The Tower grants me no time to rest. Word of the warehouse fight spreads before I've even washed the soot from my skin. Servants glance at me like I'm a spark near spilled oil. Guards stiffen when my shadows brush the stone.
Inside my chambers, silence waits like a question. I peel back my bandages—shallow cuts, bruises deep enough to sing when I breathe. My shadows fuss over them like anxious hounds, but I wave them still. They'll heal.
The Goddess whispers from the edges of the room, her voice velvet smoke. Do you see now, little ember? They feed prayers to holes in the dark, and holes are greedy. You are not a hole. You are the mouth.
I press my palms flat against the table, grounding myself. "I am more than your hunger."
A chuckle, low and fond. For now.
The door clicks open before I can push her out of my head. Cas slips inside without ceremony, shutting it with a flick of his wrist. His clothes are travel-worn, his hair tousled, but his grin is sharp as ever.
"You're alive," he says, as if it surprises him.
"You doubted?"
"Always. It makes the relief sweeter." He strolls closer, his eyes catching on the fresh bandages. "They're already telling tales in the taverns. Some say you swallowed the ash-beast whole. Others say you danced with shadows until the Morvain men begged for mercy." He tilts his head. "Truth never spreads half as fast as fear."
I arch a brow. "And what story will you tell?"
"The one that earns me free drinks," he says easily. But then his voice softens. "The one that makes them think you can't be cornered."
For a moment, silence settles between us. His eyes linger, unreadable. Then he leans back against the table, brushing a fingertip along the grain.
"Do you ever think about them?" he asks quietly. "Your family?"
The question is a knife, sharper than anything Morvain sent against me. My throat tightens, but I hold his gaze. "Every day. I saw them fall. I felt their blood on my skin. But…" I draw a slow breath. "Bodies can be hidden. Stories can be rewritten. Until I see graves, I won't believe they're gone."
Cas watches me, the grin gone, replaced by something rarer: sincerity. "Good. Hold onto that. Because whispers travel different streets than soldiers do. And I've heard one—just one—that might matter."
The shadows stir, eager, hungry. My pulse drums. "Tell me."
He studies me a moment longer, as if weighing whether to speak. Then: "A noble house paid to have records burned. Not Kael's. Not Theros. Morvain." His lip curls. "Ledgers that tied your father's name to their debt-books vanished overnight. Which means he owed them nothing—yet they wanted the world to think he did."
My nails bite the table's wood. "Framed."
"Framed," Cas echoes. "And if Morvain erased that, they erased more. Maybe where your family was taken. Or who gave the order." His voice lowers. "I don't think you were meant to survive that night. Someone wanted the Vale name gone. Entirely."
My heart pounds with fury, with hope, with the old ache of grief clawing back to life. The shadows quiver at my feet, itching for blood. Cas watches them, then me, and doesn't flinch.
"You'll have to choose carefully when you dig," he warns. "Truths like this bury the people who chase them."
"I won't stop," I say, voice steady. "Not until I know."
For a heartbeat, our eyes lock. Something dangerous simmers there—shared defiance, the thrill of secrets whispered too close. His smirk returns, faint, not playful this time but intimate in a way that leaves the air heavier.
Before either of us can speak again, a knock rattles the door. Rhosyn strides in, her cloak still damp from rain. Her eyes flick from me to Cas, then to the shadows curling on the floor. She frowns.
"Morvain made their move openly tonight," she says, voice clipped. "The Council will pretend it was just a rift anomaly, but we both know better. You'll need to decide if you want them as enemies or allies."
"They framed my family," I say. The words taste like iron. "There's no choice to make."
Rhosyn studies me for a long moment. Then she nods once, slow. "Good. Hold onto that. Because the day will come when someone offers you their hand with a smile—and behind it is Morvain's knife. If you flinch, you'll be finished."
She turns to leave, but pauses. "One more thing. Darius was seen at the docks tonight. Not fighting. Watching."
The name lands heavy.
Cas whistles under his breath. "Of course he was. A golden thorn in every side."
I say nothing, but my chest tightens. Darius in the shadows, silent, calculating. Cas at my side, sly and unafraid. Rhosyn watching me like a hawk, waiting for the moment I falter.
The world is circling. And at its center, I feel the truth burning hotter: my family's story isn't finished.
And neither is mine.