Chapter 31
THE JOURNAL
Seraphina
Ivy's healing magic tingles across my arm as we walk back through the shadow forest, the thin cut already knitting closed. But the wound isn't what troubles me.
"Hold still," Ivy murmurs, her wings beating steadily as she hovers beside me, tiny fingers pressed to the slice Malakai's shadows left behind. "Almost done."
"It's fine. It was barely a scratch."
"It was his shadows losing control." She finishes the healing and pulls back, studying my face with an expression I can't quite read. "That's not fine, Sera."
I don't answer. My mind keeps replaying the moment — the kiss, soft and unhurried, unlike anything we'd shared before.
No power struggle, no dominance or submission.
Just pure connection. The way he leaned into me like a man starving for tenderness, like no one had ever kissed him with genuine affection before.
And then his whole body going rigid, his eyes distant, seeing something I couldn't see. The shadows exploding outward before he could stop them. The children's screams. Frost crystallizing across the grass. The temperature plummeting so fast my breath turned to mist.
The look of horror on his face when my blood welled up.
"He didn't mean to," I say quietly.
"I know he didn't." Ivy lands on my shoulder, her weight barely perceptible. "That's what worries me."
We walk in silence for a moment, the shadow trees filtering strange twilight through their dark canopy.
The forest feels different now — less magical, more ominous.
Every shifting shadow makes me flinch, reminds me of the tendril that lashed toward me with razor-sharp intent.
He'd diverted it at the last second, but not before it sliced across my arm, leaving a thin line of blood against my skin.
My hand drifts to my stomach — a habit I can't seem to break — before I catch myself and let it fall.
"His shadows have been unstable before," I say. "When he's angry, or—"
"This wasn't anger." Ivy's voice is gentle but firm. "I was watching his face, Sera. Something happened when you kissed him. He saw something. And whatever it was terrified him."
The bond. I felt it too — a surge of emotion so intense it nearly knocked me backward.
Joy and longing, a desperate hope that made my chest ache with its rawness.
And then... darkness. Crushing, consuming darkness, and grief so old it had calcified into something harder than stone.
The echo of a scream that wasn't mine. The ghost of blood on hands that weren't my hands.
"You think it was about the pregnancy?"
"I think his instincts know, even if his conscious mind hasn't caught up." She tugs a strand of my hair gently. "The concealment spell hides the scent, but you're his fated mate. Some things go deeper than scent."
The children's laughter still echoes in my memory — little Thea's delight when I showed her how to make butterfly shadows, Eren's serious concentration as he perfected his dragon, the way they crowded around Malakai begging for more.
The way he'd obliged with surprising patience, his shadows dancing to create wonder instead of fear.
I'd imagined our own child among them. I'd been so certain, in that moment, that this was the future we were building together.
Now I'm not certain of anything.
"What happened to his first mate?" The question leaves my mouth before I can stop it.
Ivy's wings still, her expression turning grave. "Julia." It's not a question. "So the whispers were true then."
"What whispers?"
"That she was his fated mate. That whatever happened to her..." She trails off, shaking her head. "What did he tell you?"
"That she died. Not much else." The admission tastes bitter. "He shut down after that."
Ivy's quiet for a moment, processing. "That... explains a lot, actually."
We've reached the palace now, the familiar corridors stretching before us in ribbons of shadow and candlelight.
Servants pass with bowed heads, their whispers following in their wake.
I catch fragments — "the Shadow Lady," "her arm," "did you see the frost in the garden? " News travels fast in this court.
I pause at the junction that leads to my chambers, exhaustion settling into my bones. This new fatigue that comes with early pregnancy is unlike anything I've experienced before — a bone-deep weariness that descends without warning.
"What are the whispers?" I ask. "What do people say about Julia?"
Ivy glances around, ensuring we're alone, before answering.
"That she was his fated mate. That she died under mysterious circumstances—some say madness, others a curse.
The records of her death are sealed, which only feeds speculation.
" She meets my eyes, her expression troubled.
"And there are whispers about the eastern wing.
That something terrible happened there. That he lost control somehow.
