Page 83 of Wicked Court

As I read it, my forehead smooths. Blood leaves my face.

I suck in a breath, lacerating my voice when I snarl at the hovering girl, “Do not make me tell you three times. You will regret it.”

She jumps at my tone, tears soaking her eyes as she fumbles for the doorknob, throwing it open and running for her life down the stairs.

Good.

I go back to the old-fashioned, handwritten note:

Kaspian,

Your talents are wasted on this supernatural nonsense. An initiate’s work, significant to our cause, was left incomplete. It’s time for you to step beyond mere possession of the ruby Heart and into the blood it’s coated in.

There’s a room hidden within Thornhaven, overlooked by those uninterested in our shared goals. This initiate was onto something that could change the balance of power. His last project is there, hidden in plain sight.

You’re not one for chasing ghosts, and neither am I, but consider this a test of your ability to see the bigger picture. The entrance to the study is ingeniously masked by the very history we seek to preserve. Look closer at what seems familiar. The old manor has more secrets than the Court’s blueprints suggest.

Before you sneer and consider this a red herring, this isn’t about keeping you busy with riddles or ancient puzzles. It’s about recognizing the value of what was left behind and then hidden by the more traditional Sovereigns. Find it, understand it, and use it. That’s how you honor a legacy—not with words, but with action.

Consider this your new assignment. Don’t disappoint.

— a concerned party

My jaw muscles join the ache in my center as I crumple the letter in my hand, knowing that I have to do the one thing I absolutely detest having to do.

Wait.

* * *

Four hours later, at the ass-crack of dawn, the initiates’ Selection party ends, leaving the manor wide open for my exploration without questions.

All the writer had to do to get me to jump into action was tell me I could honor my legacy by finding whatever it is they want me to uncover in this supposed hidden section of Thornhaven. Since I couldn’t act right away, I spent the last hours ruminating on who it could’ve come from.

Not Wilder, since his knowledge of the manor comprises his bedroom, the kitchen, and the exit. Cav has nothing to do with it because he never parts with his secrets, and Axe isn’t the type to write letters regarding the Court’s history or a potential initiate involvement—he’d just go find it himself.

The sentence that snagged my attention was hidden by the more traditional Sovereigns. Meaning, out of the three, there is one with a modern view of the ruby Heart and its potential.

Could that Sovereign have penned this?

We’re prohibited from learning their identities, instead following orders and reinforcing their power by training for their world with cleverness, discreetness, and killer instincts. Once unleashed from the university, we’re used as power tools or weapons of destruction, depending on our talents.

I’ve accepted my use as an information gatherer with aplomb, considering I’m so good at doing whatever it takes to collect it. And I always choose violence.

Perhaps that is why I’m singled out as the one who has to dick around poking holes and testing walls in order to find this fucking room.

With the note shoved in my pants’ pocket, I venture into the labyrinthine manor, guided by faint rays peeking through heavy drapes.

In the stillness of slumber, Thornhaven manor reveals nothing but the sound of its own breathing, a shallow inhale and exhale that reverberates through the quiet corridors.

I traverse the halls with an analytic mind nonetheless, seeking the cracks hidden in its bones. My fingers chart a sensory map of the place, tracing every corner, every nook and cranny. I run over the contours of the estate with a lover’s touch—patient, intense, deliberate—seducing sighs from its walls.

I meander down one of Thornhaven’s more neglected corridors on the third floor, close to the attic. It’s the kind that screams abandoned by time and housekeepers alike. Dust is practically a carpet here, undisturbed, a testament to the Court’s indifference. I can’t help but find it amusing, this solitude among the decay—it’s like a breath of fresh air compared to the constant occupants in the more popular areas of Thornhaven.

That’s when I spot it: an old, dust-covered painting hung on the wall where no other paintings are displayed, as forgotten as the corridor itself.

“What’s this? An attempt at ancestral grandeur?”

I can’t resist the sarcasm, even though the only audience is spiders and cobwebs. The painting captures a scene from the estate’s so-called glorious past, but all I see is a testament to ego.

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