The morning passed in a slow, thick haze. I sat by Hazel’s bedside, watching her sleep, her breaths shallow but steady. Regina had arranged for a private medic to come, one who knew how to keep secrets. He’d stabilized her, given her something for the pain, and left with a silent nod. The house felt like a tomb, waiting for its next occupant.

I didn’t wait in the bedroom. I waited in the courtyard.

I changed out of the robe. I put on the same simple, oversized linen sleep dress I’d been wearing when they attacked. I didn’t wash the dried, rust-colored stains from its front. I let it hang on my frame, loose and accusing. My hair was a mess, my face pale. I didn’t try to fix it. I wanted him to see what he’d done.

The courtyard was a small, paved square surrounded by high walls. A single iron gate led to the gravel drive. I stood in the center, barefoot on the cold stones, feeling the weak midday sun on my shoulders. It didn’t warm me.

I heard the vehicle long before I saw it. The growl of a heavy engine, the crunch of gravel under aggressive tires. It wasn’t his usual sleek sedan. It was a rugged SUV—something he used for his trips to the Sterling estate, for moving her potted plant through rough terrain.

The sound stopped just outside the wall. A silence, then the slam of two doors.

My heart didn’t speed up. It stayed slow, a cold, measured beat in my chest.

The iron gate wasn’t locked. They didn’t need to break it. But they did. A violent, metallic crash echoed through the courtyard as the gate was kicked open, swinging hard on its hinges and smashing against the stone wall.

Two figures strode into the light.

Silas Thorne first. His face was a mask of controlled fury, his dark hair perfectly combed even in anger. He wore a tailored hunting jacket, boots polished to a shine. He looked like a man coming to discipline a disobedient pet.

Behind him, his younger brother Gideon. Gideon was broader, louder, with a smirk already playing on his lips. He carried the energy of a spectator, someone who came to enjoy the show.

Silas’s eyes found me immediately. He didn’t scan the courtyard for danger, for clues. His gaze locked onto me, standing alone in my stained dress, and his anger seemed to sharpen, to focus.

He stopped a few paces away. Gideon lingered near the broken gate, leaning against the wall.

Silas held up the envelope. Thekraft envelope was crumpled now, stained with something dark—maybe dirt, maybe his own sweat. But the blood seal Regina had placed was intact, a dark red smudge on the flap.

“What is this, Clara?” His voice was low, a dangerous rumble. “A fucking joke?”

He didn’t hand it to me. He threw it. The envelope spun in the air and landed with a slap on the stones at my feet, right next to a patch of dried moss.

“A dissolution contract,” I said. My voice was flat, quiet. It didn’t carry across the courtyard. It just hung between us. “Signed in blood.”

Gideon snorted a laugh. “Blood? Probably from a chicken you slaughtered for drama. You always had a flair for the theatrical, Clara.”

Silas ignored him. His eyes were drilling into me. “You sent this to my office. During a critical meeting with the Sterling family’s financial advisors. You embarrassed me.”

“I didn’t send it to embarrass you,” I said. “I sent it to end you.”

His jaw tightened. A flicker of confusion, then a surge of rage. “End me? Over what? Some fantasy you’ve concocted because I was helping a friend? Ivy needed assistance with a new potted plant arrangement. It was a matter of courtesy.”

“Courtesy,” I repeated. The word tasted like ash. “While three men were in my bedroom. While they forced a black liquid into my mouth. While I bled out our child on the floor.”

Silas’s expression didn’t change. He didn’t flinch. He just shook his head, a dismissive, pitying gesture.

“There were no men, Clara. There was no ‘black liquid.’ You’ve been unstable since the… the suspected pregnancy. The doctors said your hormones were causing hallucinations. I told you to rest.”

Suspected pregnancy.

The term was a clinical bullet. It erased everything. The hope, the scans, the tiny heartbeat.

Gideon chimed in, his voice dripping with condescension. “And your sister? Hazel? That weak-minded girl from the common districts? She probably fed into your delusions. Always whispering ghost stories, seeing plots in shadows. She doesn’t know her place. A commoner girl with no gratitude for the life you’ve given her.”

I looked at Gideon. I let my gaze rest on his smug face for a moment. Then I turned back to Silas.

I didn’t argue. I didn’t scream.

I took a step forward, my bare feet making no sound on the stone. I walked right up to him, until I was close enough to smell his cologne—something expensive, woody, masking the scent of whatever he’d really been doing.

