The silence returned too quickly.
That was what unsettled Seraphina the most.
After bloodshed, there should have been echoes—panic, shouting, pursuit. Instead, the underground corridors lay unnervingly still, as though the castle itself had decided to pretend nothing had happened.
She slowed her steps.
Damien noticed immediately.
"You hear it too," he murmured.
"Yes," she replied. "Nothing."
They moved cautiously, their footsteps muted against ancient stone. The deeper levels beneath the council had always been sealed to most—places built for containment, not passage. The air here was colder, heavier, laced with old magic that did not respond to authority or crown.
Nightborne magic.
Her blood reacted instinctively, a faint pull beneath her skin. Not pain. Not comfort.
Recognition.
"I don't like this," Damien said quietly.
"Neither do I."
They reached a narrow junction where the corridor split into three paths. No guards. No wards newly cast. No signs of recent passage—except for one thing.
Blood.
Not spilled.
Placed.
Thin streaks marked the stone in deliberate lines, almost careless in their confidence. Seraphina crouched, fingers hovering just above the markings without touching them.
"This isn't a summoning," she said slowly. "And it's not a threat."
Damien frowned. "Then what is it?"
"A message," she replied.
Before he could ask more, the torches lining the walls flickered.
Once.
Twice.
Then went out.
Darkness swallowed them whole.
Seraphina did not move.
She felt Damien tense beside her, his breath steady but controlled. She reached out, fingers brushing his sleeve—not reassurance, but orientation.
Then—
Footsteps.
Unhurried. Deliberate. Approaching from ahead.
Seraphina's blood magic stirred violently, instinct screaming danger—but something else too.
Familiarity.
A voice spoke from the darkness.
"Still alive," it said mildly. "Impressive."
Her chest tightened.
She did not recognize the voice.
And that frightened her more than if she had.
"Show yourself," Damien commanded.
A pause.
Then a low chuckle.
"Not yet."
A single torch flared to life, several paces away. The light did not reveal a face—only a tall silhouette, cloaked, standing just beyond the edge of illumination.
Watching.
"You're bold," Seraphina said evenly. "Standing this close."
"I've been close for a very long time," the figure replied.
Her pulse stuttered.
Damien shifted, blade half-drawn. "Speak your name."
Another soft laugh. "Names carry weight. You of all people should understand that."
Seraphina's jaw tightened.
"What do you want?" she asked.
The figure tilted its head. "To see."
"See what?"
"If the Nightborne blood truly remembers."
The torch flickered violently.
Seraphina felt it then—an invisible pressure sliding over her skin, brushing against her power without forcing entry. Testing.
Assessing.
She resisted instinctively.
The pressure withdrew.
"Hm," the figure murmured. "Interesting."
Damien stepped forward. "You will answer her."
The figure's attention shifted subtly.
"Careful, heir," it said. "This place does not belong to you."
The air shifted.
Damien froze.
Not restrained—warned.
Seraphina's eyes widened slightly.
"You should not be able to do that," she said.
The figure smiled—she could hear it in their voice. "There are many things the council has forgotten."
The torch dimmed.
"You have enemies who believe you are a mistake," the figure continued calmly. "Others believe you are a weapon."
Seraphina remained still. "And what do you believe?"
A pause.
"That depends," the figure said softly, "on what you choose to become."
The torch went out.
Darkness rushed back in, thick and absolute.
"Wait," Seraphina snapped.
Too late.
The presence faded—not fled, not vanished—simply withdrew, as though it had never truly been there at all.
The corridors were silent again.
Damien exhaled slowly. "That was not Veyrath."
"No," Seraphina agreed. "And not council."
She stared into the darkness where the figure had stood, blood humming uneasily beneath her skin.
Someone had been watching her long before tonight.
Someone patient.
Someone who knew exactly where she was.
She straightened.
"We move," she said. "Now."
As they turned down the corridor, neither noticed the faint sigil burning briefly into the stone behind them—
A mark of observation.
And far above, unseen and unannounced, the watchers took note.