“So.” He turned back to face me, holding both glasses, and the smirk was back in full force. “What can I do for you, Isara?”

  I didn’t take the offered glass. Didn’t let myself get comfortable. I needed to stay focused, stay angry enough not to get distracted by the fact that this room felt more human than anything else in this gods-damned castle.

  “Did you know Merrick?” The question came out flat. Direct. “Before. At Nyxaria.”

  Cindrissian’s expression didn’t change, but something shuttered behind his eyes. He set both glasses down on the low table between the chairs with deliberate care. “Yes.”

  “How well?”

  “Well enough to know he was dangerous. Well enough to make it out of Nyxaria alive when I left.” He moved to the burgundy chair, sinking into it. “Merrick and I ran in similar circles before Eilrys and I fled. Why?”

  “Because he said things.” I stayed standing, arms crossed, refusing to let my guard down. “In that cave. About Varyth. About me being caught in something I don’t understand.”

  Cindrissian’s fingers drummed once against the arm of the chair. “And you want to know if he was lying.”

  “I want to know if he was fucking with me. If this is some elaborate game to—I don’t know, make me doubt Varyth, turn me against him, deliver me to Ashterion wrapped in paranoia and distrust.”

  “Smart questions.” He leaned back, studying me with that intensity that made me feel like he was reading a book written in my bones. “The answer is complicated.”

  “Then uncomplicate it.”

  His laugh was almost fond. “You really don’t do subtlety, do you?”

  “Not when people are dropping cryptic warnings about the male who’s keeping me alive while half the realm wants me dead or worse.” My hands clenched into fists. “So were you close? You and Merrick?”

  “Close is a strong word.” Cindrissian’s gaze drifted to the fire, watching flames dance across logs. “We knew each other. Worked together on occasion. He’s Ashterion’s right hand. I was a court spy before I became whatever the fuck I am now. Our paths crossed frequently.”

  “That’s not an answer.”

  “No,” he agreed. “It’s not.” His eyes cut back to mine, sharp and assessing. “We were close enough that I knew his tells. Close enough to know when he was lying and when he was wielding truth like a blade. Close enough that leaving Nyxaria meant burning that bridge permanently.”

  “So, would he lie to me? To manipulate me into trusting him over Varyth?”

  “Your fire belongs to Nyxaria.” Cindrissian said it simply, like he was stating a fact as obvious as gravity. “The magic you’re carrying originated in Ashterion’s court, which means that Ashterion likely felt that connection. He’s incentivised to bring you there.” The word dripped with distaste. “So yes. Merrick might absolutely lie if it meant bringing you to Ashterion’s side. Might say whatever he thought would fracture your trust in Varyth and make you vulnerable to recruitment.”

  My stomach twisted. “But?”

  “But I knew him for centuries before I left. And Merrick has always preferred truth as a weapon.” His fingers resumed that slow drumming. “Lies require maintenance, require you to remember what you’ve said, build elaborate constructions that can collapse under scrutiny. Truth? Truth just sits there. Undeniable. Corrosive. It does the work for you.”

  “You’re saying he wasn’t lying.”

  “I’m saying that if Merrick told you Varyth isn’t giving you the full picture?” Cindrissian’s expression fell into neutrality. “He’s probably right.”

  “What does Varyth know that he’s not telling me?” My voice came out rough, scraped raw. “About my power. About why Ashterion wants me.”

  Cindrissian was quiet for a long moment, weighing something. Then he sighed. “I have a theory.”

  “Then share it.”

  “I can’t prove it. Not without access to information I don’t have.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped. “I’d need to look at Braerlith bloodlines. The families who crossed the Veil. The lineages of those who survived the transition between realms.”

  Ice slithered down my spine. “Why bloodlines?”

  “Because magic like yours doesn’t just appear.” The certainty in his voice made my fire flicker beneath my skin. “It’s inherited. Passed down through generations. And you’re carrying Nyxarian fire, specifically the kind that was supposed to be extinct. That means somewhere in your ancestry, someone crossed the Veil carrying that magic with them.”

  “I’m human.” The words were hollow. “Was human. My family⁠—”

  “Your family likely crossed the Veil millennia ago.” Cindrissian’s explanation was gentle, which somehow made it worse. “Which means they came from here. From the fae realm. And they brought something with them that shouldn’t have survived the transition.”

  The room was spinning. Or I was spinning. Or the entire fucking world was spinning and I was the only stable thing in it except I wasn’t stable, I was fracturing, splintering, coming apart at the seams.

  “There’s a book,” Cindrissian continued. “Chronicles of the Veil-Crossed. It catalogues every known family that made the journey, traces their bloodlines, documents what magic they carried. It’s the only comprehensive record of its kind.” He paused. “And it’s vanished from the library.”

  My heart stopped.

  Like someone had reached into my chest and squeezed.

  The book. The one Varyth had been reading in his chambers. The one with the family trees and bloodlines and information he’d clearly been trying to keep from me. The one I’d taken and hidden because I was petty and angry and⁠—

  Fuck.

  “What would bloodlines have to do with anything?” The question came out strangled, desperate, buying time while my mind raced through implications I didn’t want to face.

