Luna Ivy.”
“No,” Roman says at the same time I ask, “Why?”
The guard clears his throat. “She says it’s a private family matter.”
Wade’s expression sharpens. “This isn’t the time.” Marissa says nothing.
That silence makes the decision for me.
“I’ll hear her,” I say.
Roman’s hand moves, then stops before it reaches mine.
“Within sight,” I add.
Nora rises. “Within my sight.” Dane glances at her. “That’s a frightening distinction.”
“It’s meant to be.”
Rowan comes over from the hearth. “No private conversation. The adjoining door stays open. A guard remains in the hall, and Lady Sloane doesn’t touch you.”
The specificity settles coldly in my stomach. Sloane has never needed to touch me to hurt me, but I nod.
The guard opens the adjoining door wider.
Sloane stands beyond it in her pale blue gown, hands folded, her expression arranged into the same worried softness that used to make people forgive her before she had to ask. Jace stands behind her, looking at me as if someone has told him to reconsider my worth.
I step into the small antechamber before his attention can settle under my skin.
Nora follows to the doorway and leans against the frame with her arms folded. The door remains open enough that Roman can see me from the waiting room, though far enough away that Sloane can pretend we’re alone if pretending helps her expose herself faster.
“You must be exhausted,” Sloane says.
“I am.”
The answer irritates her because she expected resistance or politeness, and I give her neither.
“I wanted to make sure you were all right.”
“No, you didn’t.”
Her smile holds, but the calculation behind it falters. “Ivy.”
“You aren’t here because you care whether I’m all right.”
“You’ve become very comfortable being cruel.”
“I’ve become less useful to lie to.”
Her mouth tightens. “You think you’re untouchable now. Roman looks at you like that, the council calls you Luna, and some old sealed paper has made everyone stare.”
“I don’t feel untouchable,” I say. “I feel tired.”
Sloane’s expression shifts with brief satisfaction, then frustration when I don’t collapse beneath the admission.
“You should be careful,” she says. “Whatever that name means, it won’t make you safer. It’ll make you useful.”
“I know.”
“No, you don’t.” Her voice drops. “You spent years invisible and called it suffering. You have no idea what court does with useful girls. You don’t know what it means to be watched.”
For one breath, I almost believe there’s something honest in the warning.
Then she adds, “You should’ve stayed what you were.”
She isn’t worried for me. She’s grieving a hierarchy that no longer holds.
“What was I?” I ask.
“You were easier when no one listened to you.” Sloane’s hands curl against her skirt. “We fed you, dressed you, gave you our name. You were supposed to remember that.”
“I did.”
“No. You forgot the moment Roman Maddox looked at you like something he found instead of something we kept.”
The word catches between us. I tilt my head. “Was I something the Brooks family kept?”
For once, she doesn’t turn quickly enough. “You twist everything.”
“No. I’m finally hearing it.”
Her hands curl against her skirt. “You think this makes you special.”
“I think it makes me hunted.”
That silences her for a heartbeat, but jealousy finds its footing again.
“You like this,” she says. “Roman watching everyone around you. Rooms going quiet when you enter.”
“I didn’t choose this to take something from you.”
“You took Jace.”
“I never had Jace.”
Her face hardens. “He was mine.”
“He chose you.”
“Jace was supposed to choose me,” she says. “Then Roman took you, and every room started saying your name.”
The title comes out like a curse. I understand enough now.
“You didn’t want Jace to love you,” I say. “You wanted him to prove you were worth choosing over me.”
Her expression turns ugly. Nora straightens in the doorway, but Sloane’s hand lifts before I expect it.
The slap cracks across my face.
Pain flashes from cheekbone to jaw, sharp enough to turn the room white for half a second. My head turns with it, and my fingers catch the edge of the table. Roman says my name quietly.
I look back at Sloane. Her eyes are wide, not with regret, but with the knowledge that she has done in front of witnesses what she usually does in safer shapes.
I touch my cheek.
“Record it,” I say.