Page 146 of Severed Heir

Lasar’s gaze flickered, but he offered no confirmation. “Most Serpents keep personal journals. If you want answers, that’s where you’ll find them.”

Heat rose in my limbs, curling through me like flame hunting for air. “Where would I even look?”

“Ports,” he said simply. “If you’re his blood, it’ll open.”

Archer’s jaw locked. “We are not breaking into Wrathi’s port.”

My fingers brushed the cracked bracelet Veravine once wore—her port. It had opened for me.

“I want to,” I said. “I have to. Just distract Hadrian for long enough for me to find them.”

“Severyn, why now? You’re chasing chaos in a place built to devour it.”

“Because this might be the only chance I get,” I snapped. “My blood is mudded and lined with betrayal. I need to know who I am.”

He exhaled a long breath, then nodded. “Okay, fine. Be done before the quell show begins. I’ll handle Hadrian. But you get in, get out. No wandering. No risks. To find his port, call for it. If it answers… walk away.”

My pulse pounded as I slipped into the crowd.

Hadrian stood in the courtyard, he was still deep in conversation with Motava and Bridger. This was it, if Hadrian had a port, it would be in his study. Or I prayed it would be. But how the hell did onesummona port? Did I speak to it? Will it open? Gods, I should’ve asked more questions.

Three guards flanked the base of the main staircase, spears upright, gazes sharp beneath silver helms. Another stood fartherdown, ushering a small group of barren civilians into a side corridor.

I pulled my hood lower and fell into step. The air grew colder as we descended the hall, the stone walls narrowing with each step. Torches flickered against damp brick, casting restless shadows. Halfway down, my boot caught on a splintered wooden plank jutting from the floor. I stumbled, and suddenly a rough hand snatched my arm, yanking me upright with bruising force.

“Stumbling makes you look weak, barren,” the guard snarled, breath hot and sour against my cheek.

“I’m not—” I started, but he shoved me sideways before I could finish.

I crashed through an unmarked door and landed hardon my knees inside a pitch-dark room. The door slammed behind me with a final, echoing thud.

“Archer?” I called, my voice tight with panic.

No answer.

Instead, another voice rose from the shadows. “The walls are warded. No one can hear you.”

My pulse skipped. “I’m not barren,” I said, forcing the words to hold weight.

“It doesn’t matter,” she whispered. “Every Serpent gathering... they host bids for us. The barrens.”

Rage flared hot in my chest. My grandfather was king. And this was happening under his reign? Under his roof?

Holy realms, this was worse than I thought.

The door creaked again, and four Serpents stepped inside, silhouettes haloed by the torchlight. Snakes coiled across their skin—twisting around wrists, necks, even their fingers. One of them, though, wore no mark at all.

And somehow, that made him the most dangerous.

“Two for the price of one,” said the man in the black hat. His grin was crooked, soulless. He swept his gaze across the room like a butcher appraising meat. “Lucky night.”

“They’re powerless,” the guard muttered behind him. “Good for scrubbing floors and cooking.”

One of the Serpents tipped his head toward me. “Can’t see her face under that hood.”

Rough fingers clamped around my jaw and yanked my hood back.

“A neval girl,” someone murmured. “They say they carry forbidden quells.”

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