The scream still echoed in Seraphina's bones as she tore through the castle corridors, her emerald skirts hiked up to her knees, the embroidered vines snagging on her black-lacquered nails as she gripped the fabric.
Behind her, Kaelan Duskbane moved like a shadow given form—his broad shoulders cutting through the torchlit haze, the scar that ran from his left brow to the corner of his mouth pulling tight as he clenched his jaw. His hunting leathers, still damp with forest mist, clung to the hard lines of his body, the sword at his hip rasping against the scabbard with every stride.
"Wait—" His voice was gravel wrapped in velvet, rough from years of shouted commands but softened by something she couldn't name. He caught her wrist, his calloused fingers warm against her pulse. "You don't know what's happening."
She wrenched free, tasting copper where she'd bitten her tongue. "That's exactly why I'm going."
The servants' wing smelled of tallow smoke and lye soap, the narrow passageways lined with rush mats worn thin by generations of quiet feet. The commotion came from the laundry—a cramped chamber where steam curled from great copper vats in ghostly tendrils. A cluster of maids huddled near the far wall, their aprons streaked with red.
Lissa lay sprawled on the flagstones, her cornflower-blue dress darkened to black where blood pooled beneath her. The girl's round cheeks—always flushed with nervous energy—were now waxen, her freckles standing out like stars against the pallor of death. Her throat gaped open, the edges of the wound too clean, too precise to be anything but deliberate.
Seraphina's knees hit the damp stone. The novel never mentioned this.
"Poison wasn't enough," murmured a voice like rustling silk.
Lysandra Valemont stood framed in the doorway, her ice-blue gown pooling around her like frozen water. The crown princess was a vision of calculated perfection—her honey-gold hair coiled in intricate braids threaded with sapphire beads, each one placed with military precision. Her face was all delicate angles: high cheekbones dusted with pearl powder, a nose so straight it looked carved from marble, lips the color of rose petals and just as soft. But her eyes—pale blue and clear as glacier ice—held a cruelty that made Seraphina's stomach twist.
A silver embroidery needle glinted between Lysandra's slender fingers, its thread still crimson.
"You," Seraphina breathed.
Lysandra's smile could have frosted glass. "Father does so hate loose ends." She stepped over Lissa's outstretched hand without glancing down, her embroidered slippers leaving perfect prints in the blood. "The girl saw you with the Duskbane boy. Couldn't have that."
Kaelan's sword hissed from its scabbard, the blade catching the torchlight. "You bitch."
"Oh, put that away, traitor." Lysandra flicked her wrist, sending the needle clattering into a drain. Her movements were liquid grace, every gesture rehearsed to perfection. "If I wanted her dead, she'd be with her mother in the family crypt." Her pale eyes locked onto Seraphina's, the weight of them like ice against bare skin. "But you already knew that, didn't you? About the crypt?"
A memory that wasn't hers slithered through Seraphina's mind—stone stairs winding downward, the scent of embalming herbs, a coffin lined with white roses. The novel never mentioned Queen Celine's resting place.
Lysandra's perfume—jasmine and something darker, something like bitter almonds—clung to the air as she leaned close. "Find what she left you, little sister. Before Father does." Then, louder for the gathered servants: "The girl attacked me with sewing shears. A tragic accident."
The lie settled over the room like a shroud.
As Lysandra swept out, Seraphina noticed the bloodstain on her sleeve—the exact shape of a small handprint.
Midnight found them in the abandoned chapel, moonlight filtering through the broken stained glass to paint the floor in jagged shards of color. Kaelan paced before the defaced altar, his boots scattering decades of dust. The torchlight played across his features, deepening the shadows beneath his sharp cheekbones, turning his brown eyes to molten gold.
"This changes nothing," he growled, his voice rougher than usual. The scar on his lip pulled tight as he spoke. "The king still expects you to—"
"Did you know?" Seraphina whirled on him, her voice cracking like the chapel's ancient beams. Silver strands had escaped her braid, framing her face in wild tendrils. "About my mother?"
His silence answered for him.
She kicked over a rotting pew, sending up a cloud of mold and memories. The novel's Seraphina had no mother—just a footnote about a queen who died in childbirth. But the real castle had whispers in its walls, secrets in its stones.
Kaelan caught her wrist as she moved to destroy another bench. His grip was firm but not painful, his thumb brushing against the delicate bones in a gesture that might have been comfort. "Listen."
A new sound crept through the chapel—not rats, but something deliberate. Metal scraping stone.
The hidden door behind the altar swung inward, revealing a spiral staircase choked with cobwebs. Prince Corvin emerged, his freckled face smudged with dirt, his usually bright hazel eyes wide with fear. At sixteen, he still had the gangly limbs of a boy not quite grown into his height, his russet hair sticking up in every direction as if he'd run his hands through it repeatedly. A rusted iron key trembled in his grip.
"You weren't at the feast," he panted, his voice cracking slightly. "I thought—" His gaze landed on her bruised face, then Kaelan's grip on her arm. Realization dawned, and his expression shifted from fear to something more complicated. "Oh."
Seraphina yanked free. "What's down there?"
Corvin's throat worked as he swallowed hard. "The answers you're looking for." He held out the key, its teeth stained brown with age—or blood. "Mother's last gift."
The crypt key from the novel's missing chapters.
Kaelan's sword was in his hand again, the blade gleaming dully in the torchlight. His body tensed, every muscle coiled like a spring. "This is a trap."
"Of course it is." Seraphina took the key, its cold weight settling into her palm like a promise. She met Corvin's gaze, seeing the fear and hope warring in his eyes. "Everything in this castle is."
Somewhere above them, a bell began to toll. Not the hour—the alarm.
Lysandra had told the king.
The stairs spiraled downward into a darkness that smelled of damp earth and dried roses. Seraphina's candle guttered as they descended, the flame shrinking to a blue whisper as the air grew thick with the scent of embalming spices.
The Valemont crypt stretched before them, a forest of stone effigies frozen in eternal repose. Every generation of the family watched them pass with sightless marble eyes, their carved hands folded over swords and withered flowers.
Queen Celine's tomb stood apart, a slender sarcophagus of white alabaster veined with gold. No effigy crowned it—just a simple silver plaque:
She loved too deeply.
Corvin's fingers trembled as he traced the words. His voice, usually so bright and teasing, was barely above a whisper. "He had the original destroyed. This one's new."
Kaelan's torch revealed the scratches around the lid—fresh marks in ancient stone. His jaw tightened, the scar pulling his lip into a near-snarl. "Someone's been here recently."
Seraphina pressed both hands to the cold alabaster. The novel never told her this part.
The key slid into the hidden lock with a click that echoed through the crypt. As the lid shifted, a cascade of dried rose petals spilled out, their fragrance clinging to the air like a sigh.
Beneath them lay not bones, but a book bound in pale leather, its pages edged in gold.
Corvin made a sound like a wounded animal. "Her diary."
Kaelan lifted it carefully, the torchlight revealing the elegant script on the first page. His hands, usually so steady with a sword, shook slightly as he held the fragile pages.
For my daughter, when the game becomes too cruel.
The last line sent ice through Seraphina's veins:
Remember—the curse isn't in our blood. It's in the crown.
Above them, iron-shod boots struck stone. The king's guard had found them.
Kaelan shoved the book inside his coat as the first crossbow bolt shattered against the tomb. "Move!"
But Seraphina lingered, her fingers brushing something still hidden in the rose petals—a single silver hairpin shaped like a bird in flight.
Identical to the pendant at her throat.
The second bolt grazed her cheek as Corvin yanked her into the dark.