9

The words were echoing in Anya's mind like thunder contained and confined behind her eyes.

Your parents? They're not your parents.

The silence was thicker than a mountain now. Corven was standing across from her, no longer sneering, no longer provoking—just looking at her, cautiously. Waiting for her to explode. And gods, she was close.

"What do you mean?" Her voice was stiff, cracking. "What did you just say?"

He didn’t flinch. “I said your parents aren’t your biological parents. Your existence was hidden. Forged. Covered in veils, remember? Lir’Zhal said it. And now. I’ve seen the proof.”

Anya’s heart beat so loudly it hurt. “Show me.”

Corven reached into the inner lining of his black coat and withdrew a thin, weathered scroll bound by a seal of melted obsidian—emblazoned with a symbol Anya didn’t recognize. He handed it over.

She hesitated, and then broke the seal.

The parchment trembled in her hand as if it remembered something it didn't want to. In beautiful, ancient writing was a birth certificate—not of House Drevik, not of any legacy house.

House Nytherin.

Anya's eyes widened. "Nytherin was purged. They were killed in the first Scourgeborn rebellion."

Corven nodded. "For treason. For holding something forbidden."

She looked up, comprehension dawning. "Magic."

"You are the last living blood of House Nytherin. You weren't adopted into House Drevik—you were hidden in it. Held close, kept behind their station, passed off as one of them. For your protection. or perhaps something more."

The ground under Anya trembled. Her parents—no, guardians—had lied to her. Her whole life was a lie built on ash and fear.

A long silence hung between them. Her dragon stirred.

They deceived to save us, it whispered, curling. But not from love. From duty. From fear.

Fists tightened into balls. "They set fire to Nytherin and killed my kin. My family. My kin."

Corven's voice came quietly now. "Yes. And they allowed you to survive. because you were a child. And because the wyrm within you was still too small to awaken.

"So what now?" she panted. "You knew this and you said nothing. Why?"

"Because I didn't know which side I was on." Corven moved a step closer. "Until I saw you risk everything for me. You could have gotten out. You didn't. That meant something."

Her eyes flared. "Don't try to make yourself out to be a hero. I saved you because I'm not like them. Not like your House. Not like mine."

"You're right," he answered quietly. "You're not. And that's the reason we need to talk about the real reason I brought you to Ashwaste."

Anya looked at him warily.

"There's more?" she growled.

Corven hesitated. "You weren't the only reason the masked creatures attacked. They were waiting for me."

A cold chill ran down her spine. "Why?"

"Because of what I did. last year." He grasped her hand and, against her will, she let him.

"I opened something I shouldn't have. A vault. Not here. Somewhere in-between. I did it because someone promised me that it would save my brother. Marek was dying, Anya."

She lost breath. "You opened a door to the banished."

He nodded. "I didn't know then. I was young and desperate. But when I returned to that place a week ago… they were all gone. There was nothing but dust and ash remaining."

Her voice was shaking. "You rescued them."

"No. Something else rescued them. I just provided them with an opening. Someone else used it as a door."

Shadows on the room corners seemed to deepen. Pressure built behind Anya's eyes.

Corven talks in hushed tones now. "They're not just stirring, Anya. They're awake. And they've already begun taking their chosen ones."

The gods are not your enemies, Lir'Zhal had instructed.

"Then who are?" she whispered quietly.

Corven pulls her close, and fear fills his eyes now. "The gods. Or better stated… the ones presenting themselves as such."

And somewhere deep inside the depths of the palace foundation, something shifted.

Something that was ancient.

Something that heard their names.

Something that smiled.

Anya's entire body trembled—not with fear, but with anger.

Everything she'd ever known—every law, every rule, every desperate prayer breathed in blackness—was in shambles.

She stared at Corven, hand still on his, heart racing against her chest.

"You're telling me," she began, voice low and bitter, "that not only have I been living a lie, but the gods themselves may not be what they claim to be?"

