Chapter 3

Seraphina, though weakened, recovered some of her strength, her focus entirely on the "revived" spirit of Marcus Thorne, which she now kept close, tethered to her by her sacrifice. She lavished attention on this intangible presence, speaking to it, sharing her plans, her triumphs within The Order. It was a disturbing display of misplaced affection. Lucian, ever attentive, facilitated these one-sided conversations, treating the empty air beside Seraphina with utmost respect.

Soon, a grand celebration was announced within The Order' s fortress – a commemoration of Marcus Thorne' s "enduring spirit" and The Matriarch' s devotion. It was to be a display of her power and her unwavering love. The irony was almost too much for Ethan to bear, but he had learned to shield his thoughts, his emotions. He was merely a captive, a broken thing.

During the height of the celebration, as Seraphina sat on her high seat, Lucian at her side, her gaze fell upon Ethan, who was chained in a corner, a customary ornament at such events.

Marcus – or rather, Seraphina speaking for what she believed Marcus would want – had a request.

Lucian stepped forward, his voice ringing with false solemnity. "The spirit of the noble Marcus Thorne, ever playful even in his ethereal state, has a desire. He remembers the Cole family' s famed patronage of the arts. He wishes for a... performance. From their last living heir."

A murmur went through the assembled members of The Order.

Lucian smiled thinly at Ethan. "The Matriarch' s beloved asks that you dance for us, Cole. A dance of despair, perhaps? Or maybe a jig of a fallen dynasty?"

Humiliation, public and profound. This was her design.

Seraphina watched Ethan, her eyes cold and unreadable. "You heard him, Ethan. My Marcus wishes it. Dance." Her voice was flat, an order absolute. There was no choice.

Slowly, painfully, Ethan rose. His body ached from years of abuse and the recent ordeal in Maine. The chains clinked. The eyes of The Order, hungry for spectacle, were upon him.

He began to move, a grotesque parody of a dance. His limbs were stiff, his movements jerky. He stumbled, caught himself, continued. It was a dance of a broken puppet, a mockery of grace, a physical manifestation of his endless suffering. The assembled crowd began to laugh, low at first, then louder, a chorus of derision.

He looked at Seraphina. Her face was impassive, her gaze distant, as if she were watching a mildly interesting insect. There was no flicker of pity, no hint of remorse. Only a vast, chilling indifference to the man she was systematically destroying.

As his humiliating performance neared its end, a lesser commander of The Order, a brutish man named Kaelen, stepped forward. Kaelen had a reputation for cruelty, but also for a strange sort of loyalty to those who served him well.

"Matriarch," Kaelen boomed, his voice rough. "A boon, if I may. For my years of service. The prisoner, Cole. I have... uses for him."

A new wave of murmurs. To be "gifted" to Kaelen was a fate many prisoners dreaded more than death.

Seraphina' s gaze shifted from Ethan to Kaelen. A faint, cruel smile touched her lips. She turned back to Ethan, who had stopped his pathetic dance, swaying on his feet.

"Well, Ethan?" she asked, her voice laced with mockery. "Commander Kaelen wishes for your company. Are you willing to go with him? Do you consent?"

The illusion of choice was another of her favorite torments.

Ethan looked at her, his eyes hollow. "Consent?" he whispered, his voice raspy. "What meaning does that word have here, Matriarch? I am a stone. I am dust. I am whatever you wish me to be. There is no will left here to consent or deny." His voice broke. "There is nothing left at all."

A flicker of annoyance crossed Seraphina' s face. His utter brokenness, his complete despair, seemed to displease her more than defiance. "Very well," she said sharply, turning to Kaelen. "He is yours. Do with him as you please. Just ensure he remains... functional. I may have need of him again."

Kaelen grinned, a predator' s smile. "Thank you, Matriarch."

Ethan felt nothing as Kaelen' s guards unchained him from the wall and shackled him with new, heavier manacles. He was led away, a soulless shell, leaving the mockery of the celebration behind.

In Kaelen' s private quarters, the commander wasted no time. "The Matriarch may see you as a symbol, Cole," Kaelen sneered, his face close to Ethan' s. "A plaything. But I see utility. And perhaps some... personal amusement." His eyes roved over Ethan' s battered form. His intentions were sickeningly clear.

