There was a stillness to the castle at night that wasn't peaceful—it was watchful.
Aerin stood at the window of her chambers, staring out at the moonlit courtyard below. The roses were blooming again, unnaturally fast. Thorne had told her once: "They're fed with something other than water."
She didn't ask what.
Behind her, the candelabra hissed quietly. The flame seemed to lean away from the shadows gathering near the door.
She knew before she turned that he was there.
"You've been following me," she said, voice calm.
Cassius stepped into the candlelight. His coat was half-unbuttoned, black hair loose around his shoulders. There were dark circles beneath his eyes—odd, for someone who didn't need sleep.
"I haven't been following," he said. "I've been... watching."
"There's a difference?"
"Semantics."
Aerin turned fully now, arms crossed. "Then watch closely. Because I found something in the library last night."
His jaw tightened.
"A clause," she continued, "buried in the Accord. One that suggests I'm more than just a political trinket."
"You're not a trinket," he said sharply. "You're a shield."
She stepped closer, searching his face. "And what, exactly, am I shielding you from?"
His silence was answer enough.
They sat in the inner garden later that night, where the sky above was a perfect dome of stars, and the silence was broken only by the whisper of nightbloom petals unfurling.
Cassius didn't speak at first. He stared at the stone path, the tips of his fingers brushing against his knees as though grounding himself.
When he finally spoke, his voice was lower than she'd ever heard it.
"Her name was Isolde."
The name hovered like a ghost in the air.
"She was human," he continued. "And like you, she came to the court as part of a treaty. The humans back then didn't send ambassadors or blood-tithes. They sent daughters."
Aerin's throat tightened. "You loved her."
He didn't nod. Didn't need to.
"I tried not to," he said, voice brittle. "It was dangerous even then. The court... doesn't forgive weakness. And loving a mortal was seen as the ultimate folly."
"What happened?"
Cassius turned his gaze skyward.
"She was accused of treason. Of leaking court secrets to the Lycans. I didn't believe it. I couldn't. But the proof was—overwhelming. Letters. Meetings. Witnesses."
Aerin's voice dropped. "She was framed."
"I think so. Now, I think so. But back then..."
He exhaled slowly.
"There was a law. If the bonded consort betrays the court, their protector must carry out the execution. It's an oath. An old one. Bloodbound."
Aerin stared at him, horror blooming in her chest.
"You killed her."
"Yes."
Silence stretched like frost between them.
"I held her as she died," Cassius said, and this time his voice cracked—just a hairline fracture, but it shattered something in Aerin nonetheless. "She said she forgave me."
Aerin swallowed. "Do you believe she did?"
"I don't know. I try to. But I remember how her eyes looked. Not afraid. Just... disappointed."
He rose abruptly, as if the memory scalded.
"I never told anyone. Not even Thorne. I buried it. Buried her. Until you."
Aerin stood too, the moonlight painting her face in silver. "Why me?"
Cassius met her eyes. "Because you're not afraid of me. And that terrifies me."
Later, Aerin wandered the halls alone.
She should've felt pity. Grief. But what churned in her chest wasn't simple.
Cassius had once killed the woman he loved because the law demanded it. Because his role required it.
And now that same law bound them.
A flash of cold gripped her spine.
If I ever cross the court… will you do it again, Cassius?
Will you hold me as I die too?
In the southern wing, Aerin found the gallery of House Velas—paintings, relics, artifacts saved or stolen before her family fell. Most were dusty, locked behind glass.
But one oil painting caught her eye.
A woman in deep green stood at a balcony, one hand resting on a marble rail, the other extended toward a dark-winged crow. Her eyes were green-gold—strikingly similar to Aerin's.
She stepped closer and read the plaque beneath.
Isolde Velas, Lady Consort of the Night Court, 1193–1215.
Her breath caught.
Velas?
The same house. The same bloodline.
Her blood.
When she returned to her chambers, Thorne was waiting by the door, arms crossed.
"I know that look," he said quietly.
"Do you?" Her voice was colder than she intended.
"You found out."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Thorne's gaze didn't waver. "Because it wasn't my story to tell."
Aerin sat heavily on the edge of the bed.
"She was family," she whispered. "She was me."
Thorne stepped forward. "Not quite. You're stronger. Isolde bent to the court's expectations. You twist them."
Aerin looked up.
"I want to know everything, Thorne. Every law. Every loophole. Every lie they've buried."
He nodded. "Then we begin tomorrow."
"No," she said. "We begin now."
And deep within the Vault of Blood, a scribe finished copying a single page of an ancient prophecy, binding it with silver thread. A name had begun to appear again in the Court's dark histories.
Velas.
And this time, it would not end in ash.