Chapter 5 Whispers Beneath the Throne

There was a chamber beneath the Crimson Court that no one spoke of.

Not even in whispers.

The vampires called it the Root Vault. A place older than their bloodlines, deeper than the catacombs, and lined with bones that didn't belong to any beast Lyra recognized. It wasn't on any map. It didn't have doors. Only a single stairwell, carved into the earth like a throat waiting to swallow her whole.

Lyra stood before it now, the Pact burning cold in her palm.

"You said it's down here?" she asked.

Verenthas nodded, robes whispering around him. "You want the truth, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then follow me. And try not to scream. The walls remember."

They descended together.

Torchlight danced along the slick stone walls. The deeper they went, the heavier the air became thick with old magic, sharp as copper. Lyra had felt fear before. This was different. This was like walking into a grave and realizing the corpse inside was still breathing.

When they reached the bottom, Verenthas didn't speak.

He simply pointed to the far wall.

It was not stone.

It was flesh.

Black, cracked like dried mud, pulsing with veins of silver light. And embedded in its center like a heart pinned to a shrine was a mirror.

Or what used to be a mirror.

Its surface was smoke. Its frame is made of twisted bone and black iron.

Lyra approached it, drawn by something primal.

The dagger buzzed in her hand.

"Touch it," Verenthas said behind her.

She hesitated. "What is it?"

"A soul trap," he said. "Older than our war. Older than our gods. The first hybrid was imprisoned inside. The Pact feeds from them."

Her breath caught. "The first..."

"Wielder. Like you."

She didn't ask why it was here.

Somehow, she already knew.

The Pact wasn't a weapon. Not really.

It was a lock.

And she had just become the key.

Her fingers brushed the surface.

The world shattered.

Darkness swallowed her.

Not the absence of light but a suffocating pressure, like being crushed beneath centuries of silence. Her limbs went numb. Her thoughts unraveled like thread in the wind.

And then a voice.

Finally, it sighed. She returns.

Lyra tried to speak but her mouth didn't move. Her body was gone. She floated in nothingness, suspended like ash in still water.

You are mine now, the voice said. Just as I was theirs.

She felt heat behind her eyes. Not from pain but memory.

Not hers.

Theirs.

She saw flashes. A girl white hair, golden eyes, fangs and claws both. Standing on a battlefield. Not a vampire. Not a wolf. Something else. Something stronger.

The girl screamed as chains were driven into her chest. The dagger. The Pact.

Her blood hissed as it hit the stone.

They called her Veyra.

The first hybrid.

And they feared her so much, they locked her soul in the blade.

She had waited ever since.

Waited for someone reckless enough... desperate enough... to take the dagger and set her free.

You took my blade, Veyra whispered in her ear. Now we are bound.

Lyra tried to pull away.

Tried to wake up.

But the mirror wouldn't release her.

I am not your enemy, Veyra said. But I will be your end... unless you learn.

Then came the flood.

Pain. Memory. Blood.

Lyra saw through Veyra's eyes the betrayal by vampire kings, the burning of werewolf clans, the endless war they blamed on her. But she had not started it.

She had been its excuse.

They feared balance. They feared peace.

Because peace meant no rulers. No war meant no thrones.

So they buried her. And forged the dagger from her bones.

When Lyra awoke, she was screaming.

Verenthas caught her as she fell.

The mirror faded to black behind her.

"She spoke to me," Lyra gasped. "She showed me everything."

"I know," he said, calm and cold. "It always does."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Would you have believed me?"

Lyra's hands trembled.

"She's alive. Inside me."

"She is the Pact," he said. "And now... so are you."

Later, back in her quarters, Lyra stared at her reflection.

The girl looking back was no longer the half-blood orphan who'd stolen food in Eldemire's alleys.

Her eyes glowed faintly. Not red. Not gold.

Both.

Her blood was changing.

Her fate is no longer her own.

But she would not be a pawn in their game.

Not Veyra's.

Not Kael's.

Not Verentha's.

She would forge a new pact.

One written in her own blood.

And signed in theirs.