But even in his broken state, a spark of Ethan' s old intellect, his survival instinct, flickered. Kaelen was arrogant, and his quarters, while secure, were part of a less-guarded wing of the fortress. And Kaelen had one weakness: a reliance on a particular datapad for all his sensitive Order communications, a datapad he often left carelessly on his desk. Ethan had seen it.

Ethan knew The Order kept meticulous records, a dark archive of its history, its members, its victims. He had heard whispers of a "Liber Veritas," a Book of Truths, where the deepest secrets were supposedly recorded, including the true histories of its most prominent figures – like The Matriarch, and perhaps, even Marcus Thorne. It was said to be hidden, forbidden, protected by deadly traps. But if he could find it...

While Kaelen was distracted, gloating and outlining the new torments he had planned, Ethan, with a sudden, desperate surge of adrenaline, feigned a collapse. As Kaelen bent over him, contempt on his face, Ethan moved. It was a clumsy, desperate attack, but it caught Kaelen off guard. A struggle, brutal and short. Ethan, fueled by years of repressed rage and a desperate need for something, anything, managed to incapacitate Kaelen, using the commander' s own discarded wine bottle.

He didn' t have much time. He found Kaelen' s datapad. Frantic, his bruised and bleeding fingers fumbled with the interface. He was searching for any mention of the Liber Veritas, any clue to its location.

Against all odds, he found a reference, a coded map fragment, in a secure file Kaelen shouldn't have had access to. It pointed to a sub-level, a forgotten archive.

He had to go. Now.

He moved through the shadowed corridors, a ghost in his own nightmare. The sub-level was ancient, dust-filled, the air thick with the smell of decay and forgotten secrets. He navigated by the faint glow of the datapad, his heart pounding.

There, in a recessed alcove, behind a crumbling seal, was a heavy, iron-bound book. The Liber Veritas.

His hands trembled as he opened it. The script was archaic, the language dense. But he found the section on Seraphina Vance, The Matriarch. And then, the entry for Marcus Thorne.

He read. And the world tilted.

The Book of Truths didn' t just confirm Marcus' s deception about the rescue. It laid bare the entirety of Marcus' s life: his sociopathy, his betrayals, his calculated manipulations, his faked death to escape gambling debts and underworld figures he' d double-crossed, his utter contempt for Seraphina even as he used her devotion. It detailed how Marcus had orchestrated events to ensure Ethan would be blamed for his "disappearance," how he had fed Seraphina lies for years.

And then, the most devastating part: the full, unvarnished account of Ethan' s own actions. The desperate rescue, the near-fatal injuries he' d sustained, the massive resources he' d expended, the strict orders for secrecy – all meticulously documented by The Order' s dispassionate chroniclers. His sacrifice, stolen, twisted, and used to fuel two decades of his own personal hell.

A sob tore from Ethan' s throat, a raw, ragged sound of unbearable pain, of vindication, of utter, soul-crushing sorrow for the wasted years, the pointless suffering. Seraphina... she didn' t know. She truly didn' t know. All this time, all this hatred, all this revenge... built on a monstrous lie.

He clutched the book, tears streaming down his face, a storm of emotion breaking through the numbness.

Suddenly, the sound of footsteps. Kaelen, his face contorted with rage, a bloody gash on his forehead, stood in the archway, flanked by two guards.

"Well, well, Cole. Stealing secrets now, are we? The Matriarch will be so displeased." Kaelen' s eyes gleamed. "And I will be the one to tell her."

Before Kaelen could say more, another figure swept into the archive. Seraphina. Her eyes, cold as ice, took in the scene: Ethan, clutching the Liber Veritas, Kaelen, triumphant and accusatory.

"What is the meaning of this, Kaelen?" Seraphina demanded.

"Matriarch! This scum attacked me, stole my datapad, and then broke into the forbidden archives! He has the Liber Veritas!"

Seraphina' s gaze fixed on Ethan, then on the book in his hands. A flicker of something unreadable crossed her face.

Just as Kaelen lunged for Ethan, Seraphina moved with blinding speed. A single, precise strike, and Kaelen crumpled to the ground, unconscious or dead. The two guards froze, uncertain.

"Leave us," Seraphina commanded them, her voice dangerously soft. They scrambled to obey.

She turned to Ethan, her expression unreadable. "What have you found, Ethan?"

He was still reeling, the truth a burning brand in his mind. He couldn' t speak. He just held out the book.