Page 53 of The Midnight Death Match

We spread out. I drift toward a table littered with partially preserved scrolls sealed beneath cracked crystal panes. My fingers hover above one, and the faded title catches my eye.Ritual of Twin Bloodlines.

The words beneath it are barely legible, so I lean closer, my heart pounding. Two bloodlines bound by oath that share strength and consequence. It’s a sacrifice of lineage to bind power into unity.

My pulse quickens.

Shared power—not inherited.

Harek appears at my side, reading over my shoulder. “You think this was how it was supposed to be?”

“I think maybe it could still be.” Hope stirs within me like a fragile flame.

But behind me, Einar’s voice cuts in, sharp with suspicion. “Look closer.” He points to the seals on the scroll cases. “Some of these markings have been altered, possibly corrupted.”

I blink, suddenly seeing what he means—the warding seals aren’t whole. They’ve been twisted, their original intent spliced, like someone curated which truths were allowed to survive.

“The archive’s real,” Einar mutters. “But someone controlled what was left behind.”

Lys watches us, his expression unreadable.

Beneath my flickering hope, unease grows like a second heartbeat.

If someone carefully shaped what we’ve found… who are we really playing into?

I don’t have time to linger on that thought. The air grows colder by the minute, the oppressive weight of the city pressing tighter around us, as if even Courtsview itself resents our presence here.

I move carefully through the remaining scrolls, scan their faded ink. Ancient symbols barely cling to their fragile surfaces. The more I read, the stronger the idea blooms of shared power. Not a curse of sacrifice, but a ritual of balance, partnership, and unity.

What it was meant to be.

The hope flutters like a fragile, reckless thing inside my chest. Maybe there is a way. Maybe I don’t have to kill my father and lose everything.

Behind me, Harek keeps his distance, watching, guarding. Doubting. I feel his tension as clearly as I feel the weight of my sword.

Einar’s gaze is sharper, more analytical, flicking between the altered seals and the layered wards still active across parts of the chamber. “Someone hid the full truth.”

“Or rewrote it,” Harek adds, voice tight.

Lys remains still, standing near the entrance as if he’s part of the archive rather than one of us. His eyes gleam softly, reflecting the faint pulsing light of the corrupted runes. “They feared what might happen if anyone tried again. They wanted the curse contained through blood. Through death.”

“But that’s not how it began,” I argue. “There was a different way.”

“Intent means little once power is broken.” His gaze sharpens slightly. “Unless, of course, you’re willing to finish what they started.”

The words hang heavy in the chamber.

I swallow hard, feeling the weight of his meaning settle like lead behind my ribs.

Not now. Not here.

“We have what we came for,” Einar says, voice cutting through the silence. “If we linger, someone will notice.”

He’s right. The walls hum beneath our feet, like a slumbering predator beginning to stir.

I gather the scroll fragments carefully, sliding them into my satchel.

Harek hovers close but says nothing. His silence feels thicker than any argument.

We turn to leave. As we step into the fractured hallway, my sword pulses steady and warm. Not a warning. Perhaps an agreement.

---