Chapter 22 Sorcha
Sorcha
This is it. The Warden’s seat. The heart of this secret, bloody legacy.
“Anything else in the book about this place?” I ask, not taking my eyes off the chair.
“Just that the shield protects the sanctum,” Axl says, flipping through the small leather-bound pages.
My gaze shifts to the shield on the wall. It’s a simple design: a snarling wolf’s head. “What does that even mean?”
“No idea,” Axl says. “But I’m guessing it’s not just for decoration.”
My hand lifts, my fingers hovering just inches from the cold stone of the throne.
This is what Kavanagh wants. This power.
This history. A part of me wants to smash it all to dust. Another, darker part of me wants to sit down and claim it.
I take a step forward, breaking the spell of our collective shock.
The air is so still, I can hear the soft rasp of my own breathing.
“Fuck it,” I mutter, the words echoing unnaturally in the stone chamber.
“Sorcha, wait,” Ciar’s voice is a low warning, but I ignore it. This is my legacy, my curse. I’m done waiting for things to happen to me.
My fingers brush against the cold, unforgiving stone of the armrest. It’s not just rock; it feels alive, thrumming with a faint, ancient energy that travels up my arm. Axl and Cillian move closer, their torches converging on the throne, flanking me like the guards I never asked for.
I sit.
The stone is shockingly cold, a jolt that goes straight through my jeans. For a second, nothing. Then, a low grinding sound fills the chamber, vibrating through the floor. It’s coming from the wall.
Our torch beams whip towards the shield.
“Uhm, magical arse, much?” Axl murmurs.
The stone around it is receding, the snarling wolf’s head sinking into the wall to reveal another, darker opening.
It’s not a passage. It’s an alcove, and inside, glinting in the combined light of our phones, is an arsenal.
Swords, daggers, crossbows, and weapons I don’t even have a name for line the walls.
This isn’t a shield against the darkness. It’s a fucking armoury for fighting it. And I’m sitting on the Commander’s throne.
“Looks like someone was going to war,” Ciar says.
“Against the throne,” Axl says, moving forward. “The darkness was King George IV.”
“They were building an uprising,” Cillian says.
“Okay, but that is all moot now, though. Why does Kavanagh want all of this?” I ask.
“Maybe he is trying to bring back the Order of St. Bartholomew’s for a different purpose,” Axl says.
“He just wants to plant his arse on that throne and call himself the Warden. Any purpose will do.”
“Pretty much. Unless we are still missing parts of the puzzle. If Ardal said that the Kavanagh of the time was a traitor, that was a harsh accusation back then. It’s not a word that was thrown around lightly when it came to treason against the crown.”
“But weren’t they also being treasonous?”
“Yes,” Axl says. “So maybe he was a turncoat. He decided he didn’t want to overthrow the monarchy after all.”
“Jesus!” I snap. “This is all hearsay, and we are just as much in the dark. What has any of this got to do with now and me and you getting married?”
“Nothing,” Ciar says. “It’s an old plot that we have stumbled upon.
Remember that Ardal didn’t know it would be two hundred fucking years before a Gannon married a Rhodes, or whoever.
He was probably expecting it to be in his lifetime, at the very least. He was prepping the legacy to overthrow the monarchy in his time.
That was his legacy. The Order of St. Bartholomew’s.
The seat of the Order is obviously the college.
The place of power in which to recruit members to his cause. ”
“Well, gee, smartarse, excuse me for being a bit thick about all of this shit,” I growl.
Ciar smirks, the arrogant bastard. “Just stating the obvious.”
“Whatever,” I snap, pushing myself out of the throne. The grinding sound echoes again as the wall slides shut, concealing the armoury. My arse is a fucking switch. “So Ardal was a revolutionary who got betrayed. Big fucking deal. How does that help us stop Kavanagh from blowing us up again?”
“It tells us what he’s fighting for,” Axl says, pocketing the small book. “This isn’t just a land grab. He thinks he’s reclaiming his family’s honour. His birthright.”
“Which makes him more dangerous,” Cillian adds, his gaze sweeping the chamber.
“He’s not just greedy; he’s righteous in his own mind.
People like that don’t stop. They feel they have a moral justification.
A superior high ground. You can’t argue with them, you can’t change their minds.
There is no negotiating with him. He needs to be wiped out. ”
“That was always the plan,” I state. “Now we just have to get to him before he gets to us.”
Axl catches my gaze. “All of this means that my family, the Rhodes’ who had and still have close ties to the monarchy, were… traitors too. To the crown.”
I gulp. He looks stricken for the first time since I’ve met him. “Do you think your dad knows?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know, but if this gets out…”
“Even after two hundred years, it won’t go down well,” Ciar finishes for him.
“That’s putting it mildly,” he says. “I need to talk to Alex.”
I nod. He has got his own shit going on.
Mine is starting to look simple next to his sordid history.
The Viscount of whatever-the-fuck-shire, whose entire lineage is built on loyalty to a crown his ancestors were plotting to overthrow.
It must be quite chilling to have that information and not know what to do with it.
“Let’s get out of here,” I mutter.
No one disagrees.
We climb the stone steps, emerging back into the moonlit chapel.
We slip back out into the night, the four of us a silent, grim procession.
The walk back to Cillian’s house is a blur.
My mind is a tangled mess of secret societies, traitors, and thrones.
It’s insane. All of it. I just wanted to come here and build a crew with the Gannon name so I could be taken seriously in a man’s world.
Now I’m the Warden of some revolutionary cult, and my husband’s family are historical traitors.
The second we’re back inside the sterile bungalow, Axl pulls out his phone. He doesn’t hesitate, just finds his dad’s number and hits call, putting it on speaker without being asked. We all stand there, a silent, tense audience, waiting for the fallout.
The phone rings once. Twice.
“Everything okay?” Alex’s voice is crisp, all business.
“Dad,” Axl says, and the single word is heavy with everything we just discovered. “We need to talk about Ardal Gannon’s legacy. And ours.”