For a long moment, neither spoke. Cassia pressed her palm to the enchanted silk, watching the slow rise and fall of Maddie and Roan’s breath inside the cocoon. The past pressed heavy against her ribs.
Dax broke the silence, voice softer than before. “You never told me the whole reason. Not really. This isn’t just about the mate-bond, is it?”
Cassia’s jaw worked, the words sharp and brittle in her mouth. “No. It’s not just for you, Dax. Or Mei, or anyone else who’s waited too long. It’s her. Athena.”
Dax waited, eyes intent.
Cassia drew in a breath, her voice almost a whisper. “You were just a boy when the wars came. Tevon was strong, but he wasn’t invincible. I begged her—my queen, my friend—not to send him to the front lines. Not for a battle we couldn’t win. Aurelias wanted bodies for the line and Athena . . . she wouldn’t go against her husband. Not even for me. Not even for Tevon.”
Her words trembled, old pain rising. “She told me duty came first. That she’d pray for his return. He died alone in that cursed valley because of her. And I—” Cassia’s hand tightened on the web, knuckles white. “I swallowed it. I stood at her side for centuries, wore the mask, gave her counsel, watched her rule with her heart and not her head. All the while, she held onto her ideals and let the rest of us rot.”
Dax’s face softened, the teasing gone. “Cass–”
She shook her head, gold hair gleaming in the lantern light. “Don’t. I need her to pay, Dax. Not just for you, or for all of us who are still waiting. For Tevon. For what she made me become.”
Dax was silent, then stepped close, his hand resting over hers atop the silk. “Then let’s finish this,” he said. “For all of us.”
They stood together for a moment, siblings by blood and by war, watching the slow, steady rise and fall of their prisoners’ breath. The old magic hummed, the silk cell gleamed behind them—a perfect prison, muffling sound, stifling hope, and holding the future of Silk—one way or another—in its sticky, silken grasp.
Chapter Eleven
“Never underestimate anyone. People are capable of just about anything when they feel wronged and are unable to forgive. And for beings as long lived as us Damarian’s, that is a dangerous way to live.” ~ Lyric
The palace’s night was never fully dark. The silk lanterns, honey-gold and faintly luminous, shed their gentle glow over every corridor and stairwell, and the webs that lined the ceilings shimmered like the threads of spun silver. But Lyric felt it anyway—the darkness, thick and heavy, pressing at the edges of her senses as she moved through the heart of the Kingdom of Silk.
She walked with her head down and her mind in a storm, her boots silent on the ancient stone. Something had gone badly wrong. She’d felt it for days: a prickling in her magic, a taste of bitterness on the air, the sense that strands were being pulled in the shadows. Maddie and Roan were missing, after letting her know they’d be coming to see her, but Lyric had heard nothingelse from them. Athena had been snapping at her subjects and looking more stressed than Lyric had ever seen the queen.
She reached her private study and closed the door, leaning her back against the cool wood. The room was dim—Lyric preferred low light when she was working—and the faint blue runes etched into the wall glowed with her shamanic touch. She crossed to her desk and checked her phone for the hundredth time. Nothing. Nico hadn’t replied to her initial text, and she knew why: he was in another state, likely tied up with council business, unreachable for hours yet.
Her fingers trembled as she typed another message:Urgent. I need to see you in person. Flights tonight if possible. This is council-level. Please reply.
She hesitated, then added:Athena’s safety may be at risk.
Then she pressed send, her heart pounding.
She drew a slow breath and closed her eyes, stretching out her shamanic senses. Something was wrong. The magical web of the kingdom felt off-kilter, the lines that should have hummed with life now tense, brittle, quivering as if plucked by an unseen hand. There was a sourness to the air, a taste almost metallic, that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. She’d felt it before, so long ago during the Damarian wars, when they’d lost so many lives—magic twisted, hope unraveling.
She shook herself and stood, crossing her study to open a carved wooden box on a high shelf. Inside was her emergency travel kit: a passport, several wads of cash, and a credit card. She slid the box into her bag, then checked her phone again. Still nothing.
She paced. Every instinct told her to get out. To leave the kingdom and fly to Nico’s location, to put this evidence in the one pair of hands she trusted. But she needed proof—real proof, not just her suspicions and the faint magical aftertaste ofbetrayal on the air. She needed something concrete. Something that would stand up to council scrutiny.
Her thoughts circled back to the queen’s office. Athena had been secretive since Lyric had spoken with her; the queen’s office had been locked, the wards stronger than usual. If there was anything to find, it would be there.
Lyric wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, drew the hood low, and slipped out the door. She moved like a shadow through the halls, her steps guided by memory and magic both helping steer eyes away from her, until she reached the queen’s private study. The corridor was empty. She pressed her palm to the door, whispering in their language and pushing her magic into the wood, feeling the wards resist for a moment before they yielded to her shamanic authority. The door swung open with a faint sigh.
Inside, the room was still, the only light coming from a single lamp on Athena’s desk. The air smelled of old perfume and silk, and Lyric’s heart hammered against her ribs as she crossed to the desk, her fingers trailing over the polished wood. She searched quickly—drawers, shelves, beneath the blotter—her movements practiced and methodical.
And there, exactly where she’d half-suspected but dreaded to find it in a hidden compartment in the underside of the desk, was a book. But not just any book. It was thick, bound in blue silk and gold thread, the queen’s crest stamped on the cover. Lyric’s hands shook as she opened it, her eyes skimming over the first few pages. Her breath caught. It was a ledger.
Meetings with Azure. Dates. Payments. Detailed notes about “alternative mate-bonding experiments.” Names she recognized—Damarian males, Chaos shifters—listed for “transfer” as if they were cattle.
It was damning. It was horrifying. And it could not be real.
Athena wouldn’t. She couldn’t.
But the handwriting was perfect, the signatures genuine, the private codes only the queen would know. Lyric’s mind spun. It was too perfect—almost as if someone had wanted it to be found.
She pulled her phone and snapped a series of photos, page after page, her hands sweating, her breath shallow. She tried to call Nico, but it went straight to voicemail. She kept her voice as neutral as she could, though every word was a knife:
