Page 148 of Severed Heir

“Fine,” I said, steadying my voice. “I’m looking for a port. One tied to a Serpent from over twenty years ago. You can either guard the door or help me tear this place apart.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Why a Serpent’s port?”

“I think Hadrian might be my father,” I said.

I yanked open the nearest set of doors and was met with nothing but neatly folded linens and a row of polished bathing basins. My shoulders dropped with a groan. “Gods. Why does he need so many useless rooms?”

“Here,” Bridger said, pausing in front of a carved wooden door that stood out against the rest. The grain was untouched, the edges sharp, the surface too pristine to have been passed through often. “Hadrian’s office.”

Footsteps echoed down the corridor, sharp and growing louder.

“Shit,” I breathed. “Get inside.”

We slipped through the door, shutting it behind us in one smooth motion. The room opened wider than I expected. Shelves lined the walls, packed with relics I didn’t recognize. Carved trinkets. Leather-bound tomes. Glass domes encasing preserved petals and feathers that shimmered faintly in the low light.

I moved fast, dragging my fingers across the nearest shelf, letting instinct guide me.

“Hey, Port,” I whispered. “Are you here?”

Bridger stilled from across the room. “What the hell are you doing?”

“Calling it,” I replied, as if it were obvious.

He raised an eyebrow. “You think it just answers?”

I shrugged, still scanning. “Apparently, they can.”

He scoffed and tugged open a drawer with far more force than necessary. “Sorry, I don’t speak entitled.”

I shot him a glare. “Really? That’s what we’re doing now? You’ll have one someday, too. It’s not about entitlement.”

Bridger rolled his eyes and returned to rifling through the desk. “A Serpent’s port could be anything. They don’t leave legacies lying around like heirlooms in a nursery.”

“Look for rings,” I said quickly, my pulse beginning to thrum beneath my ribs. “They store memory in those more often than not.”

“Letters,” he muttered, tossing aside a parchment. “Useless.”

The footsteps outside grew louder, no longer distant but steady and deliberate.

“It has to be here,” I whispered. “I can’t leave without it.”

Bridger crouched low, dragging a small chest from beneath the table. “This one’s different,” he said after a pause. “I can feel the warding.”

“Port?” I murmured again, quieter this time. “Are you in there?”

The chest gave a shudder, the faintest tremor that made the hairs on my arms rise.

Bridger stepped back, tension flickering across his features. “Either that thing’s haunted, or you just found your port.”

“When I strike it with flame, ice it immediately. The shock might break the seal.”

Without hesitation, he pressed a hand to the chain binding the chest. Frost coiled along the metal links as I summoned fire into my palm. Our power met where the lock sat, heat and cold warping the ward. It resisted, whined, then cracked with a sharp metallic snap.

I kicked the lid open.

Bridger dropped beside me, scanning the contents. “Serpent pins,” he breathed. “Same kind they gave us at the academy.”

“Find Summer’s,” I said. My voice was steady, but my pulse roared.

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