His eyes narrowed, wary now.

I reached for the hem of my sleep dress. The linen was soft, worn. I gathered it in my hands.

And then I lifted it.

I pulled the fabric up, over my hips, up to my ribcage. I exposed my stomach to him, to the midday sun, to his brother’s staring eyes.

The skin was pale, stretched, and utterly flat. No swell, no curve of a sixteen-week pregnancy. But it wasn’t clean. Smears of dried blood, rusty and brown, streaked across my abdomen and lower belly. The evidence of the flood, the violent emptying.

Silas’s breath caught. Not a hitch—a full, audible stop.

His eyes dropped. They scanned the bloodstains, the flatness, the undeniable physical truth. His control wavered. His lips parted slightly.

I didn’t let him speak. I reached behind me, to where Regina had discreetly left a folded bundle on a courtyard bench. I picked it up. It was the sheet from my bed, the one I’d lain on when everything ended. It was heavy, linen, stained a deep, pervasive red in its center.

I unfolded it with a single, sharp motion.

Then I threw it.

It wasn’t a gentle toss. I flung the sheet directly at Silas’s chest. The heavy fabric smacked against his tailored jacket, the central, blood-soaked patch landing right over his heart. It clung for a moment, then slid down, but the stain was transferred—a faint, pinkish smear on the fine wool.

He stumbled back a half-step, his hands coming up instinctively to catch the sheet, then letting it fall to the ground. He stared at the fabric, at the massive, rust-colored bloom in its center. His pupils widened, then contracted, a rapid pulse of shock.

“No hallucinations, Silas,” I said, my voice finally gaining a edge, a cold, sharp steel. “No hormonal delusions.

Just blood. My blood. Our child’s blood. On the floor of the bedroom you never came to protect.”

The silence that followed was different. Gideon’s smirk had vanished. He was staring at the sheet on the ground, his face pale.

Silas looked from the sheet to my exposed stomach, to the stains on my dress. His own facade was cracking.

The arrogance was leaking out, replaced by something else—panic, maybe. Or the dawning realization that his lies wouldn’t stick this time.

His eyes flickered, calculating. Then they hardened again, but with a new purpose. A defensive, aggressive pivot.

He turned away from me, not toward the gate, but toward theSUV parked outside the wall.

“You think this proves something?” he said, his voice rough now. “You think a stained sheet and some… some performative display changes the facts?”

He walked quickly, his boots snapping on the gravel. He didn’t look back.

Gideon followed him, confused.

I stood there, my dress still raised, my stomach bare to the world. I watched.

Silas reached the back of theSUV. He grabbed the handle of the trunk, yanked it open. The metal groaned.

He reached inside, into the dark space. He grabbed something—a shape bundled in rough canvas—and pulled it out with a violent, grunting heave.

He dragged it across the gravel, back toward the courtyard gate.

It was a man. A man tied with coarse hemp rope, his hands bound behind his back, his legs tangled. He was dressed in the dark uniform of our household guards. His face was bruised, bloody. He was unconscious, or pretending to be.

Silas dumped him just inside the gate, on the muddy patch of earth where the gravel met the soil. The man landed with a thud, his body limp.

Silas pointed a finger at him, then turned that finger toward me, his face a portrait of renewed, manufactured outrage.

“This,” he spat, “is the man who was supposed to guard your wing last night. He was found this morning, drunk, in a tavern, boasting about being paid to ‘take a night off.’ He abandoned his post. He is the reason you were vulnerable. Not some imagined conspiracy. Not Ivy Sterling. Not me.”

He stood over the prone guard, a conqueror presenting his trophy. “Your ‘attackers’ were probably thieves,

Clara. Opportunists. And this failure is the only person to blame.”

Gideon was nodding now, trying to reclaim his earlier swagger. “See? A simple security lapse. You’ve blown this all into a fantasy to punish Silas for spending time with a friend.”

I lowered my dress. The fabric fell back over my skin, hiding the stains, the flatness. I didn’t feel exposed anymore. I felt armored.

I looked at the bound guard on the ground. His uniform was real. His injuries looked real. Silas’s story was fast, slick, and almost believable.

Almost.

I walked toward the man. Silas watched me, his chest still marked with the faint pink smear from my sheet.

I knelt beside the guard. I didn’t touch him. I just looked at his face. His eyes were closed, but one was swollen shut. A fresh cut on his lip.

