Santi paled. “The First Binding.”
I nodded once.
“If Kaelith finds a way to lay that oath over her—if he binds her inheritance to himself—he won’t just use her power.
He’ll direct it. Shape it. Command it. And no one, no goddess, no army, no realm, will be able to stop him.”
Not even me.
The halls of Nyxarra had a different voice at night.
Gone was the din of politics and posturing, the rustle of silk and whispered maneuverings. What remained was quieter, and heavier. The sconces along the corridor burned low with blue flame, casting tall, warped shadows across the stone. My boots echoed too loudly, each step another reminder of the weight I carried with me.
I made my way toward the northern wing. The library.
“Seraphine.”
Her feet were propped on the table, one hand twirling a quill as she blew a lazy puff of violet smoke toward a lantern. Her onyx skin shimmered with residual magic, and her eyes sparked when she saw me.
“Well, well,” she said, swinging her boots off the wood. “You look like someone sat on your favorite dagger.”
“I need books,” I said, ignoring the bait.
“You wound me, Malachi.” She grinned, sliding off the table. “Not even a ‘how are you, Sera, you immortal wonder of knowledge and mischief’? You must be in a mood.”
“I’m always in a mood.”
She snorted. “Fine. What flavor of doom tonight?”
“The Nightmother,” I said. “Anything on her. And the Vampyres who followed her. And…” My jaw tightened. “Anything tied to the Moirae name.”
That gave her pause.
“Oh,” she said, tone shifting. “Bedtime stories are an odd request coming from you. What exactly are we looking for?”
“Truth.”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she nodded and moved through the stacks.
Ten minutes later, she returned with a worn leather volume—spine cracked, edges gilded and flaking. She set it down in front of me with a smirk. “This one stayed hidden,” Seraphine said, tapping the cracked spine. “Kaelith banned it after the rebellion.”
I frowned at the cover. “This looks like a children’s book.”
She shrugged. “Well, yes, I disguised it as such to prevent it from being added to the burn pile. Truth spun pretty. Easier to swallow. You want answers? They’re in here.”
“I didn’t ask for a fairytale.”
“No,” she said, tapping the page. “But fairytales are just prophecies dressed in rhyme. Now hush and read, broody beast. You’ll like this one.”
The Nightmother
(As told by the Keepers of the First Flame)
There once was a woman of the night,
who walked alone among stars and secrets.
But she was not lonely.