Page 102 of Severed Heir

It wasn’t enough, but it was all I had. Maybe Giesel would hear it. Maybe she’d run. I spun and bolted down the hall, breath short, heart in my throat. Then came the sound of boots and voices. I dove behind a stone column, pressing myself against the cold, slick surface.

“The Forgotten plan to strike the Capital. The institute still has no idea how they got in.”

Callum.

Another voice followed. “I’ve tried everything, sir. I don’t think she knows where her mother is.” He paused. “It’s like she suspects me.”

Ellison.

“Try harder. Charles is starting to question why I’ve let a guard ‘escort’ an heir across the damn Continent. I don’t care what it takes for her to trust you.”

“I’ll try,” he said.

“You’re the only one close enough. Charles is keeping secrets, no doubt to protect his family. He can’t be trusted.”

I peeked from behind the column. They were in the main corridor, and if they came this way, I was screwed. Then Callum turned. His gaze landed right where I hid. My breath hitched. I swore my weakened shadows stirred, cloaking me just as his eyes locked on the space I filled.

“She’s in love with Archer Lynch,” Ellison said. “Those weren’t rumors. And now… there’s no way I can interfere with a Serpent marriage bargain.”

That asshole. Holy shit. He wasplayingcourtship.

Callum leaned against the stone wall, flipping a dagger between his fingers. His voice dropped. “She’s our key to understanding the Forgotten. Her mother is one of them. Do whatever it takes—she’ll need a friend. Someone she trusts. Especially while she’s marrying that mind reader.”

Ellison winced, whipping his head side to side. “What is that ringing in my head?”

Callum stiffened. “Someone has breached the institute.”

I held my breath, staying as still as possible as the two scanned the corridor. Even Ellison glanced toward the ajar dungeon door before they bolted past me.

I ran down the west wing, heart pounding in my ears. I nearly tripped over a slumped journalist, a quill dangling from his fingers.

I grabbed his shoulder. “Where’s Cully Blanche?”

He blinked blearily, barely conscious, and pointed down the hall. “Three doors down. He’s on rest but I’m on call if—”

“No. I need Cully.”

The clang of boots echoed behind me, getting closer. I sprinted to the door and shoved it open. “Cully!”

He jolted upright in bed, eyes bleary. “Sev? What the hell—it’s the middle of the night.”

“I need you. We’re leaving.”

He groaned, raking a hand through his sleep-mussed hair. “Leave for where?”

“I’ll explain once you’re up.”

“If I leave, I’m blacklisted from the Serpent Press. I’m already on thin ice.”

“Cully, please.” My voice cracked. “You’re the only one I trust.”

Cully crossed his arms. “Oh no. Not that look.”

“You wrote the truth,” I said, voice low and fast. “And they buried you for it. You uncovered the biggest story of the year, and they shoved you into slush reports. That’s not politics, Cully. That’s punishment.”

He stared at me, the sharpness in his eyes dulling with something closer to resignation. Then, with a sigh, he yanked his cloak off the chair. “Fine. I’ll come with you. But if we get caught, I’m blaming everything on your dramatic ass.”

“You’ll thank me later,” I muttered, already tugging him toward the door.

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