The next morning arrived with frost in the air and fire in Clara's chest.
She had barely slept. Her mind had spun through the night—faces, names, secrets. The scroll's red-marked list haunted her every time she blinked.
One of the names had stood out:
Elias Whitmore.
Her father.
She stormed into the study, cloak still half-draped, boots damp with morning dew. Alaric looked up from the reports he was reading, brow lifting.
"You're up early."
"My father's name is on that scroll."
He set the parchment down carefully. "I know."
Clara stared at him, throat tight. "You knew. And didn't tell me?"
"I was trying to protect you," he said calmly. "The Council doesn't speak his name for a reason. And if he's being watched again, it means—"
"He's alive." Her voice was barely a whisper.
Alaric nodded. "Somewhere. Likely in hiding."
Clara sat down hard, the breath leaving her lungs. "All this time..."
"You want to find him." It wasn't a question.
She looked up, her voice shaking between anger and hope. "If he's in danger because of me—"
Alaric stood, crossing to her side. "Then we'll find him before they do."
Across the palace, in the dark council wing, Cedric Thorne lit a candle with steady hands.
Chancellor Varrick stood behind him. "The scroll has been found."
"I know," Cedric said. "Cassian is slipping."
"He still hasn't picked a side."
Cedric's smile didn't reach his eyes. "Then we'll force him to."
He dropped a sealed letter into Varrick's hands.
"Send it to House Whitmore's last known estate. Let's see what smoke rises when you light the ruins."
Clara and Alaric rode out before noon, dressed like nobles on a casual inspection—but the guards behind them were loyal only to Alaric.
"Why didn't you tell me sooner?" Clara asked once they were beyond the gates.
"I didn't want to give you false hope," he replied. "But now... now hope may be what saves us."
They rode fast through narrow paths, through hills and crumbling fences, toward a place Clara hadn't dared speak of in years.
The old Whitmore estate.
But when they reached it, her breath caught.
The gates were gone. The trees were scorched. And the house—
Burned to the ground.
She dismounted, walking slowly through the ash and broken stone. Her childhood lived here. Her memories buried here.
But something glittered in the rubble.
She bent down and lifted a small brass locket from the dirt.
Inside, a single folded note.
Her fingers trembled as she opened it.
"The roots still run deep. Trust no one with red in their crest."
Clara stared at the words.
Alaric moved beside her. "What does it mean?"
Her eyes didn't leave the note. "It means he's alive. And he's warning me."
Back in the palace, Cassian stood by the old archives, staring at the now-empty scroll case.
Behind him, footsteps echoed.
"Still chasing ghosts?" Cedric asked.
Cassian didn't turn. "Some ghosts wear crowns."
Cedric chuckled. "Choose your loyalty, Cassian. Before someone else chooses it for you."
And then he left him standing there, alone—between the past and the war still to come.
[ To be continued...]