The bone door creaked open like an old god yawning from slumber.
As its thorny lattice groaned aside, a sudden gust of stale, cold air rushed into the chamber—thick with ancient decay and something far older, far fouler. Aerin instinctively brought her sleeve over her mouth. Lys gagged beside her, muttering, "Smells like a crypt threw up."
Silas, ever fearless, stepped through first. "Welcome to the real palace."
They emerged into a corridor unlike anything they'd seen. The stone was dark, almost obsidian, veined with threads of deep crimson that pulsed faintly—alive, somehow. Arches overhead formed ribcage-like vaults, and the floor beneath their boots bore sigils carved so deep they seemed to bleed shadow.
"This was no servant's passage," Aerin murmured, fingers trailing one of the walls. "This was built by the old bloodlines. Before the Sangrael even ruled."
"Or after," Lys added, narrowing her eyes. "Maybe this was what they were hiding."
The tunnel wound like a serpent, deeper and deeper, until the warmth of the surface was a memory. Occasionally, they passed sealed doors with no handles—just smooth bone or iron etched in ancient vampyric. Aerin could feel the magic prickling her skin. Some of these rooms were tombs. Others, prisons. And some… neither.
She tried not to think about what was locked inside.
They stopped only when the path forked.
Silas examined the junction, pulling the map from his cloak. "Right leads up toward the outer kitchens. Left… toward the Cellar of Oaths."
Thorne, who'd caught up behind them, tapped his sword hilt. "We split?"
Aerin shook her head. "Too risky. We stay together. The Cellar is our goal."
They turned left.
The silence became heavier as they descended. The torches flickered with less certainty, as if the darkness here was thicker, more aware. It clung to their skin, crept into their lungs, made every footstep echo like a drumbeat in a mausoleum.
Then, they found it.
The Cellar of Oaths.
It wasn't just a room—it was a cathedral underground. Massive pillars rose from floor to ceiling, each carved with scenes of ancient coronations, blood rites, and execution. A circular dais sat at the center, surrounded by broken thrones and shattered swords embedded into the stone.
"This is where they swore their loyalty," Silas whispered. "And where they punished betrayal."
At the far end, a staircase spiraled up into a narrow shaft of flickering light.
Aerin took a breath. "That leads to the dungeons."
Above them, Cassius dreamed of thorns.
Not metaphorical ones, not the pale vines that curled through memory—but real, living thorns. They pierced his flesh, grew from his ribs, spiraled around his throat. He saw her—Elenna—wrapped in vines of the same crimson thorn, her eyes blank, her mouth open in a silent scream.
"You chose this," she whispered.
"I begged you not to," he answered.
"But you still drank," she replied.
He woke with a gasp, his lungs raw from the cold air.
Chains rattled as he tried to move. The cell was as it had been: damp, dim, and filled with the copper tang of his own blood. But something was… different.
The silence had changed.
There was a tension in the air. Not fear. Not rage.
Hope.
It clawed its way into his mind like a desperate hand reaching through ice.
Someone was coming.
And he knew—she was coming.
Aerin and the others crept up the stairwell, weapons drawn. At the top, a rusted grate barred the way. Thorne lifted it without a sound, and they emerged into the underdungeons—an endless corridor of barred cells and iron doors, echoing with the distant drip of water and the occasional moan of forgotten prisoners.
"Gods," Lys muttered. "How many people have they buried here?"
"Too many," Aerin said.
They moved swiftly, checking each cell. Most were empty. A few held husks of people too broken to be saved.
Then—
"Aerin," Thorne hissed.
She turned and saw it: a cell at the far end. Different from the rest. Not barred, but sealed with blood-lock runes carved in a perfect circle.
Cassius's prison.
Aerin rushed forward, heart hammering against her ribs. The bond screamed in her chest now—louder with every step, pulling her toward him like gravity.
She reached the door and pressed her palm to the runes.
They resisted at first.
Then pulsed.
Recognized her blood.
And unraveled.
The door swung open.
Inside, he was barely recognizable. Shackled at wrists and ankles, shirtless and bruised, skin marred with half-healed lashes and dried blood. But his eyes—
They opened.
And the moment they met hers, the world fell away.
"Aerin," he breathed.
She crossed the cell in two strides, falling to her knees beside him.
"You idiot," she whispered, voice thick with tears. "You weren't supposed to die."
He smiled, cracked and beautiful. "You weren't supposed to come back."
She reached for the shackles. "Help me get these off."
Thorne and Lys rushed in, working quickly to break the bonds. Cassius sagged into her arms as they caught him.
"I'm not going to make it easy," he rasped, "but I won't slow you down."
"You damn well won't," Aerin replied, sliding his arm over her shoulders.
Footsteps echoed.
Too many.
Lys's eyes widened. "They know."
Silas pulled a dagger. "We fight?"
Aerin's gaze hardened.
"No. We run."
They burst through the corridors like a storm.
Alarms began to wail—horns and bells reverberating through the dungeons. Shadows lunged at them—guards with crimson armor and enchanted blades.
But Aerin was fire now.
She struck with blinding speed, her blade dancing, her fury unleashed.
Beside her, Cassius moved like a revenant—weak, yes, but deadly still. Even wounded, he was a prince of blood, and every strike he landed carried centuries of war behind it.
Lys covered their flank. Silas and Thorne cleared the path ahead.
They reached the spiral stairs. The door slammed open.
Fresh air. Moonlight.
Freedom.
They didn't stop.
Even as arrows flew, even as magic cracked behind them, they ran—through the chapel ruins, into the forest beyond.
Not once did Aerin look back.
By dawn, they were miles from the capital, hidden in the forest's heart. Cassius lay near the fire, wrapped in cloaks. His breathing was shallow, but steady.
Aerin sat beside him, holding his hand.
He stirred, eyes fluttering open.
"You came for me," he whispered.
She squeezed his fingers.
"Always."