I almost forgot the reason I went out to look at the lake in the first place, but I felt it—the call, the pull toward the water, as if my very blood were being drawn to him and to the water in which he lay. Now I knew why.
Coveted. Hunted.
A sudden surge flows within me. A truth flickering in the depths of the lake.
My father’s death may not have been an accident.
And I am no longer hiding.
I am a Thalrien.
And if they took him from me—I will make them fucking pay.
CHAPTER 39
The weight of legacy is not in what we inherit, but in what we choose to carry on.
—The War of Unbinding: The Second Rebellion
Gavrail finds me in the library, tucked away at our usual table beneath the stained-glass dome. A stack of books towers beside me:Bloodlines of the Arcane;Tapestries of Power: A Study of Magickal Bloodlines and Lineage;Blood and Sigils: The Heraldry and Seals of Ancient Magickal Houses.
“Studying, I see,” comes his cool voice behind me.
I look up. His presence shifts the air, as it always does. The library houses a grateful silence when words are too much or not enough.
“I wanted to find books that had more specific information about my family line,” I say finally, running my finger along the margin of a page. “But they all seem to be checked out.”
He says nothing, just steps forward and reaches into his messenger bag, pulling out three worn volumes.Bloodlines of theDeep.The House Thalrien.The War of Unbinding: The Second Rebellion.
“I checked these out in January,” he says softly. “I figured you’d come looking for answers. Eventually.”
My hand moves to the second book. The crest is embossed in silver—a mermaid in profile, ringed by faint ripples—etched deep into the navy leather. The weight of it sends a pang of recognition through my chest.
“Thank you,” I say, quiet but sincere. My emotions war beneath my skin. I’m still angry, still hurt, that he withheld the truth all these years. But the feelings are complicated, knowing he was following my father’s wishes, even though they went against his own.
The gesture of the books cracks something open. He knew, but he was trying to make it right, in his own way.
I look up at him. “Did you know Whittaker was founded here because of a sacred water site?”
Gavrail tilts his head, a small smile touching his lips. “You’ve been paying attention in Arcanarchaeology.”
I nod. We just started touching on sacred sites of magick and ritual in class. But it makes sense that Whittaker would house one. The Vikhrostrum Mountains that curl around the academy house the Heart of the Mountain, an ancient earth magick site. La Rinconada, in the Peruvian Andes where the Universitas Arcanum Andina is located, holds the sacred Wind Temple dedicated to air magick. The Heart of Light is in Jordan, where the School of First Light was founded. We’re supposed to start sacred fire sites next week. Now every fact feels personal, like the world has been quietly rearranging itself around me this whole time.
He slides into the chair across from me, fingers steepled. There is something restrained in his posture—guarded. Controlled. Always infuriatingly controlled.
But his eyes—gods, his eyes aren’t.
“Cel…” he begins, voice low. “I want to explain?—”
“I don’t like what you did, Gavrail,” I interrupt. “Keeping me in the dark all these years… but I understandwhyyou did it. You thought you were protecting me. Keeping me safe. And I get it, I truly do.”
A pause. I meet his eyes. His jaw tightens, but he says nothing.
“And if our roles were reversed, I probably would’ve done the same,” I finish quietly.
He holds my gaze. “But…”
“But,” I say, my breath catching slightly, “I don’t want to hide anymore. I’m tired of pretending to be something I’m not. I want to know what I am. What I’m capable of.”
