The palace looked different at midnight.
Quiet.
Too quiet.
Clara moved through the eastern corridor with careful steps, her hand gripping the hidden map she'd sketched from the archives. Every inch of her path had been erased from the modern layout—but her mother's diary had spoken the truth.
"There's a second archive," she whispered.
Alaric, cloaked in black beside her, nodded once. "Beneath the throne."
A secret room buried under the heart of the crown. Of course.
They reached the old tapestry of the founding King. Clara knelt, fingers searching the floor's edge.
Click.
The tile gave way.
A low creaking sound echoed as the stone slid open, revealing a narrow staircase carved from black stone.
They descended into darkness.
It was colder below.
Dust choked the air, and the only light came from the lantern Clara held. As they reached the chamber at the bottom, she saw them—rows and rows of scrolls, some burned at the edges, some sealed in red wax.
Alaric pulled one from the shelf. His brows furrowed. "These are the original bloodline records."
"And this," Clara breathed, holding up a black book with a silver clasp, "is proof someone erased mine."
She opened it.
Line after line of names. Crossed out.
Until—
Lady Evelyn Whitmore.
Her mother.
Beside it: "Traitor's blood. Removed by decree of Cedric Thorne."
Clara's hand trembled. "He signed this."
Alaric looked at her, stunned. "Cedric knew?"
"No." Her voice was cold. "Cedric did it."
Back in the main palace hall, Cedric stood before the Council, smiling faintly.
"The girl has discovered the buried truths. Let her."
Lord Renley frowned. "You want her to know?"
"I want her to act. When she does, she'll walk into her own undoing."
He turned toward the chamber doors.
"Begin the vote to strip her of royal protection."
Meanwhile, above the hidden archives, Clara and Alaric heard voices echo from the stone vents.
"…vote to strip…"
"…danger to the realm…"
"…traitor's heir…"
Clara stood still, the book clutched to her chest.
"They're already turning on me."
Alaric took the book from her gently. "Then we give them no choice but to listen."
She looked at him. "You mean—"
"Yes," he said. "We show the truth to the court. Tomorrow."
But as they ascended the stairs, a sound stopped them.
A whisper of steel.
Clara turned—
A masked figure stood at the entrance, blade drawn.
"You weren't supposed to find this place," the voice said.
Clara's heart raced. "Who sent you?"
The figure tilted its head. "Someone you thought you trusted."
Before she could speak again, the blade swung.
[ To be continued…]