The chamber where high interrogations take place is colder than the rest of the palace. The walls are stone, the floor unadorned. Humble by design. Every sound of chains, footsteps, and even breath echoes with sharp finality.
Cassian stands beside me, silent and unreadable, but I feel the tension radiating off him like heat. I know his heart is pounding just like mine. We've waited too long for this moment. We've bled too much for it.
They bring her in.
Oman shuffles forward in rusted chains, her back hunched with age and consequence. Her knees buckle as the guards force her to kneel. Her face is pale, her eyes hollowed by years of secrets. The robe draped over her is marked for criminals, but the weight on her back is far heavier than chains or fabric.
Cassian steps forward.
"The woman you stole the child from—for Queen Morgana," he begins, voice sharp but steady, "did you take a good look at her?"
Oman lowers her gaze. "Briefly," she says. "She wasn't from here. Her skin was light bronze, her eyes grey… rare eyes. She spoke our tongue, but her accent was foreign. She wore a purple silk scarf with silver beads. And her husband…" Her voice trails. "Tall. Quiet man. Scar across his brow."
Cassian's breath catches. I can feel his stillness tighten beside me.
"Did you attend her birth yourself?" I ask, stepping forward.
She shakes her head. "No. I was with the Queen during her labor. The woman… the one who delivered the boy, she was assisted by another midwife. One I trusted."
"Who?" I press.
"Irena Vale," she says without hesitation. "She lived in the southern quarter of Old Matica. Red-bricked house. Chimney twisted to the side."
I nod sharply to the guards. "Get a team. Discreet. Search the address, ask the neighbors. Bring back answers."
Cassian clenches his fists, but when he speaks, his tone is even. "You'll remain in custody until the truth is fully uncovered. No more lies, Oman. This is your one chance to ease your judgment."
Tears slip silently down her worn cheeks. "I'll say no more… unless she is found. Irena knows more than I ever did."
Cassian turns away, and I follow as the guards drag her out.
We have a name now. A direction.
A thread of truth to pull, and we're ready.
We wait in the chamber when the guards return. The moment I see their faces; tight-lipped and eyes low, I know.
Cassian rises before they even speak.
"Well?" he demands, his voice tight.
One of the guards steps forward. "We followed the lead, Your Highness. Found the red-bricked house in Old Matica. The neighbor confirmed her name, the retired midwife was Irena Vale."
Hope flickers in my chest. But it doesn't last.
"She moved to her home village nearly ten years ago. After retiring. We went there, asked around. The villagers remembered her."
A pause.
"But… she passed away. Three years ago."
The silence is instant. Crippling.
Cassian slowly sits back down like someone has knocked the wind out of him. His shoulders sag. His hands rest on his knees, unmoving. "Three years…"
The room feels heavier now. Dimmer.
I thank the guards and dismiss them quietly, then sit beside him.
"She was the only real lead," he murmurs. "She might have known who they were… my real parents."
His eyes don't meet mine. He's looking somewhere far away—into a sea without a map.
I reach for his hand. "Cassian. Look at me."
He does. Slowly.
"This isn't the end. It's just a turn in the road. We're closer than we've ever been. We have names, dates, places. Someone delivered you into this world, and someone else—your real family—may still be out there. Maybe even looking for you."
His voice breaks. "What if I never find them?"
"Then you still have us. Me. Ray. The family we've built together."
I squeeze his hand, grounding him. "But we're not giving up. We try another way. Hospital records. Travel registries. Whatever it takes."
He nods slowly, eyes damp.
"We face it together," I whisper.
A tired smile pulls at his lips. Faint, but real. "Together."
***
The air inside Matica Specialist Hospital is thick with history. With secrets. I walk beside Cassian through the polished halls, our footsteps too loud in the stillness. This is where it all began. Where the truth was twisted.
The administrator, an elderly man with silver hair and gold-rimmed glasses, receives us with reverence, bowing gently. "Your Highnesses," he says. "How may we serve you?"
Cassian leans forward. "We're tracing a birth. December 4th, 1995. Attended by a midwife named Irena Vale."
The man blinks, then nods. "A long time ago… but our records are intact." He presses the intercom. "Delivery logs for December 4th, 1995. Both physical and digital, now."
Minutes later, staff file in, arms full of ledgers and folders. Old paper, faded ink, even early digital scans. They lay everything out before us.
"There were many births that day," the administrator mutters, adjusting his glasses.
A nurse steps forward. "Here. Irena Vale signed three deliveries."
Cassian and I lean in.
"Two boys and a girl," she confirms.
My pulse quickens. "Start with the boys. We need to trace them."
She begins flipping through each file. "This one," she taps the first, "born 2:14 a.m. Mother signed only as 'HRK.' No full name."
She points at the address line, and the administrator frowns. "That's not a residence. That's a guest house."
Cassian peers over. "I know it. West edge of Old Matica."
"And the second boy?" I ask.
"Born later that morning. Local couple. Still living in Matica. No connection to the royal family. Not our concern."
Cassian taps the HRK file. "Then it's this one."
"HRK," I echo. "Initials?"
"Or code," Cassian says. "Either way, it's something."
I turn to the administrator. "Is there a hospital payment record tied to this file? Guest contact? Anything?"
He shakes his head. "Not here. But if the guest house still stands, their books might."
Cassian rises. "Then that's where we go."
The Orchid Inn sits at the edge of Old Matica like a forgotten whisper. Its hedges are overgrown, its cobblestone path cracked with time. The sign above creaks in the wind, weathered and worn.
Cassian and I step inside. The air smells of old varnish and stories never told. A wrinkled woman behind the desk barely glances up, until Cassian raises his ring. The Lucien crest.
"We need your guest records from December 1995," I say. "Specifically the 4th."
She blinks, takes her time. "That's nearly thirty years ago… but we kept ledgers."
She returns with a massive leather-bound book. Turning page after page, she stops.
"Here. HRK. Room 4C. Checked in on the 2nd. Checked out two days later."
Cassian's hand clenches beside me.
"Do you have an address on file?" I ask.
She nods. "We required it back then."
From a sleeve tucked into the ledger, she pulls out an old card.
Address: 14 Wisteria Drive, Matica.
We don't waste a moment.
The house at 14 Wisteria is simple, lovely. Evergreens line the walkway. Laughter trickles from inside. A young man answers the door, late twenties.
He doesn't recognise Cassian, but then again, most don't.
"Hi, I'm Felix," he says, then pauses. "Wait… you're Princess Celeste. And Prince Cassian?"
"We're not here officially," Cassian says gently. "Just to ask a few questions. You were born December 4th, 1995?"
Felix smiles, proud. "Same as my dad's birthday. He and Mom are on a cruise—thirtieth anniversary."
He invites us in. "My wife just made tea."
We spend hours there. Their home is warm. Felix is kind. We flip through baby photos, but everything checks out. No shadows. No gaps. His parents are exactly who they've always been. No ties to Morgana. No mysteries.
By dusk, we return to the palace, exhausted, and empty-handed.
Cassian sinks onto the couch in our private sitting room, burying his face in his hands.
"Back to square one," he whispers.
I sit beside him, the weight of it pressing on both of us. Identity. Blood. Legacy. All just smoke again.
Still, I reach for his hand.
"We're not done," I say quietly. "We've uncovered more than anyone ever has. That means we're close."
He looks at me—eyes tired, clouded.
But he nods.
And I hold onto that, because I know this storm isn't the end.
It's the clearing before the truth.