"There are texts I don't want her to find." The words taste like ash. Like betrayal. "The records from the purges. What the temples did to the warrior bloodlines. Anything about contamination."
Corvith is silent. I can feel his judgment even without seeing his face.
"Remove them," I continue, forcing the words out. "Tonight. Move them to my private vault while she's sleeping."
A long pause. Then: "My lord, she'll notice they're gone."
"Then make it look like they were never there. Rearrange the shelves. You've served this family long enough to know how to hide things that need hiding."
"I have." His voice is careful now. "I've also seen what happens when hidden things come to light."
I finally look at him. Old Corvith, who watched me grow from terrified boy to hollow king. Who stayed when my father left.Who's never once told me what he really thinks of the monster I've become.
"She's changing," I say. "The contamination—something's happening to her body. Making her faster. Stronger. I don't know what it means, and until I do—" I stop. Force myself to finish. "She has enough to worry about. I'm protecting her."
The words hang between us. We both know they're bullshit.
"I'll see to it tonight," Corvith says finally.
He doesn't bow again before he leaves.
11
Kess
The archives are missing exactlywhat I need, and I suspect that's by design.
I've been back every day since I found the War God's Covenant, working my way through the restricted section shelf by shelf. Looking for more about the curse, about what happens to omegas who survive the claiming, about why my body is changing in ways I don't understand.
But the texts I need aren't here.
I noticed it three days ago. Gaps in the shelves where books should be—dust outlines showing where volumes sat for decades before being removed. References in one text to another that doesn't exist anywhere I can find. A index listing twelve treatises on omega bloodlines, but only four remaining on the shelves.
Someone cleaned this place out. Recently, by the freshness of the disturbance in the dust.
I pull down another crumbling journal, older than the others, hidden behind a row of genealogies like someone shoved it there and forgot about it. The leather binding flakes under my fingers.
Omega Classifications and Their Traits, the title page reads.A Comprehensive Study.
Most of it is standard breeding documentation. Docile bloodlines producing docile daughters. Which families threw strong heats, which ones bonded easily, which ones gave their alphas sons. The dry observations of someone who viewed omegas as broodmares.
Then, mentioned almost as an afterthought on a water-damaged page:
Warrior bloodlines, descended from the old families of the southern forests, possess traits unsuited to civilized bonding. They do not soothe. They challenge. Their heats bring rage instead of submission.
I read it three times.
Warrior bloodlines.
My grandmother's stories. The way she described our family—wild, she called us.Different. The reason we had to hide.
The text continues, though parts are damaged:
These bloodlines were valued in earlier times when omegas fought beside their alphas in territorial wars. They could withstand?—
The page ends there. Torn cleanly, deliberately. The next page discusses something unrelated entirely.
I want to scream.