And then I saw it. On his left hand, tucked half-under his body, a small, specific detail. The cuff of his uniform shirt was torn. And on the skin of his wrist, visible through the tear, was a mark. Not a bruise. A tattoo. A tiny, precise design.

A curling vine of wisteria flowers.

The main hall of the remote villa felt cavernous in the afternoon light. Dust motes swirled in the sunbeams slicing through the tall windows, illuminating the cold marble floor and the heavy, dark furniture. I stood in the center of that empty space, the stained linen dress my only armor. Silas and Gideon loomed near the shattered courtyard gate, the bound guard a pathetic heap between them.

Silas’s eyes hadn’t left the wisteria tattoo on the guard’s wrist. I saw the calculation in them, the rapid search for a new lie. He couldn’t deny the symbol. So he changed the story.

“You,” Silas barked at the guard, his voice cracking through the silence like a whip. “Explain this.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. In one fluid motion, he drew a thin, cruel-looking dagger from a sheath at his belt. The steel gleamed in the sunlight. He knelt, grabbed a handful of the guard’s uniform tunic, and sliced through the fabric at the collar. The sound of tearing cloth was obscenely loud.

The guard flinched, his eyes fluttering open. They were bloodshot, terrified. “Sir, please, I—”

“The mark on your wrist,” Silas demanded, pressing the dagger’s point under the man’s chin. “Where did you get it?”

“I… I was paid!” the guard blurted out, his voice trembling. He was a good actor. Or he was truly terrified of

Silas. “To look the other way! That’s all! I was just to leave my post at the west wing for two hours after midnight!”

“By whom?” Gideon asked, stepping closer, his earlier shock replaced by a hungry curiosity.

The guard’s eyes darted toward me, then away, as if ashamed. “By… by her.”

He said it so softly, I almost didn’t hear it. Then his bound hands fumbled at his torn tunic, pulling a folded piece of paper from an inside pocket. It was cheap, flimsy paper, not the fine parchment of the estates. He held it out, shaking.

Silas snatched it. He unfolded it with sharp, impatient movements, his eyes scanning the contents. His expression shifted from forced anger to something colder, more triumphant. He held it up for me to see, though I was too far away to read the words.

“A medical invoice,” Silas announced, his voice dropping to a deadly calm. “From a back-alley surgeon in the low district. A specialist in… discrete terminations.” He took a step toward me, the paper crinkling in his fist.

“It lists a procedure. For a pregnancy of approximately sixteen weeks. Paid in full. The client signature is a smudged ‘C. Vance.’”

The air left the room. Gideon’s smirk returned, wider now. “Oh, Clara,” he tsked. “You didn’t want the baby after all? And you staged this whole attack to cover your tracks? To blame poor Silas?”

I didn’t move. I just watched Silas’s face. I saw the lie settling into place behind his eyes. He believed this version. He needed to believe it.

“You bought this man’s silence,” Silas said, gesturing with the dagger toward the guard. “You paid him to abandon his post so your hired butchers could come in and do their work. And then, when you realized what you’d done, the guilt, the shame… you concocted this fantasy. This vile story about attackers and potions to punish me for spending time with Ivy.” He took another step closer. The paper in his hand shook with barely contained rage. “You killed our child. For spite. For revenge.”

He was so close now I could see the flecks of gold in his brown eyes, the faint scar on his chin from a long-ago fight. I remembered the feel of that skin under my lips. The memory was a poison.

“You’re a monster,” he whispered, the words meant only for me. Then his voice rose again, filling the hall. “A vain, cruel monster who would murder an innocent life to get back at me!”

He crumpled the fake invoice in his hand, the sound harsh and final. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he closed the distance between us. His free hand shot out, not with the dagger, but with his bare fingers. They closed around my throat.

The impact slammed me back against the cold marble wall. My head cracked against the stone, stars bursting behind my eyes. His grip was iron, cutting off my air, pinning me in place.

“You bitch,” he snarled, his face inches from mine. Spittle landed on my cheek. His breath smelled of mint and expensive whiskey. “You heartless, scheming cunt. You killed my son. My heir. To hurt me.”

I couldn’t breathe. Black spots danced at the edges of my vision. I clawed at his hand, my nails digging into his skin, drawing thin red lines. He didn’t even flinch.

Gideon was laughing, a low, excited sound. “Finally showing her her place, brother.”

Silas’s other hand, the one holding the dagger, came up. The flat of the blade pressed against my cheek, cold and threatening. “I should carve that lie right off your face.”

