POV: Rosemary
Steel sings better than silence.
My sword cuts through the damp morning air again and again, each swing a thought, each impact a question with no answer. I push harder. Footwork, pivot, slash. Reset. Again. If I stop moving, my mind returns to the same image: Alexandro falling, the Queen screaming, the black magic’s crackle in the hall.
I will not let it happen again.
“Lady Rosemary,” one of the younger guards calls from the doorway to the yard, “you’ve been at it since dawn.”
“Then you’re late,” I say, not breaking my rhythm. “Draw your blade.”
He hesitates. “Against you?”
“Yes. Consider it a lesson.” I nod toward the rack. “Move.”
He obeys, albeit nervously. Our swords meet with a sharp clang. I let him press, then twist and disarm him in three strokes. His weapon hits the dirt.
He stares at it, stunned. “How did—”
“You’re thinking about where to hit,” I say. “You should be thinking about what you’re protecting. Again.”
He retrieves his sword and we repeat the dance, faster. When I finally dismiss him, my heartbeat drums hard against my ribs.
But the war inside my mind is louder.
I sheath my sword and lean against the stone wall, closing my eyes.
Three seals.
That cursed book hasn’t left my thoughts since Her Majesty showed it to the King. A bloodline curse that breaks through three shattering events, each one cracking the bearer’s soul. Cordelia’s death broke one—of that I’m certain. The runes said it clearly: one seal broken, two remain.
But what if the book wasn’t explicit about one thing?
What if the curse doesn’t care who shatters, so long as the carrier’s soul is torn in the process?
I mutter to myself, pacing the edge of the yard. “A seal breaks when the bearer is shattered. Cordelia carried the curse once. Henry carries it now. But he loved her once. She loved him once. Their bond is part of this rot.”
I replay what we know.
Henry was Cordelia’s lover before she ever met the King. He disappeared, she appeared here, pregnant with William, spinning lies. Years later, she returned twisted by dark magic, and Sebastian killed her to protect his family. We saw the runes lift, shaping those words.
One seal broken.
I press my thumbs into my temples. “Cordelia’s death shattered her. But what about him?”
Henry choosing to watch her die—knowing she was gone forever, knowing her soul tore away from his—surely that shattering belonged to him as well. He might have felt it even if he wasn’t physically present.
“What if that was the second break?” I whisper.
My pulse quickens.
If I’m right, there’s not two seals left.
There’s one.
One final shattering. One last enormous pain. One breaking strong enough to rip the curse out of him entirely—or to destroy him with it.
“Which are you planning, Henry?” I murmur. “To fall with it, or to shove it onto someone else?”
Speculation in a courtyard won’t save anyone. I need proof. Evidence. Tracks.
Her Majesty told us she met Henry at the old archive. If he’s using hidden paths, magical anchors, or underground lairs, the land itself might still bear scars.
I strap my sword to my hip, pull on my cloak, and head to the stables.
***
The ride to the archive is quiet and tense. The guards I bring with me know better than to ask questions; they can read my mood. When we arrive, the old building looms like a half-buried memory—vines clawing at its stones, broken windows like empty eyes.
“Stay with the horses,” I tell the two knights. “If I am not out by sundown, return to the palace and inform the King.”
“The King won’t like that,” one says.
“He will dislike my death more,” I reply. “Listen to your orders.”
I leave them and approach the archive’s side wall, where Evangeline mentioned she felt watched. I place my palm against the stone and let my senses reach.
There. Faint. Like dried blood beneath fresh paint.
Dark magic.
I kneel, brushing aside weeds at the foundation. A sigil carved into stone glimmers faintly when I trace it with a gloved finger. It’s old but not ancient. Henry’s work, no doubt.
“Always hiding doors,” I mutter.
I press my palm flat and channel a sliver of the protective magic our court mages taught me. The sigil reacts, lines flaring dull red, then sliding inward. The stone shudders.
A seam appears.
The wall splits just enough for a narrow passage to reveal itself, descending into darkness.
Of course it does.
I draw my sword and step inside.
The air is colder here, damp and metallic, like old iron. My boots echo softly on the stone stairs. I count each step, each turn, keeping a map inside my head. Left at the first junction. Right at the second. Always mark the way out.
“Underground labyrinth,” I whisper. “Coward’s nest.”
Torches flicker at intervals on the walls, burning with a weak, unnatural flame. I touch one briefly—no heat. Illusion light.
The deeper I go, the more the walls change. Plain stone gives way to carved runes, some familiar, some not. I recognize shielding marks, glamer seals, misdirection sigils. This place isn’t a simple hideout; it’s a maze built to confuse intruders and protect secrets.
My hand tightens around my sword hilt. “You’re scared of us, Henry. Good.”
At a fork, I pause. The left corridor smells of dust and mold. The right carries a faint trace of something else.
Smoke. And… something sweet.
Children’s soap. My chest tightens. I follow the right path.
The corridor opens abruptly into a small chamber. I stop dead.
There, near the back wall, sits a boy on a crude wooden chair, his hands resting in his lap, his hair messy, his clothes slightly too big as if no one bothered to tailor them properly.
It’s William; I freeze. I see him before he sees me.