Orion spent the next three days in the archives.
Not the main rooms where Tobin worked—he avoided those. Instead, he used Elara's map to find the older sections, the ones nobody visited anymore. Rooms where scrolls crumbled at a touch and dust lay thick as snow. Rooms that hadn't been cleaned since before his father was born.
He was looking for names.
The notebook they'd found under Tobin's floor had given him a starting point. A list of everyone who'd died in 873, the year of the Silent Summer. King Theron and his three children. Their wives. Their infant grandchildren. Dozens of cousins, aunts, uncles. The entire Andromeda line, wiped out in a single year.
Except for one.
Theron's second cousin, a man named Corin, had been stationed at a northern outpost when the fever swept through the capital. He'd survived. He'd become king. And every person in Alaya today with Andromeda blood—including Orion, including Elara, including Kaelen—descended from him.
That was what the histories said. That was what everyone believed.
But Sera had been looking for something else. Someone else. Someone from 873 who wasn't supposed to have survived.
Orion started with the death records. Scroll after scroll listing names, dates, causes. Fever. Fever. Fever. Some years had more detail—descriptions of symptoms, lists of who tended the sick, notes about which healers had tried and failed. But 873 was thin. Suspiciously thin. Just names and dates, nothing more.
He moved to the genealogies. Family trees stretching back centuries, branching and merging like rivers. He traced Theron's line forward, saw it end. He traced Corin's line backward, saw where it split from the main branch. Third son of a third son, so far from the throne no one had ever expected him to sit on it.
And then he found something.
A name, crossed out. Not erased—crossed out with a single line of ink, dark and deliberate. In the margin, a note in faded script: No issue.
The name was Aldric.
Not Orion's grandfather. A different Aldric, from 873. Theron's younger brother. He'd had a wife and a newborn son when the fever hit. According to the genealogy, all three had died.
But someone had crossed out the name. Someone had questioned it.
Orion stared at the page for a long time. Then he carefully rolled the scroll and tucked it under his shirt.
---
Elara found him that night in their usual meeting spot—a small room behind the throne room dais, accessible only through a hidden panel. She took one look at his face and sat down without speaking.
He showed her the scroll. Showed her the crossed-out name.
"Theron's brother," she said slowly. "That would make his son—"
"Father's age. If he lived." Orion pointed at the margin. "Someone thought he might have. Someone crossed him out but didn't erase him completely."
"Who keeps genealogies?"
"The archivists. But this scroll is old. The note could be from anyone." He leaned back against the wall. "Sera was looking for descendants of 873. What if she found one? What if there's a whole branch of the family that got written out of the records?"
Elara was quiet for a moment. Then: "The assassin's family. The one that disappeared when Grandfather died. You think they're connected?"
"I don't know. But thirty years ago, someone killed a king. Now someone's trying to kill another king. And in between, someone's been in the archives, crossing out names and asking questions." He shook his head. "It's too much to be coincidence."
"Have you told Father?"
"Not yet. I want more proof. He's got enough to worry about."
Elara nodded slowly. "Then we get more proof. Where do we look?"
Orion thought about it. "The northern outpost. Where Corin was stationed when Theron died. If there were survivors from 873, they might have gone north. Away from the capital. Away from the fever."
"That's a long way."
"It's a start." He looked at her. "Can you find someone who's been north? A guard, a merchant, anyone who might have heard stories?"
Elara grinned. "I can find anyone. Didn't I teach you that?"
---
The next week passed in a blur of lessons and council meetings and stolen hours in the archives. Orion learned to split his mind—half on Master Varen's history lectures, half on the problem of 873. Half on his father's discussions of trade routes and troop movements, half on the faces in the room, watching for anyone who might be watching back.
He found a name. An old merchant who'd traded in the northern territories for forty years, now retired and living in the city. Elara arranged a meeting—a chance encounter in the market, a shared cup of tea at a stall, nothing that would draw attention.
The merchant's name was Garret. He was ancient, his hands twisted with age, his eyes still sharp. He looked at Orion with the calm curiosity of someone who'd long stopped being impressed by titles.
"You're the prince," he said. Not a question.
"I am."
"Small for your age."
"I'm nine."
Garret snorted. "Fair enough." He sipped his tea. "Your sister said you had questions about the north. I've got answers, for what they're worth."
Orion leaned forward. "Do you know any stories from 873? The year of the Silent Summer?"