  Cindrissian’s eyes narrowed. “I take it you know where that book might be.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “Answer me first.” I forced steel into my words, even as panic clawed at my throat. “What do bloodlines have to do with my magic?”

  Cindrissian tilted his head, considering me with that unnerving focus that made me feel like a specimen under glass. “He may suspect you have a gift.”

  “The fire?” My hands flexed, black flames already stirring under my skin like they’d been waiting for acknowledgment. “I know it’s⁠—”

  “No.” He cut me off with a shake of his head. “Not the fire. That’s just magic. Powerful, yes. Rare, absolutely. But not a gift.”

  I stared at him. “Then what the fuck is a gift?”

  “Something like mine.” His smile went predatory. “Or Fenric’s. Or several of the others at court.”

  Before I could ask what he meant, Cindrissian dissolved.

  Just fucking dissolved. Like smoke caught in wind, like shadow unravelling into nothing. One moment he was sitting in that burgundy chair, solid and real and smirking at me. The next he was gone.

  His voice drifted from everywhere and nowhere, surrounding me like the castle’s song. “People like me are called Ilvane.”

  My heart slammed against my ribs. I spun, searching for him, but there was nothing. Just empty space where he’d been sitting and a voice that seemed to come from the walls themselves.

  “We can move through shadows. Become them. Slip between spaces that shouldn’t exist.” The voice moved, circling me like a predator. “Exceptionally useful for someone whose job involves extracting information from people who’d rather die than talk.”

  Then he was there again. Materialising in the same chair like he’d never left, that infuriating smirk firmly back in place.

  I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think past the horror of watching someone just stop existing.

  “Fenric,” he continued like he hadn’t just given me a fucking heart attack. “You may have noticed, can sense presences. Thoughts. Emotions bleeding off people like heat.” His fingers drummed against the chair arm. “They’re called Lunari. Exceptionally rare, actually. Most fae go their entire lives without meeting one.”

  “What does this have to do with me?” But I already knew. Already felt the pieces clicking into place with the inevitability of a blade finding flesh.

  “There are a myriad of gifts.” Cindrissian leaned forward, eyes intent. “Varying in rarity, in power. Some fae have them. Most don’t. It’s not about strength or skill, it’s something you’re born with. Something that manifests under the right circumstances.”

  “And you think I have one of these gifts.”

  “I think Varyth suspects you might.” His voice went careful. “They’re never afforded to humans who cross the Veil. Never. The transformation strips away everything except base magic, rebuilds you anew. But given the power that was felt when you crossed, the way the entire realm lit up like you’d set off a fucking beacon?” He paused. “Varyth may have had suspicions from the start.”

  My blood turned to ice. “The bloodlines. He was looking to see if⁠—”

  “If your ancestry suggested the possibility, yes.” Cindrissian’s gaze never wavered. “And those suspicions probably increased exponentially once that shadow fire appeared. Because gifts don’t manifest gradually. They explode into being under moments of great emotional stress.”

  “Great emotional distress?”

  “Yes. Which is probably,” Cindrissian continued, voice going soft and dangerous. “Why Varyth’s been so vigilant about avoiding situations where you’d be under extreme emotional duress.”

  Every time Varyth had stepped in. Every time he’d intercepted a threat before it reached me. Every time he’d tried to keep me from the fighting, from the danger, from the situations that would make me manifest whatever fucking gift I might possess.

  He’d been managing me. Controlling the variables. Keeping me calm and contained and safe not just for my protection, but to prevent me from becoming whatever the fuck I actually was.

  “That manipulative—” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Rage was climbing up my throat, hot and acidic and so visceral I could taste it. “He’s been treating me like some kind of experiment.”

  “He’s been treating you like someone with a loaded weapon they don’t know how to use.” Cindrissian’s tone held no judgment, just that infuriating matter-of-fact cadence. “If you do have a gift, and it manifests uncontrolled—” He spread his hands. “That’s how people die. Usually a lot of people.”

  “So what?” The words came out savage. “He was just going to keep me locked up, kept calm, managed like a child until he figured out what I was?”

  “He was trying to keep you alive long enough to understand what you’re capable of.” Cindrissian stood, moving toward the sideboard again. This time he actually poured himself a drink, downing it in one smooth motion. “But yes. He’s been controlling the situation. Which, knowing Varyth, means he’s been lying by omission about his reasons.”

  My hands clenched into fists, black fire licking across my knuckles. “And you? You’ve known this whole time?”

  “I’ve suspected.” He met my gaze steadily. “But unlike Varyth, I don’t have the resources or authority to investigate properly. I just watch. Observe. Draw conclusions.” His mouth curved. “And occasionally follow suspicious humans who sneak out of castles in the middle of the night.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “I’ve been told that before.” He set the glass down. “Usually right before people realise I’m right about whatever they didn’t want to hear.”

  I wanted to burn something. Wanted to tear this room apart, this castle, this entire realm that kept twisting truth into shapes I couldn’t recognise. Wanted to storm into Varyth’s chambers and demand he explain every single lie, every manipulation, every orchestration designed to keep me docile.

  But first. “The book.” My voice came out flat. “You said you need it. To prove your theory.”

