I pulled the book out. With the cover missing, the first page showed only the bare title. I turned it, stopping on the second page before the familiar story even began. The dedication.
I had seen it a thousand times as a girl, though the words had always been invisible—a hurdle to clear before reaching the pictures.
For my little Spark, whose laughter is brighter than dawn… May you always remember: light is never lost. — A.B.
I stared at the initials.
A.B.
Arin Brightleaf. My mother. The story was hers.
Riven’s admission in my kitchen finally clicked. If he knew the true history, he possessed the book. He had my mother’s words lockedaway at Duskfall Manor, and he had chosen silence. I stepped out of the hospital, finished with fairy tales.
If Riven Ashborne thought he could silence her voice, he was about to learn exactly how little I had left to lose.
The driveto Seacliff Row blurred into a streak of reckless speed. The Manor House rose from the mist, a jagged tooth of black stone against the starlit sky. It looked impenetrable—a fortress built to keep the world at bay.
I rolled up to the iron gates. I stepped out, forced the heavy latch, and shoved the iron inward. I drove up the path, leaving the engine running in front of the main doors. Headlights glared against the stone as I stormed the steps. I seized the handle, shoving the front door open with a crash that rang through the hall.
“Riven!”
My voice tore through the vaulted hallway. No answer. I marched towards the stairs, knowing exactly where to look. I knew where he kept the secrets. I reached the study and kicked the double doors hard enough to make them bounce off the walls.
The room was exactly as I remembered—the smell of cedar and ancient paper. And Riven.
He was here. He stood by the window, watching the headlights of my car cut through the fog.
He turned slowly. His eyes were steady, blue, and unblinking. He was still wearing the suit from the lab—stained with dried mud, the tie gone, the shirt unbuttoned at the collar.
“I wondered how long it would take you,” he said, his voice a low, dry rasp.
“You stood by while they hollowed him out.” My voice was completely dead. “You just watched.”
“I did,” Riven said softly. His quiet admission was utterly final.
“You knew what she was planning,” I snarled, stepping into theroom. “I sent you the location. I called for backup.” My voice cracked, raw with fury. “And you brought the monster to the door. You let him die.”
“Selene—Eamon…”
“Don’t you dare say his name!”
The restraint snapped. The grief I had been holding back finally broke, rushing outward in a raw, unrefined wave. I didn’t think. I just shoved.
A blast of light erupted from my palm, slamming into his chest with the power of a battering ram. Riven flew backward. He hit the old oak bookcase with a sickening crash, wood splintering under the impact. Leather-bound volumes rained down around him, thudding against the floorboards.
He slid down the shelving, a wisp of smoke curling from the centre of his shirt where the fabric was scorched black. I stood there, chest heaving, my hand still raised.
He accepted the blow, unmoving, while his shadows gathered around him. He chose surrender over defence. His gaze was flat, drained of anything but a terrible, hollow resignation.
“Do it again,” he rasped, wiping a trail of blood from his lip. “If it helps… do it again.”
My hand trembled. The fire in my veins cooled, replaced by a sudden, sick feeling. He stood there like a penitent waiting for the executioner. I lowered my hand. I needed the truth.
I pulled the battered children’s book from my bag—The Little Sun and the Little Moon. I held it up.
“This is a bedtime story,” I said, the words feeling thin and fragile in the vast room. “A sanitised version for a child who didn’t know better. You told me you had the original text—the history she wrote for those who were actually meant to hear the truth.”
I scanned the library, the shelves blurring into an endless wall of leather and dust. The massive oak desk was empty.