I gagged, my lungs screaming. With a final burst of strength, I hooked my thumb under his pinky finger and yanked, leveraging the weak point of his grip. His hand slipped, just enough for me to wrench my head to the side and suck in a ragged, burning gasp of air.

“You’re wrong,” I coughed out, my voice a raw scrape.

“Am I?” he hissed, not letting go, just adjusting his grip. “The evidence is in my hand!”

“The fake evidence,” I spat. The dizziness was receding, replaced by that familiar, frozen clarity. “Paid for with her money.”

With my free hand, I fumbled in the deep pocket of my dress. My fingers closed around two objects: the cold, hard disc of the silver medallion, and the folded papers Regina had retrieved for me this morning from a contact in the city bank.

I pulled them out and, with all the force I could muster, slammed them onto the surface of a low, polished mahogany coffee table beside us.

The clatter of silver on wood was sharp. The medallion skidded, spinning, the Wisteria crest glinting under the lights. The folded papers, heavier, thumped beside it.

Silas’s eyes flicked down. His grip on my throat loosened, just a fraction.

I pushed against him, breaking his hold completely, and stumbled back a step, rubbing my neck. “Your hired guard has the Sterling crest on his skin,” I gasped. “And that—” I pointed a shaking finger at the papers, “—is a transfer record from Ivy Sterling’s private account. From three days ago. The day before your courtesy call to help her with her potted plant.”

Silas didn’t look at me. His gaze was locked on the papers. Slowly, as if in a trance, he reached down and picked them up. He unfolded them. They were official bank transcripts, stamped and verified. His eyes moved down the lines of numbers, the account codes.

Gideon moved to look over his shoulder, his amusement fading. “What is it?”

Silas didn’t answer. He was reading the recipient information. His face, which had been flushed with anger, began to drain of color. The blood left his cheeks, leaving them a sickly gray.

“The recipient account is listed under a pseudonym,” I said, my voice strengthening. “But the bank’s internal clearance notes are attached. See the name they verified for the withdrawal?”

Silas’s finger traced a line at the bottom of the page. His lips moved silently. Then he read it aloud, the words barely a breath. “Licensed Practitioner, Surgical and Pharmacological. Discretion Assured.”

“A black-market doctor,” Gideon murmured, finally understanding.

“Yes,” I said. “Paid by Ivy Sterling. To come to this house. To do that.” I gestured to my stained dress. “But look lower, Silas. Look at the authorization seal.”

His eyes dropped to the very bottom of the page. Below the doctor’s scrawled signature was a stamp. Not the bank’s stamp. A personal seal, pressed into the paper in vivid, vermillion ink.

It was the image of a snarling wolf’s head, rendered in intricate detail. The jaw was open, the teeth bared.

I knew that seal. Everyone in the upper districts knew it.

It was the personal signet ring of Alistair Thorne. Silas’s father.

The room was utterly silent. The guard on the floor had stopped pretending to be unconscious. He was staring, wide-eyed. Gideon had taken a full step back from his brother, his face a mask of confusion and dawning horror.

Silas stood frozen, the paper trembling in his hands now. He stared at the wolf’s head. The red ink seemed to pulse on the page.

His father’s seal. Authorizing the payment from Ivy’s account to the butcher who killed his grandchild.

His head lifted slowly. His eyes met mine. The fury was gone. The arrogance was gone. All that was left was a hollow, stunned shock. And beneath that, a flicker of something else—a terrible, sickening realization.

He wasn’t just covering for his mistress. He was following his father’s orders.

The dagger hung limp at his side. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.

From the shadowed archway leading to the servants’ corridor, a figure stepped silently into the light. Regina.

She held a heavy, cast-iron fireplace poker loosely in one hand. Her eyes were on Silas, watching his every move.

I took a deep, painful breath, my throat aching where his fingers had been.

“So,” I said, the word cutting through the silence like glass. “Who’s the monster now?”

The silence wasn’t just quiet. It was a vacuum, sucking all the sound, all the air, out of the room. Silas stared at that red wolf’s head, his father’s seal stamped on the proof of his family’s crime. His face was a pale, blank slate. The dagger slipped from his fingers and clattered onto the marble floor, the sharp sound echoing like a gunshot.

Gideon broke the stillness. He snatched the paper from his brother’s limp hand. “This is… this can’t be real,”

he muttered, his eyes scanning the lines. “Father wouldn’t… for Ivy?”

