Some ghosts don't haunt—they hunt.
En route through the Bramble Pass, dusk
The wind cut through the narrow rock path like a whisper sharpened to kill.
Cerys adjusted the leather strap across her chest, eyes locked on the jagged rise ahead. Her mind hadn't rested in days. Not since Thorne's coded message lit up the sanctuary mirror.
Not since the Queen had begun to move.
Darian followed close behind, keeping pace, even though the path was a knife's edge, and his boots weren't made for this kind of travel.
"Tell me again," he said as the ridge narrowed, "why we're meeting your former handler in a dead rebel temple?"
"Because Thorne doesn't move unless the stakes are royal," Cerys replied.
"And?"
"And he only calls me when someone wants me dead for real."
The path curved into shadow. As they descended into the Bramble Pass, silence grew thick with memory—sharp, laced with old pain. Every stone reminded her of Vale trials, of blood in her teeth and runes carved into bone.
They reached a clearing marked by twin obelisks. The air changed.
"He's here," she murmured.
A low hum filled the grove—magic from a hidden sigil.
Then Thorne stepped from between the stones.
Black cloak. Weathered gloves. And the same unreadable expression he'd worn since the day he forged her into a ghost.
"Hello, little monster," he said softly.
Darian instinctively stepped forward, but Cerys raised a hand. "Don't. He bites when cornered."
"Not unless I'm hungry," Thorne said mildly, gaze flicking between them. "So this is the heir. Taller than I imagined. Softer, too."
Darian's jaw tightened. "You must be the one who taught her to lie."
Thorne grinned. "I taught her to survive. Lying came naturally."
He turned to Cerys. "Walk with me."
She hesitated, then nodded, following him down a stone corridor hidden behind brambles.
-
The Temple Below
The underground ruin smelled of old iron and bitter salt—places where truth had once been paid for in blood.
Thorne lit a torch with a flint spell and pointed toward the altar. Runes flickered beneath layers of dust.
"The Queen has moved the Solstice Blade," he said. "Ilyana plans to use it at the coronation. Bloodbinding ceremony."
Cerys swallowed hard. "She'll mark him."
Thorne nodded. "Once the blade touches him, she becomes Regent Sovereign by old law. Untouchable."
"She'd turn him into a puppet."
"No." Thorne's eyes gleamed. "She'd turn him into a sacrifice."
Cerys's stomach twisted.
"What do you want from me?" she asked.
He held out a scroll. "You already know."
It was old. Sealed in wax bearing the Vale crest.
"Is this...?" Her voice trailed off.
Thorne's expression softened—for the first time in years.
"Your birthright."
The weight in her hands was unbearable.
-
Queen Ilyana's Tower, Nightfall
A red mirror pulsed beside the throne.
Ilyana dismissed her advisors with a wave and activated the reflection.
It was Kael.
He looked older than she remembered. The rebellion aged men fast.
"Your silence was predictable," she said coldly.
"I had to make sure you still bled."
"Careful, Kael. You were never immune to my blade."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "And you were never immune to losing everything."
Ilyana smiled. "What do you want?"
"A trade."
She arched a brow. "For?"
"Cerys."
Silence.
"She doesn't belong to you anymore," Ilyana said.
"No," Kael agreed. "She belongs to the war now."
The mirror darkened.
But Ilyana's smile lingered.
-
Return to the Temple
"I was born in the palace?" Cerys asked, voice low.
Thorne nodded. "In secret. Your mother was a Vale—your father..."
"Don't say it."
Thorne went quiet.
Cerys knelt at the altar. Her hand pressed to the sigil, and the runes bloomed gold. Not blue. Not red.
Vale gold.
Truth had its color.
Behind her, Darian entered, eyes tracking the sacred glow.
"Was it all lies?" he asked.
"No," Cerys whispered. "Just hidden pieces."
He came to stand beside her.
"I still don't know how to trust you," he admitted.
"I don't want your trust," she said. "I want your choice."
He looked down at her hand.
Then covered it with his.
"You have it," he said.
-
Kael's Camp, Midnight
The rebellion burned torches late into the night. Kael stood alone at the map wall, Zura behind him.
"You're sure she went to Thorne?"
Zura nodded.
"And she survived?"
"She's more than just breath and blade now."
Kael frowned.
Zura watched him carefully. "You still love her."
"No," Kael said too quickly. "I loved who she might've been."
"But she's still in there."
Kael turned. "That's what scares me."
-
Elserra, High Vaults
Queen Ilyana stepped into the vault, this time alone.
She approached the Solstice Blade and whispered the incantation.
The runes resisted.
A flare of heat burned her palm.
Still not ready.
Still bound to the bloodline.
"You'll open," she said, voice a hiss. "You were made for sacrifice."
Behind her, the ghost of her sister flickered in the shadows. Young. Bloodied. Eyes hollow from the day Ilyana stole the throne.
But Ilyana didn't flinch.
Ghosts were familiar.
And Cerys Vale would join them soon enough.