The royal archives were cold. Cold and quiet and buried three floors beneath the palace, as if even the kingdom itself wanted to forget what it knew.
Erin stood alone beneath flickering lanterns, scrolls spread across the long stone table like a quilt of secrets. Dust curled around the room like smoke, disturbed by her every breath.
Her fingers brushed faded ink. Her breath caught.
This was it. The scroll she'd been told never to mention. The one her mother had hidden when she fled Wynthorne all those years ago.
The one that bore the mark of Ravelle.
Above her, the iron door creaked open. Boots echoed on stone.
"You work quickly," Marcus said.
"I work efficiently," Erin replied, not looking up. "It's different."
He approached, hands clasped behind his back. His tone was lighter now, curious. "Find anything interesting?"
"That depends," she murmured, tracing a line of ancient text. "How do you feel about being a living sacrifice?"
Marcus's jaw tightened. "Pardon?"
She finally looked at him, her expression unreadable. "This isn't just a curse, Marcus. It's a blood pact. An ancestor of yours made a deal—immortality for the kingdom, paid in royal blood."
He stared at her.
She continued, voice low. "Every firstborn son dies to seal the pact again. That's why no one breaks the cycle."
"And me?"
"You're the last one."
He didn't speak for a long moment. Then, "Can it be undone?"
Erin hesitated. "Yes. But the scroll's unclear about how."
That was a lie. She knew exactly how.
The prince must choose love over legacy. The crown must be rejected in favor of something truer, something older.
But she wouldn't tell him. Not yet.
Not until she knew which side of him she could trust—the crown prince, or the man beneath the title.