  “I did say that, yes.”

  “And if I knew where it was? If I could get it for you?”

  “Then I could tell you exactly what bloodline you’re carrying.” He moved closer, deliberate and predatory. “I could tell you what gift you might have, if any. And I could tell you exactly why Ashterion wants you badly enough to send his best asset into Varyth’s territory.”

  He stopped just in front of me, close enough that I could see the flecks of darker red in those crimson eyes. “Do you know where that book is, Isara?”

  “I might be able to bring it to you.”

  Cindrissian snorted. “Might. How delightfully noncommittal.”

  “I’ll bring you the fucking book.” I refused to flinch under that piercing stare. “But I want answers. Real ones. Not cryptic musings or half-truths wrapped in charming deflection.”

  “Oh, I’m charming now?” His smirk widened.

  “Don’t let it go to your head.”

  “Fair.” He inclined his head, amusement flitting across his features. “Bring me the book. I’ll tell you what I find. No games, no riddles. You have my word.”

  I nodded once, sharp, and turned toward the door. My hand was on the handle when I stopped. A memory surfacing from blood and lightning and cave-ins.

  “Cindrissian?”

  The shift in my tone must have registered because his expression changed. The smirk faded. “Yes?”

  “What’s so important about rain?”

  Silence. The kind that felt like the air before a storm breaks.

  Cindrissian’s face went entirely, deliberately blank. “I mean, if no one taught you about weather, Isara⁠—”

  “Don’t be a prick.” I rolled my eyes, though my voice remained gentle. “Back in the cave. When you were injured. You said something about rain and Ryn.” I turned to face him fully. “Is that a place? Or a person?”

  The temperature in the room dropped.

  Not literally—the fire crackled in the hearth, warm and golden. But Cindrissian shut down so hard and so fast it felt like watching a fortress slam its gates. His expression went from guarded to absolutely lethal, eyes turning flat and cold as a blade.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Each word carried a finality that said this conversation was over and continuing it would be a mistake.

  The Master of Interrogations was back. The comfortable vulnerability of his lived-in chambers, the almost-genuine moments—all of it vanished like he’d never let it exist. What stood before me now was the male who extracted information from people for a living.

  The one who knew seventeen ways to make you regret asking questions you shouldn’t have asked.

  I read the danger in every line of his body. In the absolute stillness that preceded violence. In the way his hands had gone loose at his sides, not relaxed, but ready.

  I’d stepped on a tripwire. And the only smart move was to back the fuck off before it detonated.

  “Right.” I said, like I hadn’t just seen him transform into something that could kill me without breaking a sweat. “Of course. We all say weird shit when we’re concussed.” I pulled the door open, throwing him what I hoped looked like an easy smile. “I’ll bring that book.”

  The tension in his shoulders eased. Fractionally. Just enough that I knew I’d made the right choice by retreating.

  “I look forward to it.” His voice had lost that lethal edge, smoothing back into his usual sardonic tone. But his eyes were warning me not to push.

  I stepped into the hallway and pulled the door closed behind me, my heart hammering against my ribs.

  Whatever, or whoever Ryn was, Cindrissian would kill to keep that secret buried.

  And I was smart enough not to dig any deeper.

  At least not tonight.

  I had other priorities. A book to deliver.

  And a High Lord to strangle.

  29

  The sound of clashing steel and barked commands echoed across the training yard long before I reached it. Late afternoon sun slanted through the air, casting long shadows that danced with each movement of the sparring figures within. But it wasn’t the familiar sight of guards drilling formations that made me pause at the entrance.

  It was the cluster of female warriors. Perhaps a dozen of them were arranged in a loose circle around three very familiar male figures.

  Lincatheron stood at the centre, his midnight blue hair catching the light as he demonstrated a defensive sequence. Darian flanked him to the right, grinning as he corrected a younger warrior’s grip on her blade. Fenric completed the impromptu teaching circle, offering guidance to the women who watched with rapt attention.

  Fenric spotted me first, his easy smile faltering as he took in the expression that had settled on my face. The others followed his gaze, and the easy camaraderie of the moment shifted into something more cautious.

  “Isara.” Darian’s voice was cheerful, but those russet eyes tracked my approach like he was calculating threat levels. Smart man.

  The book was with Cindrissian. Good. Let that manipulative bastard dig through whatever bloodline secrets Varyth had been hoarding. Let him find proof of whatever gift I supposedly carried—the one Varyth had been so meticulously controlling, keeping me calm and contained like an explosive he didn’t want to detonate.

  Great emotional distress, Cindrissian had said. That’s when gifts manifested.

  And Varyth had spent weeks making sure I never got stressed enough to explode.

  Except right now, I was ready to tear this entire fucking castle apart stone by stone.

  Maybe one of them would do. Maybe I could work out some of this rage on someone who wasn’t actively trying to keep me docile.

  The female warriors were already backing up, creating space. They could probably smell the violence coming off me in waves.

  “What are you doing?” I asked, gesturing to the assembled group.

  Fenric shrugged, apparently deciding to brave whatever storm was building. “Training new recruits. We’ve finally managed to convince enough females to join the ranks.”