His voice trailed off. The implication hung there, ugly and obvious. For Ivy. For her weak heart. For the potion that needed my child’s heart to brew.

Before anyone could speak again, a new sound cut through the hall. A frantic, gasping breath. A stumble of footsteps on the gravel outside.

Ivy Sterling burst through the broken courtyard gate.

She looked like a ghost who’d forgotten how to float. Her silver-blonde hair was wild, escaping its pins. Her usually pale, perfect face was flushed and streaked with tears. She clutched her chest, her delicate fingers pressed against the silk of her gown as if holding her heart inside. She stumbled into the hall, her eyes wide and desperate, finding Silas instantly.

“Silas!” she cried, her voice a thin, reedy wail.

She didn’t look at me, or at the guard, or at the papers Gideon held. She only saw him. She rushed forward, her steps uneven, and collapsed at his feet. Not in a faint. She deliberately knelt, her body folding into a posture of supplication. She grabbed the hem of his hunting jacket, her slender hands trembling.

“It’s a lie!” she sobbed, the words pouring out in a hysterical stream. “She stole it! She stole my medallion and planted it here! To make you think I did this! I never… I would never!” Her tears were real, big and shiny, rolling down her cheeks. She looked up at him, her full lips quivering. “You know me, Silas. You know

I couldn’t.”

Silas was still frozen, but his eyes dropped to her. To the woman kneeling before him, clutching his clothes, weeping like a shattered doll.

Gideon reacted faster. He moved, stepping between Ivy and the rest of us, his body forming a protective barrier. He helped her up, his hands gentle on her shoulders. “Easy, Ivy,” he said, his voice surprisingly soft.

“Don’t strain yourself.”

She leaned into him, using his bulk to steady herself, but her gaze remained locked on Silas. “It was her,” she insisted, pointing a shaky finger at me without even looking my way. “Clara! She must have sent someone to my estate, to my room, to take the medallion from my jewelry case! She’s trying to destroy us! To destroy you!”

Her performance was flawless. The frailty, the tears, the absolute conviction. She was a white lotus weeping in the mud, and Silas was the ground she wanted to root herself in.

I watched it all, a cold knot of disgust tightening in my stomach. I didn’t feel rage anymore. I felt a deep, weary contempt. Their double act. Their rehearsed tragedy.

Silas finally moved. He blinked, slowly, as if waking from a dream. He looked from Ivy’s tear-streaked face to the bank transfer in Gideon’s hand, to the silver medallion still spinning lazily on thecoffee table. His father’s seal.

His mistress’s crest. The two pieces of evidence, side by side.

His jaw worked. He was trying to fit the new story Ivy was offering into the hole his father’s signature had blasted in his world. Clara stole the medallion. Clara framed Ivy. The payment… maybe Father was helping

Ivy with something else. A different doctor. Not for…

He couldn’t make it fit. The logic was crumbling. But his loyalty—or his need to believe in a world where he wasn’t a pawn in his father’s cruel game—was fighting to rebuild it.

I didn’t wait for him to decide.

I turned away from them. From his confusion, from her tears, from Gideon’s protective crouch. I walked across the hall, my bare feet silent on the cold marble. My destination wasn’t a person. It was a part of the wall.

The remote villa wasn’t just a house. It was a Thorne family property, built generations ago when their power was more overt, more brutal. The main hall had a feature most guests never noticed. A section of dark oak paneling, carved with intricate, abstract patterns. To most, it was just decoration.

I knew what it was.

I reached the wall. I didn’t hesitate. My fingers found a specific carved knot in the wood, a design that looked like a tangled root. I pressed my palm against it, feeling the cool, polished surface.

Then I pulled.

It wasn’t a handle. It was a concealed iron ring, flush with the wood. My pull triggered a mechanism inside the wall. A deep, grinding clunk resonated through the stone foundations of the house.

From the shadowed corner near the fireplace, Regina watched. Her grip on the fireplace poker tightened. She knew what I was doing.

Behind me, the sobbing stopped. Ivy’s performance halted mid-breath. Gideon turned, his brow furrowed.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

Silas finally spoke. His voice was rough, stripped of its earlier confidence. “Clara. Stop.”

I didn’t stop. I kept pulling. The iron chain, hidden within the wall, began to slide out from a narrow, vertical slot that opened beside the panel. It was cold, heavy, and blackened with age. I wrapped my hands around it and pulled down, with all my weight.

A louder sound answered. A rumble, deep and subterranean, like stone grinding against stone.