Garret's eyes narrowed. "That's old history. Why would a boy care about that?"
"Because I'm a prince. Old history is my job."
Another snort, but this one almost sounded like approval. "Fair enough. I'll tell you what I know." He set down his cup. "My grandfather was a trader too. He was in the north that year, buying furs from the mountain clans. He used to tell stories about what he saw."
"What did he see?"
"Refugees. Coming out of the mountains in the dead of winter. Women, children, a few old men. They said they'd fled the capital when the fever started. Said they were the only ones left from a great house." Garret paused. "My grandfather didn't believe them at first. Great houses don't flee to the mountains. But they had gold. Real gold, old coins with the Andromeda seal. So he helped them."
"Helped them how?"
"Took them further north. Past the clans, past the trading posts, all the way to the coast. There's a city there—small, nothing like Heliopolis. They had money. They bought land. They stayed." Garret shrugged. "My grandfather never heard from them again. Didn't expect to. That's how it works up north. People go, they disappear, you assume they're dead."
Orion's heart was pounding. "Do you know the name of the city?"
"Never been there myself. But my grandfather called it Newhaven. Said they built it from nothing." Garret looked at Orion with those sharp old eyes. "That help you, young prince?"
"More than you know." Orion stood, then hesitated. "One more thing. The family that fled—did your grandfather ever say what house they were from?"
Garret was quiet for a long moment. Then: "He said they called themselves Andromeda. Same as you." He picked up his tea again. "Same as you."
---
Orion ran back to the palace. He ran until his lungs burned and his legs ached, ran past guards who shouted in surprise, ran through corridors and up stairs until he burst into Elara's room without knocking.
She was sitting at her desk, writing something. She looked up, saw his face, and set down her pen.
"What?"
"They're real." He leaned against the doorframe, gasping for air. "The survivors from 873. They went north. They built a city. They're still there."
Elara was on her feet in an instant. "How do you know?"
He told her. Everything. The merchant, his grandfather, the refugees with Andromeda gold. Newhaven. A whole branch of the family that had been written out of the histories, living in the north for over a hundred years.
"That's where the assassin came from," Elara said slowly. "That's where Sera was from. They've been waiting. Watching. Building."
"Thirty years ago, they sent someone to kill Grandfather. They almost succeeded. Now they're trying again." Orion pushed off from the doorframe. "We have to tell Father."
Kaelen listened in silence. When Orion finished, he walked to the window and stood there for a long time, his back to them. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet.
"A city of Andromedas. A rival line. And they've been there for over a century, watching us, waiting." He turned. "Why now? Why not fifty years ago? Why not twenty?"
"Maybe they weren't ready," Elara said. "Maybe they had to rebuild first. Grow strong enough."
"Maybe." Kaelen rubbed his face. He looked older than he had a week ago. "Or maybe something changed. Something that made them think now was the time."
Orion thought about it. The birds. The omen. The fear that had swept through the palace. "They knew about the Fall of Wings. Sera asked about it specifically. They knew it was coming before it happened."
"How?"
"I don't know. But they did. They planned for it." He stepped forward. "Father, we need to send someone north. To Newhaven. We need to know what we're facing."
Kaelen looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.
"I'll send a small group. Disguised as traders. They'll find this city and report back." He crossed to Orion and put his hands on his son's shoulders. "You did well. Better than well. You found what my spies couldn't find in thirty years."
"It was Elara too. She found the merchant."
"I know." He pulled them both into a rough embrace, the kind he rarely gave. "You're both my best investigators. My best children. My best hope."
For a moment, they stood like that—king, prince, princess—holding each other in the fading light. Then Kaelen stepped back, his face settling into its usual mask.
"I'll make the arrangements. You two—stay quiet about this. No one else knows. Not your mother, not the council, not anyone. If there are spies in the palace, they can't find out what we know."
They nodded. He left.
Elara looked at Orion. "We did it. We actually did it."
"Part of it." He didn't feel triumphant. He felt tired, and small, and very aware that somewhere to the north, a city full of his relatives was probably planning to kill them all. "The hard part's still coming."
Elara bumped his shoulder with hers. "Then we'll do that too. Together."
Orion looked at his sister—fierce, loyal, brave Elara—and felt something loosen in his chest. Whatever came, at least he wouldn't face it alone.
"Together," he agreed