But no one knows the truth—just rumors and fear. "
My blood chills despite the warmth of the corridor. "Do you believe that?"
"I believe something terrible happened. I believe he blames himself for it, whatever it was." She lands on my shoulder again, her small hand pressing against my neck in comfort. "I believe he would rather die than let it happen again. Which might be exactly the problem."
Because if he suspects I'm pregnant — if his instincts are telling him what his mind refuses to accept — what will he do? Push me away? Lock me up for my own protection? Or will the fear of history repeating drive him to something worse?
The image of his face in the garden surfaces unbidden — the raw terror in his eyes when he saw my blood. The way he turned and walked away without meeting my gaze, his shadows billowing behind him like storm clouds. Running from me. Running from whatever future he glimpsed when our lips touched.
"I need to know what happened," I say quietly. "Before I tell him about the baby. I need to understand what I'm walking into."
"The archives might have something. Medical records, court documents..." Ivy glances toward the window, where afternoon light still filters through. "But we should wait until deep night, when the corridors empty and the guards grow complacent."
I want to argue, to rush there immediately, but she's right. "Fine. Tonight then."
Later that night we move through the corridors in the deepest part of night, when even the most diligent servants have retired. Ivy's wings provide just enough light to navigate by, a soft glow that doesn't carry far in the darkness.
"The archives are in the eastern wing," she whispers as we move through the shadows.
The archive lock yields easily — apparently they're more concerned with keeping dangerous books in than keeping curious fae and wives out.
Inside, the space stretches into darkness. Rows upon rows of shelves, centuries of records gathering dust.
"Medical records should be this way." Ivy leads me deeper, her wings dimming to barely a flicker.
We search for over an hour, hoping the sealed records might still be physically here, just restricted. Death certificates, healers' notes, household records. I look for Julia's name, for any documentation from that time period.
Nothing.
"It's not just sealed," I murmur, running my fingers over the gaps in the shelves. "It's been removed entirely. Destroyed."
Ivy nods grimly. "Someone didn't just want it hidden—they wanted it erased. Whatever happened, someone made sure no trace remained."
We search every corner, every hidden shelf, but find nothing. Whoever purged these records did it completely.
"There's one more place," Ivy says finally, her expression troubled. "His study. Personal chambers. If there's anything left about Julia, it would be there."
"Breaking into the archives is one thing. His private study..."
"Is exactly where he'd keep something he wanted hidden." Ivy's hair shifts to determined crimson. "Let me do it. He already doesn't trust me — if I'm caught, it won't change anything between you two. But if you're caught breaking into his study..."
She's right, and I hate it.
"Are you sure?"
"I've been sneaking around this palace since you got here, and I know several secret passages and chambers. I'll be fine." She grins, though it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "Give me a few days. If there's anything to find, I'll find it."
* * *
A day later, Ivy slips into my chambers just before dawn, her wings pulled tight against her back. She's clutching something wrapped in dark cloth.
"You found something," I breathe.
"His study was warded, but not against fae magic." She unwraps the cloth, revealing a slim journal bound in faded blue leather. "It was hidden in a locked drawer, beneath a false bottom. He didn't want anyone finding this."
My hands tremble as I take it. No name on the cover, but the dates...
"Julia's?"
Ivy nods. "Read it. I'll keep watch."
I open to the first page, and the elegant handwriting makes my breath catch:
He doesn't know I'm writing this. He would be furious if he knew — he wants to protect me from even my own thoughts, as if words on paper could somehow make the truth more real. But someone should know what happened, in case I'm not able to tell it myself...
My hands tremble as I turn the page.
The healers say I'm dying. They don't use those words, of course — they speak of "complications" and "unforeseen developments" and "careful monitoring.
" But I can read the truth in their silence, in the way they avoid my eyes when I ask direct questions.
Something is wrong with me — something connected to him, to the darkness he carries in his blood.
I can feel it spreading through me like ice in my veins, like shadows taking root in places light should live.
Julia. This is Julia's journal.
I sink to the floor between the shelves, moonlight pooling around me, and continue reading.