Night fell across Valerius, wrapping the grand stone fortress in quiet stillness. The torches along the outer walls flickered against the dark, their orange glow dancing on the heavy flags. Inside the east wing, Ravenna could not find rest.
Every time she closed her eyes, the bitter cold returned to gnaw at her senses, whispering promises of ruin.
She dressed in a plain wool gown, wrapped a dark shawl over her shoulders, and slipped quietly out of her room. The hallways were mostly deserted, save for the occasional rhythmic clatter of the night watch marching on the floors below.
She made her way back to the archives. The old library had a comforting smell of dry wood, ink, and pressed flowers. She needed answers. If her mother's spirit had anchored itself to this realm, there had to be an ancient ritual or a binding spell to put a restless phantom to peace without bloodshed.
Ravenna lit a single candle and carried it down the narrow aisles of shelves. She pulled old volumes from the lower racks, blowing away thin coats of dust before turning the yellowed pages. She searched for accounts of the spirit veil, looking for ways an orphan witch could sever the link between a dead mother and the mortal world.
A soft click sounded near the front doors.
Ravenna stiffened, holding her breath. She gently set the candle behind a stack of thick ledgers and moved silently into the deep shadows behind a bookshelf.
Footsteps approached. They were light and hurried, the soft rustle of silk brushing against the wooden floorboards. It was not a guard. A guard would walk with heavy boots.
Through a small gap between two leather-bound books, Ravenna watched a slender figure slip into the room. It was Queen Genevieve, the youngest of Draven’s three wives.
Genevieve wore a hooded velvet cloak. Her face was pale in the moonlight streaming through the high windows, her delicate hands trembling as she held a small iron key. She did not look around with the haughty confidence of Isolde or the cold pride of Lysandra. She looked terrified.
The young queen hurried toward a locked cabinet in the corner of the room, a section reserved for private court correspondence. With shaking fingers, Genevieve slipped the key into the lock and turned it until it clicked. She opened the cabinet door, reached inside, and pulled out a rolled parchment sealed with blue wax.
Before Genevieve could open it, another shadow emerged from the dark entrance of the library.
"You are being very foolish, sister."
Genevieve jumped, letting out a small gasp. The rolled parchment nearly slipped from her fingers.
Queen Lysandra stepped out of the darkness, her dark hair gathered neatly beneath a hood. She smiled, but the expression held no warmth. It was the sharp grin of a hawk watching a field mouse.
"Lysandra," Genevieve whispered, clutching the letter to her chest. "You startled me."
"Did I?" Lysandra walked slowly toward the younger woman, her steps calm and deliberate. "Or did your guilty conscience make you jump? What are you doing out of bed at this hour, sneaking into the royal records?"
"I was only looking for old household ledgers," Genevieve lied, her voice shaking slightly. "The cooks said the grain stores were running low, and I wanted to check the accounts before the council meets tomorrow."
Lysandra stopped only a few inches from Genevieve, towering over her.
She reached out and tapped the sealed letter with one manicured finger. "Household ledgers are kept in the south wing, little dove. That seal belongs to Duke Vance, your father's chief rival in the western provinces."
Genevieve backed away until her shoulders hit the wooden shelves. "Lysandra, please."
"Do you think you are the only one trying to survive what is coming?"
Lysandra asked, her tone dropping to a sharp whisper that echoed through the quiet room. "Isolde thinks she can keep the crown by whispering pretty lies into Draven's ear. But we both know the truth. The King has brought an outsider into our home. He looks at that peasant healer with eyes he has never turned on any of us."
Behind the bookshelf, Ravenna's pulse quickened.
"The healer is just a girl from the south," Genevieve said weakly.
"She is a threat," Lysandra hissed.
"Draven is slipping away from the court. The lords are already gathering their banners. If our husband cannot produce an heir before the harvest moon, the crown will fall. And when it falls, I do not intend to be dragged down with him. You would do well to remember whose side your family belongs to."
Lysandra reached forward and snatched the letter from Genevieve's trembling hands. She tucked it into the sleeve of her gown.
"Go back to your room, Genevieve," Lysandra commanded softly. "Before the King’s guards find you here and Draven questions your loyalty. Let me handle the Duke."
Genevieve looked as if she might cry, but she nodded hurriedly, gathered her skirts, and ran from the archives, her light footsteps fading down the long hallway.
Lysandra stood alone in the dark room for a long moment. She stroked the edge of the stolen letter, a cold, calculating look settling over her sharp features. Then, with a quiet rustle of fabric, she turned and walked away, locking the heavy doors behind her.
Ravenna stepped out from the shadows, her breath coming in slow, measured releases.
The curse on Draven's bloodline was broken, but the rot inside his own castle was spreading fast. His wives were not merely jealous. They were making secret alliances with rival dukes, preparing for the day the kingdom shattered into pieces.
Ravenna looked down at the open book in her hands. The phantom of her mother demanded she end Draven’s life, but seeing the vipers waiting to strike him down only strengthened her resolve. Draven was fighting a war on all fronts, completely blind to the treachery sleeping under his own roof.
She closed the old book and set it back on the shelf. She had to warn him, even if revealing what she saw meant putting herself directly in the crosshairs of the queens.