The cold assessment in King Theroren's final words was a deeper wound than any chain. Andrea felt the sharp, humiliating truth that her skills her intellect, her research, her memory were indeed, as the King stated, powerless against his physical might and absolute authority.
Her rage at his cruelty was now mixed with the bitter taste of her own political irrelevance.
A pitiful and powerless thing, far too weak to ever convince a King.
Her hands, still dusty from scrubbing the room, trembled as she pulled the single, strange, deep-red leather book titled
"The Carcalidum Curse: A Critical Analysis"
from where she had tucked it beneath a stack of neutral reports.
She held it tight, focusing on the weight of the book rather than the crushing weight of her failure.
He had meant to break her spirit by making her a scullery maid, but he had mistakenly given the scholar a library.
If her magic was gone, her intellect was now the only weapon left to prove her truth and save her life.
She ignored the explicit order to catalog Pre-Truce Trade Routes. That could wait. This book, an anomaly in this political archive, was her only chance.
The small, dusty room seemed to spin. Theroren's insult "your powerful magic abandoned you at the first sign of real danger" echoed with a terrifying new meaning.
Her power hadn't just been severed as a punishment for her rebellion; it had been sacrificed to maintain the Grand Witch's own safety! And not just hers, but potentially others before her, a "yearly tribute."
Andrea recalled the severity of Grand Witch Duskevil's reaction when she was caught in the Banished Land, an uncharacteristic fury that had terrified the Wards.
It was a fury that suggested a secret being protected, not a law being upheld.
Andrea shoved the red leather book, concealed within its misleading administrative wrap, deep into the stack of Pre-Truce Trade Routes.
The action was a blur of nervous speed, driven by the chilling revelation of the Grand Witch's betrayal.
She was no longer just a hostage; she was a spy holding a secret powerful enough to tear apart both the Coven and the Crimson Court.
She straightened her thin linen dress, forcing her frantic breath into a slow, measured rhythm.
Her hands, still trembling, reached for a different, neutral-looking scroll—an actual report on tax revenue—to provide an immediate cover story.
It was too late.
A deliberate, low echo sounded from the stone corridor outside the Archives. King Theroren's footsteps.
Andrea froze, every instinct screaming at her to flee, but she was magicless and in a fortress.
He shouldn't be back here. He has guards for this. She realized his personal visit was likely a casual threat, a test of her fear.
The heavy door creaked open.
Theroren entered, his crimson eyes scanning the dim space. He didn't look at the shelves; he looked directly at Andrea.
"You waste time, witch," he stated, his voice flat, yet carrying an edge of cold expectation. "I asked for the Trade Routes. I see you standing idle."
"I was merely acquiring the initial registry for cross-referencing, Your Majesty," Andrea replied instantly, using the technical jargon from her cover-label.
She held up the tax scroll, its dry contents proving her claim to diligence.
"The archives are in utter disarray, making preliminary organization slow."
His gaze lingered on her face, searching for a tremor, a lie, a flicker of magic.
"Diligence is a new trait for a Stiltwort," he murmured, taking a slow step toward the shelves where the red book was hidden.
Andrea's heart hammered a desperate, painful rhythm against her ribs.
She couldn't move, couldn't speak, utterly pinned by his unnerving scrutiny.
"Do not test my patience, Andrea," he warned, his voice soft now, and all the more menacing for it.
"Your life is currently measured by your utility.
Should you prove inefficient, the archives will simply be managed by other means."
He turned on his heel, leaving as silently as he had arrived.
The reprieve was agonizingly thin.
Andrea collapsed against the nearest stack of papers, pulling in ragged breaths of dust and fear.
She knew he hadn't come for a progress report; he had come to remind her of her leash.
She had to get the book to a safer, private location.
But before she could move
A sound like tearing silk ripped through the Citadel's deep silence, followed instantly by the acrid, unmistakable smell of burning paper and enchanted wood.
Andrea scrambled up, whipping around.
The scent wasn't coming from the Lesser Archives, but from a nearby, larger section deeper within the castle.
A bell began tolling—a deep, booming, frantic iron clang reserved only for major catastrophe.
"Fire!" a guard screamed from the corridor. "The Great Legacy Archives are burning!"
Andrea ran to the narrow servant's window. Through the crack, she could see the vast, jutting black stone of the Citadel's central peak illuminated by a horrific, hungry orange glow.
A column of thick, black smoke was already billowing into the night sky.
The irony was brutal. She had feared being locked in a cell, but now the very fortress that held her hostage was under attack.
Suddenly, a massive hand grabbed her wrist, spinning her around.
Theroren was back, his face a mask of cold, concentrated fury, his crimson eyes blazing with an unholy light reflecting the fire outside.
"What did you do, witch?" His voice was low, terrifying, vibrating with a lethal power he held barely in check.
"I—I did nothing!" Andrea choked out, genuinely terrified.
"I was right here!"
He dragged her toward the outer door of the servant's room.
"The fire started in the restricted Historical Wing a section secured by wards and seals, sealed centuries ago! You are the only magic-trained person to set foot in this Citadel in decades, and you were conveniently confined to the room nearest the archives!"
He threw her out into the cold, drafty corridor. Guards and servants were running past, their faces panicked, racing toward the blaze.
"You speak of 'truth' and 'lies,' yet the moment you are trapped, your first action is to destroy the history of this court!" Theroren grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him. "This is not penance, witch.
This is an act of war. You failed to flee, so you tried to blind your enemy."
"It wasn't me! I was reading—" Andrea stopped herself.
She couldn't admit she was reading the forbidden material.
"Reading what?" Theroren demanded, his grip tightening.
Andrea knew she had to shift the blame, or she would be killed immediately.
She swallowed her fear, remembering the betrayal of her own Grand Witch.
"I was reading the Trade Routes as you commanded!" she spat, meeting his eyes with desperate courage.
"The fire started minutes after you left! Perhaps it is not your hostage who is destroying history, King Theroren, but the enemy you refuse to see!"
Theroren stared down at her, the firelight dancing in his eyes.
He hated the Stiltworts, yet her defiance, coupled with the impossible timing of the blaze, seemed to give him a moment's pause.
If the fire was an attack, it was a spectacular and immediate response to her capture.
He threw her against the corridor wall with controlled force.
"You will be watched. Every minute. Every breath. If even one spark of that fire is traced back to a Stiltwort curse, you will be the first thing to burn."
He signaled his two closest guards. "Secure her. And then come with me. The entire Legacy must not fall.
" Theroren, the vampire King, vanished with a silent burst of speed, running toward the massive, growing inferno.
Andrea slid down the cold stone wall, coughing from the smoke that now began to drift through the passageways.
She was now the primary suspect in an act of magical sabotage, yet the real target the little red book, hidden just a few walls away was safe.
The fire had not been meant for her. It had been meant for the Archives themselves.
But why? Was the fire meant to destroy the records the Shadow used? Or was it an attack by the Coven to prevent Theroren from finding the truth she had just discovered?
She glanced at the two grim-faced guards now posted outside her servant's room. Her mission of espionage just became a fight for her life.