Marcus stormed through the upper corridor with the scroll gripped tightly in his left hand, blood still seeping through the bandage Erin had wrapped. The ornate doors to his private chamber slammed open, echoing like cannon fire. Erin followed swiftly, shutting the door behind her.
"Are you going to tell me what that was?" Marcus asked, spinning around. "Because I saw your face. You recognized that symbol."
Erin's lips were pressed into a firm line. Her fingers itched to rip the scroll away from him, burn it, bury the ashes beneath the sea. "I did."
"Well?"
"That was the crest of House Elyria," she said softly. "My family."
Marcus blinked. "Your family? I thought they were—"
"Extinct?" she finished. "That's the story your kingdom tells. But stories, like bloodlines, rarely die clean."
She walked to the fireplace and stared into the unlit hearth. "My mother fled Ravelle before I was born. She never spoke of why. Only that the crown couldn't be trusted. That we were hunted. I thought it was paranoia until I started researching the prophecy."
Marcus's tone dropped. "You think your family's connected to the curse?"
"I think the curse was created by someone from House Elyria."
Silence stretched between them.
Marcus finally unsealed the scroll, unfurling it slowly. The ancient paper crackled. The ink shimmered red in the candlelight—blood mixed with magic.
A single phrase stood out in bold script, repeated in different dialects:
> "The blood of the heir shall water the seal. The blade shall fall, and the crown shall remain eternal."
"Lovely poetry," Marcus muttered.
Erin snatched the scroll from him, scanning further. Her eyes flickered with panic. "There's more here. Look—this wasn't meant to be read by Ravellians. It's written in high Elyrian. It's a challenge. A… warning."
"A warning to who?"
"To us. To both of us."
Marcus's brow furrowed. "What do you mean 'us'? Why would they warn you?"
She didn't answer. Instead, she traced her fingers along a diagram near the scroll's edge—a depiction of a crimson crown shattered by lightning, with two figures beneath it, locked in battle.
One wore Ravelle's crest.
The other bore the same sigil as the scroll.
Marcus stepped beside her. "It's a prophecy within the prophecy."
She nodded. "And it's not just about your death. It's about war. One started by betrayal. One that ends with—"
Her voice caught.
Marcus turned to her, expression grave. "Ends with what?"
Erin met his eyes, and for once, there was no snark, no shield. Just truth.
"With someone you trust standing over your body. Sword in hand."
The silence was deafening.
Marcus took a slow step back. "You think I'll die because of someone close?"
"I think it's not a curse if it has a cause."
He studied her. "Do you think it's you?"
Her mouth opened, but no sound came.
"I don't," he said suddenly. "I should. But I don't."
"Why not?"
"Because you're not like them."
She gave a dry laugh. "You don't know me."
"I know enough," Marcus said, voice roughening. "I know you're here, even when you could've run. I know you're not afraid of me, or this palace, or the curse. That tells me more than bloodlines ever could."
A quiet moment passed between them—intimate, electric.
Then: Boom.
The windows rattled.
Marcus rushed to the balcony, flinging the doors open. Flames lit up the northern sky, thick black smoke curling into the stars.
"The stables," he breathed. "Someone set fire to the royal stables."
Erin's pulse pounded. "That's a diversion."
Marcus turned sharply. "Then what are they after?"
She swallowed. "The scrolls. The archives."
They ran.
Down hallways and staircases, past stunned guards and panicked nobles. The castle felt alive with chaos, shadows slipping through the corridors like whispers.
When they reached the archives, the iron door was ajar.
Inside: ruined shelves. Burned pages. Torn bindings.
The scrolls were gone.
Erin fell to her knees. "No, no—this was everything…"
Marcus scanned the room, his instincts prickling.
A single feather lay on the stone floor. Black, oily, unmistakable.
"Crowborn," he murmured.
Erin looked up. "What?"
"They're assassins. Shadow-cloaked. Loyal to no crown, only to coin. Someone hired them."
"For what?" Erin asked, breathless.
Marcus stared at the empty scroll rack, then at her.
"To erase the truth."
He offered her his hand.
She hesitated, then took it.
And in that single touch, both of them knew—this was no longer just about prophecy.
This was personal.