The door creaks open into a room colder than the rest of the castle, filled with old portraits and older air. Dust motes drift in the light from a single stained-glass window, casting fractured colors across the stone floor.
Henry doesn’t say a word. He just leads me forward, quiet and sure, until we stop in front of a painting near the back wall.
I stare.
The woman in the portrait isn’t wearing a crown or a gown. She’s dressed in a deep green riding coat, her hands gloved, her hair swept into a practical twist. But it’s not her clothes that stop my breath.
It’s her face.
My face.
I step closer. “Who is she?”
Henry doesn’t answer right away. I look at the plaque beneath the frame.
Lady Elira Dayne.
Not Ashbourne.
“That’s my mother,” I say slowly, the words forming before I can stop them. “Isn’t it?”
Henry finally nods. “Yes.”
My heart pounds so hard it feels like it might bruise my ribs. “Why is she here? Why this room?”
He looks at the portrait, not me. “Because not everyone wanted her remembered.”
I swallow. “She died when I was a baby. That’s all anyone’s ever said. No details, no stories, just—gone.”
Henry’s jaw clenches. “There’s a reason for that.”
“What reason?”
“Your mother wasn’t who they told you she was. And her story didn’t end the way people think.”
I glance back at the nameplate. Elira Dayne. “She wasn’t an Ashbourne.”
“No,” Henry says. “Only your father was.”
“Then why does no one talk about her?” My voice breaks a little. “Why hide her?”
“Because the truth about her… about what she did… still scares people. She was executed for treason.” Henry’s expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes. “You should leave this alone, Helena.”
“Like hell I will!” I gesture wildly at the portrait. “That woman has my face! She was executed for treason, and no one thought to mention this minor detail?”
“Because it’s dangerous!” Henry explodes, his composure finally cracking. “Because some family legacies are curses, not gifts!”
“What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about blood that carries consequences. I’m talking about names that open doors you don’t want to walk through. I’m talking about—”
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The alarm bells shatter our confrontation like glass. We both freeze, the sound echoing through the archives with urgent terror.
“Fire bells,” Henry breathes, his face going pale.
“What?” I stare at him, my mind struggling to shift from family secrets to immediate danger.
“The Academy’s on fire.” He grabs my arm, his fingers digging into my flesh. “We have to go. Now.”
The Academy is close to the palace.
We race through the corridors, the bells growing louder with each step. Smoke begins to sting my nostrils as we climb the stairs—acrid, choking, wrong.
“West wing!” someone screams as we burst into the main hall. “The fire’s in the west wing!”
My blood turns to ice. The west wing. My dormitory. My room.
I break into a sprint, shoving past panicking students and shouting faculty. Henry calls my name behind me, but I can’t stop. Won’t stop.
The corridor leading to my room is a wall of smoke and flame. Heat hits my face like a physical force, and I stumble backward, coughing.
“No one goes in!” Professor Whitmore blocks my path, her arms spread wide. “The structure’s compromised!”
“That’s my room!” I scream, trying to push past her. “My things are in there!”
“Helena, don’t!” Henry appears beside me, his hands grabbing my shoulders. “It’s too late!”
“No!” I fight against his grip, against the hands of other students pulling me back. “I have to save—there are things I need!”
“What things?” Henry demands, his voice cutting through my panic.
“My journal! My letters! Everything I brought from home!”
His grip tightens. “It’s just things, Helena. They can be replaced.”
“No, they can’t!” Tears stream down my face, mixing with the smoke and ash. “They’re all I have left of who I was before this place!”
The flames roar higher, consuming everything in their path. I watch my small refuge—the only space in this cursed Academy that had felt like mine—disappear into char and ruin.
Hours later, when the smoke finally clears and the flames are reduced to smoldering ash, I stand in the wreckage of what was once my room. The walls are blackened, the ceiling partially collapsed. Nothing remains but destruction.
“Was it an accident?” I ask the fire inspector, my voice hoarse from smoke and tears.
He exchanges a glance with Professor Whitmore before answering. “We’re investigating all possibilities.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer I can give you right now.”
I stare at the ruins, my heart hollow. “Someone did this. Someone wanted to destroy my things.”
“Miss Ashbourne,” Whitmore says carefully, “I think you should focus on moving forward rather than dwelling on—”
“On what? On the fact that someone burned down my room the same day I discovered a portrait of my ancestor who was executed for treason?”
The inspector’s eyes sharpen. “What portrait?”
But before I can answer, Henry appears in the doorway. “Helena, you need to come with me. Now.”
“I’m not done here—”
“Yes, you are.” His voice carries an authority I’ve never heard before. “We need to talk. Privately.”
Something in his tone makes the adults step back. Whatever power game is being played here, Henry clearly outranks them all.
He leads me away from the wreckage, through empty corridors, to a small chamber I’ve never seen before. When he closes the door behind us, the sound echoes like a death knell.
“Your journal,” he says without preamble. “What was in it?”
“Everything,” I whisper. “My thoughts, my observations about this place, about the people here. About you.”
His face goes pale. “What about me?”
“Everything I’ve noticed. Every cruel word, every strange interaction, every moment when you seemed almost human.”
Henry runs his hands through his hair, his composure completely shattered. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”
“What I’ve done?” I laugh bitterly. “I’m not the one who burned down my room!”
“No, but you’re the one who wrote down things that could destroy us both.”
The words hit me like a slap. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about the fact that knowledge is power in this place. And someone just stole all of yours.”
I stare at him, understanding dawning like a cold sunrise. “You think someone took my journal before they started the fire.”
“I think,” Henry says grimly, “that you’ve been playing a game you didn’t even know existed. And now all your pieces are in enemy hands.”
The room spins around me as the full implications sink in. My journal—every private thought, every secret observation, every moment of vulnerability I’d committed to paper—is gone.