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The woman in the velvet gown steps toward the pedestal, her voice ringing out through the library—clear and defiant.

"To whoever opens this seal: If you are standing in this room, then the Treaty of Shadows is broken, and Sanguine has slaughtered my line."

She reaches out, placing both hands flat against the brass rings of the volvelle.

"Hear me, child of Midnight. The Council will tell you that our power is a curse. They will tell you that the unmaking boils the blood of its heirs because the void rejects mortal flesh. It is a lie. The unmaking does not destroy its master; it destroys deceit."

She draws a shuddering breath, her knuckles turning white against the brass.

"The Council poisons our heirs. At the First Summons, they lace the cup with thrall-venom. At the Second, they pierce the flesh with necrotic silver. At the Third, they bind the soul with a false oath that tears the heart apart. They fear us because we are the only pillar that holds the chisel. We are the only law that can unmake their immortality."

She gestures toward the floor beneath her feet—toward the black-and-white checkered hearthstone resting before the fireplace.

"They believe they have culled every branch of Midnight," Lady Vivienne’s projection speaks, her chin held high against the distant flashes of siege magic. "They are fools. Before the gates fall tonight, my youngest sister carries our bloodline into the mortal quarter, hidden beneath the shroud of the Church. Our blood will slumber in the veins of mortals until the stars align to wake it. You are the hidden seed, child. You weild the scythe for a harvest of power they will never see coming. Do not kneel to the leeches. Do not drink their venom. The true seat of House Midnight is not in their gilded court. The seat is here, in the bedrock of the estate. Step upon the hearthstone. Speak the ancient mandate: 'In umbra veritas, in cinere vita.' In shadow, truth; in ash, life. Bind your marrow to the house, and let the wards of the unmaking seal the gates forever."

A violent explosion rocks the memory. The spectral windows shatter inward, raining shards of illusionary glass across the room.

The woman looks directly at me one last time, her chin lifted high, a fierce, predatory smile curving her lips.

"Take your throne, little queen. And burn their empire to the ground."

She slams her palm down onto the volvelle.

The vision implodes.

The roaring fire, the pristine shelves, and the spectral woman collapse into a vortex of white frost. The vortex funnels straight into the quartz spindle of the instrument, vanishing with a crack.

Silence crashes back over the library.

Morning sun streams through the real stained-glass windows. Dust motes drift lazily through the air. And the volvelle sits, inert on the mahogany pedestal, its brass rings locked in place, the brass dial key resting flush inside the spindle.

My chest heaves, tears tracking hot paths down my cheeks.

I was never alone. I was never unloved.

I am the fruit of their labor.

Lachlan doesn't say a word.

He steps behind me, wrapping his massive arms around my torso, pulling me flush against the solid, immovable wall of his chest. He buries his face in my hair, exhaling a long, shuddering breath that warms the back of my neck. His large hands cover mine, our matching, living brands glowing with a fierce, blinding gold and cyan fire.

"Did you hear her, Lachlan?" I whisper, wiping a tear away with the back of my sleeve.

"Aye, lass," his deep, gravelly voice rumbles through my entire skeleton, steady as granite, fierce as a storm. "I heard her."

I turn in his embrace, looking up into his stormy eyes. The doubt is gone. The ancient guilt that haunted him for two hundred years has been burned out, replaced by a lethal resolve that makes my heart race with anticipation.

"I'm done running their obstacle course," I tell him, my voice flat, cold, and entirely devoid of fear.

Lachlan grins—a dark grin that shows off the sharp edges of his teeth.

"Then let's go light the fire, little love. It's time to claim your house."

“Fucking a right it is,” I say, then grimace. “Did I ruin the mood?”

“Nah,” he says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I think you set it, actually.”

“I think you’re doing the thing where you just agree with me because I’m your fated mate,” I tell him, feeling reckless and slightly wild.