Chapter 18

Moonlight streamed through the fractured stained-glass windows of Moonspire’s old chapel, painting the stone floor in shards of red and blue. Serenya Vale held her breath in the shadows, her cloak drawn tightly around her frame. Somewhere beyond the broken arches, boots scraped against stone.

She wasn’t alone.

Her fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger strapped to her thigh—not her weapon of choice, but enough to buy her time. The letter she had stolen only hours ago, folded carefully within her bodice, pulsed like a second heartbeat against her chest. It was the very reason she was hunted tonight.

Kaelen Draven’s voice echoed in her memory: “Do not let anyone see what you carry. It names the betrayer.”

And now, she could almost hear his voice whispering again, though he was leagues away, riding to Crestfall with Darian.

A shadow slipped across the chapel’s fractured doorway. She tightened her grip.

“Come out,” a low voice rasped. “I know you’re here.”

Not Kaelen. Not Darian. Someone else. Someone who already knew.

Serenya pressed her back to the wall, silently drawing in air through her nose. The chapel smelled of damp moss, ash, and the faintest trace of candle wax, long since burned away. Her father once prayed here. Now it was nothing but ruins—and a trap.

A flash of silver caught her eye. A blade. It gleamed in the darkness like a shard of moonlight.

The intruder stepped forward, hood thrown low, features masked by shadow. His stride was deliberate, unhurried. He knew she was cornered.

But Serenya Vale had been cornered all her life, and she’d learned how to slip through cracks no one else could see.

She edged along the wall, her footsteps as silent as breath. Every instinct screamed to run, but running meant noise. Noise meant death.

The figure halted. His head turned slightly, listening. Then, with a sudden motion, he flung a dagger into the darkness where she had stood moments before.

Steel struck stone with a ringing note. Dust rained down from the crumbling ceiling. Serenya froze—her pulse thundering.

“Impressive reflexes,” the man muttered. “But you can’t hide forever.”

He was right. She needed a distraction.

Her eyes darted to the iron candelabrum half-toppled by the altar. A faint smile ghosted across her lips. She drew a breath, then hurled her dagger at the base of the stand.

It toppled with a deafening crash. The intruder spun toward the noise.

Serenya bolted.

Her boots pounded across the cracked flagstones as she darted through the shadows. Behind her, steel rang against steel as the man tore his blade free of its sheath.

“Run, little ghost,” he growled. “I’ll find you.”

She didn’t waste time with words. Instead, she slid beneath the collapsed beam that blocked half the chapel’s nave and sprinted toward the spiral staircase that led to the belfry.

The steps groaned beneath her as she climbed. Dust choked the air, stinging her lungs. But higher ground meant a chance to vanish, to use the night as her shield.

Behind her, the intruder followed. His boots hammered the steps like a drumbeat of doom.

Halfway up, her foot slipped on the grit. She caught herself on the railing, gasping. A blade whistled past her ear, embedding itself in the stairwell wall.

So close. Too close.

At the top, the belfry yawned open to the night. Stars scattered across the heavens, the crescent moon burning pale and watchful. Torn banners flapped in the midnight wind.

Serenya skidded across the stones, her cloak snapping behind her. The city stretched below in shadow and silver, streets twisting like veins through the heart of Moonspire. If she could leap across to the adjoining tower—

Her pursuer emerged from the stairwell, blade gleaming. He lowered his hood.

Her breath caught.

Cyrion Duskbane.

The exiled heir. The one who was supposed to be dead.

“Impossible,” she whispered.

His lips curved, not in amusement but in scorn. “You carry something that belongs to me.”

Serenya’s mind raced. Cyrion was a ghost from history—slain with his father in the fall of Duskwind Keep. Yet here he stood, eyes burning like coals.

“I don’t know what you mean,” she lied, fingers inching toward the dagger strapped to her boot.

“You’re a poor liar, Serenya Vale,” he said softly, stepping closer. “I’ve watched you long enough to know when your heart stutters.”

He knew her name. He knew.

Panic clawed at her ribs, but she forced her voice steady. “Why follow me? Why not take what you want by force?”

“Oh, I intend to,” Cyrion murmured. “But I’m curious first. Who gave you the letter?”

Her blood ran cold. If he knew about the letter—

His blade flicked toward her, catching the moonlight. She backed away, inch by inch, until her heels pressed against the edge of the tower. The drop stretched dizzyingly beneath her.

“Tell me,” he demanded.

For a heartbeat, silence reigned—just the whip of banners, the sigh of wind.

Then Serenya drew her dagger in one swift motion, steel flashing. “You’ll have to kill me to find out.”

Cyrion’s grin was sharp, wolfish. “So be it.”

He lunged.

Their blades clashed, sparks bursting in the night. Serenya met his strike with every ounce of strength she possessed. He was stronger, faster, honed by years of exile. But she was desperate. And desperation was its own kind of weapon.

Steel rang again and again, echoing off the stones. Serenya ducked beneath a swing, slashing at his arm. He parried effortlessly, shoving her back.

Her heel slipped on the edge of the tower. For an instant, the world tilted—sky and stone spinning. She caught herself, barely.

Cyrion laughed, a sound like broken glass. “You can’t win, girl. Hand it over.”

“No,” she hissed.

Her eyes darted to the gap between towers. Too far. But maybe—just maybe—

Cyrion raised his blade for the final strike.

And Serenya leapt.

Air roared in her ears as she soared across the void, cloak billowing like wings. Her boots slammed onto the adjoining roof. She stumbled, nearly pitched forward, but caught herself with a gasp.

Behind her, Cyrion cursed. She didn’t look back.

She ran. Across tiles slick with dew, across rooftops bathed in moonlight, heart pounding like war drums. The letter throbbed against her chest—her secret, her curse, her only shield.

Below, the city of Moonspire slept, unaware that its fate danced on a knife’s edge in the hands of a girl running for her life.

A whistle cut through the night. She glanced back just in time to see a dagger streaking toward her.

It missed her by inches, embedding in the chimney she passed.

She stumbled, gasped, but kept running.

Somewhere behind, Cyrion followed, relentless. The night belonged to him.

And if she faltered, even for a breath, it would be her last.