The section of oak paneling I’d touched began to move. Not a door swinging open. The entire panel, a meter wide, sank inward, then slid sideways, disappearing into the wall. It revealed a gap. Not a hallway. A threshold.

Beyond it was darkness. A cold, damp, earthy smell drifted out—the scent of buried stone and old metal.

Silas stepped forward, his boots clicking on the marble. “That’s the old trial passage. The ‘Bone-Severance’ channel. You can’t… that’s for family disputes. For internal justice.”

“It is,” I said, my voice flat. I turned to face him, my back to the dark opening. “And you are my family. Until the dissolution is formalized, you are still my husband. And this,” I gestured to the room, to the evidence, to the guard with the wisteria tattoo, “is an internal matter. A betrayal of the union. A crime against the bloodline.”

Gideon’s face paled. He knew the stories. The “Bone-Severance” trial was an archaic, brutal ritual from the

Thorne family’s early days. A way to settle accusations of profound betrayal without involving outside law. It was a path of punishment, of penance. And of proof.

Ivy clutched Silas’s arm. “Don’t let her! It’s a trap! She’ll kill you in there!”

Silas looked at the dark passage. His eyes showed fear, real and sharp. He wasn’t afraid of me. He was afraid of what the trial represented. The absolute, unforgiving judgment of his family’s own ancient laws.

The grinding sound continued. Inside the darkness, something else was happening. A heavy, stone slab was rising from the floor of the passageway, triggered by the chain I’d pulled. From the depths, a faint, eerie light began to glow. A greenish, phosphorescent flicker, like swamp fire.

It illuminated the channel.

The passage wasn’t a corridor. It was a tunnel, about ten feet long, leading downward. The floor wasn’t smooth. It was covered in spikes. Not wood, not stone. Silver. Long, thin, sharpened rods of silver, set into the ground at irregular intervals, pointing upward like the teeth of some monstrous jaw. The green light glinted off their polished points.

At the far end of the spike-filled channel, the tunnel opened into a slightly larger space. A small, circular chamber. An altar of rough black stone stood in its center. And on the wall behind the altar, hanging from a simple iron hook, was a single object.

A knife.

It was old, its blade narrow and slightly curved. The metal wasn’t shiny. It was dark, stained, and pitted with rust. But the edge, even in the dim green light, looked sharp. And the handle was wrapped in worn, black leather.

The “Bone-Severance” blade. The instrument of the trial’s conclusion.

The green light from the altar flame grew stronger, casting long, dancing shadows up the walls of the main hall.

Ivy whimpered, burying her face in Silas’s jacket. Gideon took a step back, away from the opening. “This is insane,” he breathed.

Silas stared at me. The shock had burned away, leaving something raw and exposed. “You would invoke this?

For… for this?”

“For the murder of my child,” I said, each word a stone dropped into the silence. “For the conspiracy you and your father and your mistress built. For the blood on my floor and on my sister’s floor.” I took a step toward the opening, the cold air from the passage washing over my skin. “The trial doesn’t require a judge. It requires a claimant and a accused. And proof, offered in the channel. The spikes… they test the truth of the accuser. Only someone with a true, unwavering claim can walk the path without severe injury. The legends say the silver rejects falsehood.”

I looked directly at him. “You can follow me down there. You can walk the channel yourself, and see if your story—your lies about my guilt, your father’s ‘help’—can pass the silver. Or you can refuse. And your refusal will be recorded as an admission of guilt in the family archives. Your name will be marked. Your inheritance will be void.”

His nostrils flared. He was trapped. By his family’s own archaic, vicious rules.

I didn’t give him time to think. I turned my back to them all—to his indecision, to Ivy’s terrified tears, to

Gideon’s stunned silence—and I stepped into the darkness.

My bare foot landed just inside the threshold, on the cold, damp stone floor before the spikes began. The green light from the altar flickered, making the silver teeth gleam like a field of frozen, deadly grass.

I took a second step, placing my foot directly between two of the spikes. They were close together, leaving only narrow gaps to tread. The channel was a test of balance, of focus, of conviction.

From the hall, I heard Ivy’s voice, shrill and desperate. “Silas, don’t! She’s trying to destroy you! She’s a monster!”

I kept walking. The third step. The fourth. The spikes brushed against the sides of my feet, their cold metal touching my skin. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t hurry. I moved with a slow, deliberate precision, my eyes fixed on the rusty blade hanging at the end of the path.