But one truth rings louder than everything else… If Veda Bellamy called out to me… If she wants me to find something…
The archives might be the only place left in any realm to tell me why.
And I’m suddenlyterrifiedof what I’ll learn.
***
The deeper we move into the palace, the thinner the air feels—like the entire Realm is holding its breath, waiting for me to slip, or speak, oraccidentally resurrect another long-dead witch. Slade keeps me tucked against his side with infuriating ease, while Draven prowls ahead like a very smug, very dangerous tour guide.
We reach a pair of enormous obsidian doors etched with sigils that shimmer like frost.
Draven glances back at me. “Welcome to the Restricted Archives. No mortals allowed.”
Then to Slade, “And technically no demons either unless they’re authorized, but when has that ever stopped you?”
Slade gives him a sharp look. “Open it.”
Draven smirks, taps the sigil at the center, and the doors sigh open—slow and ominous, like they’re deciding whether or not I deserve entry.
Inside, the temperature drops. A cathedral of dark stone and spiraling glass shelves stretches into shadow. Books float in slow circles. Candles burn without flame. Magic hums in the air like distant music.
Slade guides me in first. “Stay close,” he says softly.
I don’t argue. Not when the air tastes like old magic and older secrets.
Draven snaps his fingers, sending a ripple of light racing across the shelves. “We’re looking for Bellamy artifacts. Veda’s things should be catalogued under ancient coven disputes, broken alliances, and general calamities.”
I blink. “Filed under…calamity?”
“Oh yes,” Draven says. “Alphabetically.”
Slade searches the far shelves while Draven probes the enchanted lockboxes, muttering something about “archaic organization systems” and “who the hell files bloodline curses next to horticulture texts.”
A soft glow catches my attention from a high, narrow alcove. “Slade,” I call quietly.
He’s at my side in a breath. “It’s reacting to you,” he murmurs.
The glow pulses again—faint, golden, a heartbeat waiting for mine to sync. I reach up. The artifact responds instantly. A small velvet box drifts from the shelf as if carried by invisible hands. Slade tenses, and Draven jogs over, suddenly cautious.
“Careful,” Draven warns. “Objects tied to Veda were known to be… unpredictable.”
Slade covers my hand with his. “Let me.”
But the box doesn’t respond to him. It shies away. Then nudges harder toward me. My stomach twists. “It wants me to open it.”
Slade’s jaw works as he takes half a step back—far enough not to interfere, close enough to catch me if the thing decides to bite. I lift the lid. Inside rests a ring. It’s simple, ancient, gold brushed with faint runes that look like they’re sleeping. A Bellamy crest is etched on the inside.
Draven inhales sharply. “That… is Veda’s binding ring.”
My breath turns to glass. “Binding… to who?”
Slade meets my gaze, something dark and heavy settling behind his eyes. “My ancestor,” he says quietly. “Lord Aresh Athalar.”
“Oh.” The word falls out of me like a stone.
Draven gestures for the box to flip its inner compartment open. “There should be—aha.”
A scroll unfurls across the air, shimmering with aged magic. I brace myself as Slade reads aloud. “Union of Athalar and Bellamy to neutralize the realms’ volatility…Bellamy heir chosen by prophecy… balance of power bound through sacred bond…”