Corven didn't waver. "That's exactly what I'm saying.".

Her wyrm stirred, roused by her rising emotions. Let me burn them all. Let us unravel their precious veil and see what hides behind it.

“No,” she hissed under her breath.

Corven blinked. “What?”

“Not you,” she said quickly. “It’s. never mind.”

A muscle in his jaw ticked. “You’re hearing him more often now, aren’t you?”

She didn’t answer, which was answer enough.

They stood there in silence until Corven finally pulled his hand back and turned to look at the window, gazing at the flickering sky beyond. "We don't have long before they realize what we know."

Anya crossed her arms. "So what do we do?"

He turned to look at her again, eyes cold. "We find out who opened the door behind me. Who parted the veil wide enough for something else to slither through."

And then what?" she inquired. "Fight them? Kill them? We can't even name them yet."

"We don't need names," he replied. "We need allies."

Any laughed. "Allies? Who? The gods? The Scourgeborn? I'm quite sure both would flay me alive for having a wyrm inside of me.".

"Perhaps not all of them." Corven's voice dropped. "There is one who can possibly help. A Scourgeborn exile—one who disappeared before the first fall. She was said to question the gods. Said to have questioned the Will of Silence."

Anya's eyebrow rose. "I believed the Scourgeborn could not doubt."

"She did. And because of it, she was deleted. Or so they say. But there are whispers that she still lives… in secret."

Anya's blood thrummed. "Where?"

“In the grave city of Ell’shivar,” Corven said, voice barely above a whisper. “Buried beneath the obsidian catacombs. It’s off-limits. Forbidden. Anyone caught there is sentenced to divine obliteration.”

A sharp laugh escaped Anya. “So of course, that’s where we’re going.”

Before Corven could respond, a knock sounded on her door. They both stiffened.

Corven nodded to her. “Get rid of them.”

Anya moved towards the door, careful not to expose Corven. She opened it, anticipating a servant.

It was her mother.

"Anya," Lady Drevik gasped, standing rigid and terrified. "I don't have much time. I heard your father speaking with the High Scourge. They know."

Anya's spine stiffened. "Know what?"

Lady Drevik nodded, her blue-faded eyes shining with tears. "They've learned your heritage. Your birth secret. Your magic in your marrow. You are no longer hidden. They arrive. This night."

Corven stepped out of the shadows. "We leave now.".

But Lady Drevik stepped into the doorway, stopping them. Her trembling hands reached up to Anya's face. "My child… you were never meant for this fate. I begged them to spare you from here, but it was your sole chance for survival. You're the last ember of Nytherin. The blood which remembers. The flame which remembers."

Anya's voice crumbled. "Why didn't you tell me?

Her mother's voice broke. "Because they swore me to silence. Because they warned me that if ever you woke, the gods would destroy Veltrith to seek you out."

Corven grasped Anya back. "We have to leave. Now.".

But Lady Drevik slapped her hand across her wrist and thrust a small, cold thing into her palm—a pendant of obsidian, with inner flame softly burning. "Your real mother gave it to me. She said one day, when the stars sing and the gods are still, it will lead you to your destiny."

"Mother—"

"GO!" she bellowed, yanking her wrist from his hand. "And don't look back."

Anya let herself be dragged along by Corven, heart breaking, eyes ablaze. They tore through passageways, jumping over railings, racing down secret corridors she had never known existed until they spilled out onto the upper edge of Pyrester Citadel.

The sky above was darkening. The veil was fading.

Suddenly, the sky burst into two halves—literally burst from two halves apart—with a shattering crack of bone and bells. A column of blinding white light came down out of the heavens into the palace of Drevik behind them.

Corven grabbed her away. The pillar exploded into a ring of fire, shattering the citadel gates. Screaming, distant and anguished, sounded behind them.

"They're here," Corven said. "The High Scourge."

Anya clutched the obsidian pendant and did what she could.

She veilshifted them both—into the catacombs' shadows. Into the cold belly of Ell'shivar.