The tomb did not welcome her.
Aerin felt it in her bones the moment her boots touched the first stair leading down into the crypt. The air thickened. Magic, old and resentful, pressed against her like a second skin. It smelled of cold stone, stale blood, and something older—like the sigh of a forgotten god.
She tightened her grip on the torch, its flickering light barely penetrating the gloom ahead.
Thorne walked beside her, blades strapped across his back, expression grim. "We're not supposed to be here."
She shot him a look. "That's the point."
"You sure about this?" he asked.
"No," she said. "But I'm done waiting for someone to hand me the truth."
The staircase spiraled downward into the underbelly of the Night Court—a place spoken of in whispers, where kings and traitors shared the same soil. The deeper they descended, the more the light seemed to recoil, as if the dark had grown teeth.
When they reached the bottom, the passage widened into a long corridor lined with crypt doors. Each bore the sigil of a royal house, carved into black marble, sealed with iron locks and ancient wards.
She stopped before the one marked Renmar of House Solven.
The sigil had been nearly worn away—an intentional erasure.
Thorne raised a brow. "You really think a blood ledger is worth digging up a cursed noble?"
Aerin gave a dry smile. "If it proves the Council framed Isolde? Yes."
She knelt, examining the seal. Runes etched in rusted silver shimmered faintly in the torchlight. She recognized the language—Old Velaric, used in forbidden binding rituals. The ward wasn't meant to keep people out. It was meant to keep something in.
"Well, that's encouraging," Thorne muttered.
She ignored him, pulling Isolde's ring from around her neck and pressing it to the seal.
The runes flared—then cracked like brittle glass.
With a low groan, the tomb door creaked open.
A wave of air rushed out, stale and cold, and carrying with it the unmistakable scent of decay.
Inside, Renmar's tomb lay undisturbed. A stone sarcophagus etched with forgotten prayers rested in the center. No traps. No skeleton sentries. Just silence. Heavy, pressing, final.
Aerin stepped forward.
And the moment her boot touched the threshold—
The wall exploded.
Stone shards burst outward as masked figures surged into the chamber, black blades drawn, eyes gleaming with ward-light.
Assassins.
Thorne was already moving, his blades a blur. He met the first two in a flash of steel and bone. Aerin ducked low, rolled behind the sarcophagus, and drew her dagger.
"You weren't followed?" she hissed.
"I never get followed," Thorne grunted, slicing a throat clean open. "Which means you were."
Aerin cursed and pressed her back to the tomb.
A second later, a dagger buried itself in the stone inches from her ear.
She turned, met the eyes of a cloaked figure striding toward her, blade raised.
Her heartbeat spiked.
She raised her dagger—
—and the assassin stopped.
Frozen mid-step.
A shadow fell over the chamber.
Cassius.
He stepped through the shattered wall, eyes burning crimson. His coat billowed behind him like spilled ink, and when he raised his hand, the air shook.
"You weren't supposed to come here," he said quietly.
The assassins turned toward him.
They didn't last long.
In a single motion, Cassius unleashed a wave of dark magic that shattered bone, ripped steel from hands, and sent three masked bodies crashing against the crypt walls.
The others turned to flee—but the shadows on the floor rose like snakes, catching ankles, throats, dragging them back into the dark.
When the silence finally settled, Aerin was staring at a slaughterhouse.
Cassius lowered his hand, breathing steady, unbothered.
Thorne wiped his blade on one of the dead. "You could've shown up before they threw knives."
"I wanted to see who sent them."
Cassius's eyes landed on Aerin. "Now I know."
She was still pressed to the sarcophagus, heart hammering.
"You followed me."
He didn't deny it.
"You didn't stop them until—"
"They weren't meant to kill you. Just scare you."
"Oh," she spat, rising to her feet. "Then I'll be sure to thank the bleeding wound in my shoulder."
"You're hurt?" He took a step forward.
She flinched back. "Don't."
Cassius stopped.
"I came here to find the truth," she said. "Not to be saved. Not by you."
"Aerin—"
"No. You made it very clear what kind of man you are. One who watches. One who decides when to act based on damage control."
She turned to the sarcophagus and shoved the lid with both hands. It groaned, but didn't budge.
Thorne sighed, joined her, and together they pushed until the stone slid back.
Renmar's body lay wrapped in velvet, untouched.
And beneath him—beneath his cold, skeletal fingers—was a bundle wrapped in oilskin.
Aerin reached in and pulled it free.
A ledger.
Bound in faded leather. The cover bore no crest, no title—just a simple brand burned into the spine: XIII.
She opened it.
Page after page of names, dates, payments, blood oaths. Some entries were written in code, others in plain language. At the bottom of one page:
Subject I.V. — Terminated on false charges. Confirmed threat to Act XIII.
Her hands tightened around the edges.
"This is it," she whispered. "This proves it."
Cassius looked at the entry, then at her. "You don't know what you're about to start."
"I know exactly what I'm starting," she said. "A fire."
Later, as they emerged into the moonlight, the court above was already stirring.
The Council would learn of the massacre. They'd know the tomb had been breached. And Cassius… would have to choose.
Thorne sheathed his blades and looked to her. "Now what?"
"Now we leak this."
Aerin held up the ledger. "To every house. Every merchant lord. Every minor noble who lost someone to a Council purge. Let them see what their masters buried."
"And Cassius?" Thorne asked quietly.
She looked over her shoulder.
Cassius stood at the threshold, half in shadow, watching her with an unreadable expression.
"I don't trust him," she said. "But I need him."
Cassius met her gaze—and for the first time, bowed his head.
Not in command. Not in apology.
In allegiance.
Far to the north, a raven cut through the sky.
It carried no crest. No banner.
Only a message, sealed in wax and blood.
"She has the ledger. The girl lives. Begin Phase Two."