She stopped at the base of the stairwell and pressed her palm to the stone wall. The torch beside her wavered, its flame bending toward her skin.
“Kaelith was born of a bloodline that devours. The Vampyres were shaped from shadow and hunger. They feed, yes… but not only on blood. They drink what makes a soul alive.”
“Immortality isn’t the same across the realms,” she continued softly. “The goddesses grant longevity through blessing. But vampyres carry a different kind—older, darker—born of the First Night. Bodies that endure forever… but minds that fray if they gorge on what no mortal or immortal was meant to hold too much of.”
A chill crawled up my arms. “Power?”
She nodded once. “Power. Blessings. Magic. Memory.”
“Each person he drains leaves a piece behind,” she continuedsoftly. “A thread of who they were, what they carried. Those threads become part of him.”
I tried to swallow. “So the strength he flaunts?—”
“—belongs to hundreds,” she finished quietly. “Thousands, probably.” Her gaze lifted; for the first time I saw fear there.
The air felt thin, scraping down my throat. “And the ones he feeds on?”
“Those he drains become husks. Their bodies linger, yes, but they’re hollowed. No voice. No will. Just shells that unravel slowly, trapped in flesh that refuses to die. The lucky ones burn. The rest wander the Veil—half-memory, half-echo—until even their own shadows forget their names.”
The memory of Kaelith’s vision slammed back into me. How easily he had conjured it. How real it had felt. That was power stolen and hoarded.
I caught the faint tremor in her hands. A thin line of crimson welled beneath her right eye.
“Lysara—” I stepped toward her, startled.
She raised a trembling hand, halting me. “Don’t.”
Another rivulet bloomed beneath her other eye. She dabbed it away, smearing red against her pale skin, lashes glinting wet with blood.
“Every secret here is chained,” she whispered. “If I speak beyond what I’m allowed, the binding reminds me.”
My scar ached, shadows pressing tight under my skin.
Santiago had gone pale beside me. “Binding?” He echoed under his breath, voice breaking the stillness. He looked between us, the unease plain in his eyes, then stepped forward before I could move.
“Goddess above…” he murmured, and gently placed his hands on her face, a shallow glow emitting from where his skin met her cheek. The blood pooling in her eyes retreated, pulled back by the gentle warmth of his touch.
“I’m sorry, Lysara,” he whispered as he stepped away.
She exhaled shakily, bracing against the wall, then straightened as if she could will the fear back into silence.
She looked at me then, and there was something in her expression I hadn’t seen before—fear, maybe. Or guilt.
“I’m the one who should be sorry,” she said softly. “Kaelith isn’t a ruler, Aurelia. He’s a collector. Every heart, every gift, every oath—he means to own it. And he’s already decided what he wants from you.”
Her words struck hard. My chest tightened, ribs squeezing in on themselves until it hurt to breathe. I thought of Aeryn—his laugh, his restless energy, the way he tilted his head when he read too long by candlelight. Fear crawled its icy fingers up my spine, but beneath it, something darker twisted. Fury. If Kaelith thought he could take and take until nothing remained, he hadn’t yet learned what a Moirae would give to protect what was theirs.The truth of Nyxarra, the shadows, even Lysara’s bleeding silence—maybe I hadn’t wanted any of it. But if those truths were the weapons I needed to keep Aeryn whole, then I would drag them into the light, no matter the cost.
Santiago hovered near Lysara like she might shatter again, his hand still twitching with residual light.
Lysara, ever the master of grace, brushed her palms down the front of her robes. But I saw it—the faint tremble in her fingers, the way her gaze lingered too long on the floor before lifting again.
We turned the final corner, and the scent of spice and warm bread hit us. The kitchen buzzed with life—clattering pots, bursts of laughter, and the golden glow of hearthlight spilling across stone and copper.
Two small figures sat perched atop a tall wooden prep table, completely coated in flour. The taller of the two flung a handful of it into the air, sending a cloud straight into the other’s curls. They both shrieked with delight, loaves of half-kneaded dough forgotten beneath their sticky fingers.
“Stop that, you two,” Lysara said, her voice shifting—lighter, teasing. “You know better than to play with your food.”
The children froze mid-throw, eyes wide with mock guilt. One of them hopped off her stool, her little hands dusted white and her cheeks flushed from laughter.