Page 225 of Wings of Ash & Flame
It was never mine to keep… only to hold. This belongs to you now. Be wary of the shadows.
A lump formed in her throat.
The brittle pages cracked when she turned them. Her heart stuttered at the wordsHouse Mortis. Goosebumps prickled across her skin. She’d never heard of House Mortis. It was listed amongst the hallowed records of Elithian’s eight great houses—not seven, as she’d always believed.
Blood pounded in her ears as she read, drawn into the shadowed past. House Mortis, whose element was shadow, had been devoted to Umbra, their worship reverent and unwavering. Denied the adulation granted to Lysia, Umbra reveled in their devotion. As a gift to his faithful followers, he entrusted them with a grimoire containing some of his most closely guarded knowledge—a way to raise the dead.
But nothing could fully restore a fae or mortal with a soul.
Necromancy.
Alaire’s fingers traced the arcane symbols sketched into the parchment, the same sigils that had haunted her nightmares and branded the ground months ago. Professor Ross had been right:You never know what lurks deep in the shadows. Or more importantly, who it’s looking for.
They were looking for her.
She pressed on.
House Mortis had become enthralled with their dominion over life and death. But there was always a price. Each act of dark magic devoured a piece of their soul, feeding the insatiable hunger of darkness itself. To sustain death, it must consume light. These sigils—source signs—required blood to wield.
Desperate to harness this power, the fae of House Mortis birthed something new, something monstrous: vampires. Bornof blood magic, they inherited a thirst that could never be quenched. Their madness became hunger incarnate.
Alaire’s breath hitched as she read of the depravity House Mortis unleashed on Elithian.
In their frenzy, the vampires turned on their creators. House Mortis, once mighty, fell to its own creation. Fae were turned or slaughtered.
Alaire gasped. Everyone had believed only humans could be turned—but fae were just as susceptible. It explained how vampires had adopted a superior sense of speed, strength, and night vision; traits inherited from the fae. “We are both old and new,” the hybrid bat had claimed.
In a desperate bid to contain the chaos, Umbra cursed the vampires, binding them to the night and banishing them from the light of day. But with each dusk, their resentment grew, festering as they evolved into creatures more cunning and ruthless.
Until one rose above them all. A leader with power unlike any before him, determined to reclaim the glory of the eighth house—and all of Elithian. Now it made sense why they’d targeted Aurelia.
Alaire knew the rest: the rise of the Voidshade Sovereign.
Her fingers trembled as she closed the tome. Echoes of the past bled into the present, one thing abundantly clear: This was larger and more intricate than she’d ever imagined. Who had known? Who had buried this history?
She slipped the book into her satchel, tightening the clasp with care. Dawson needed to know.
Her boots struck the marble corridors in a steady rhythm, heart pounding with each revelation. She reached Dawson’s door, breathless, and knocked softly. No answer.
She paced. Knocking harder. Still nothing. Time pressed in on her. This couldn’t wait until morning.
Her hand hovered over the handle, the brass cool against her palm. She froze as a faint hum rippled against her skin—a ward. Static prickled over her hand. She swallowed hard. Magic this intricate was delicate, dangerous. Not something she was trained for.
But she couldn’t wait, and fire, in this case, didn’t need finesse.
She summoned a flicker of heat. Violet flames curled at her fingertips, wavering in and out. The ward pulsed in response, her magic drawn closer as if eager to unravel it.
Alaire bit her lip.Is that supposed to happen?
The shimmer rippled—and then, slowly, the ward began to unravel.
Just like in the cavern, her magic responded to his. The door unlocked.
Slipping inside, she froze at the sight before her. Dawson lay stretched across the bed, shirtless, one arm tucked behind his head in the easy sprawl of deep, unguarded sleep. Her lips quirked into a smile despite herself, the tension in her muscles easing at the rhythm of his chest rising and falling, moonlight painting his olive skin in silver.
Drawn closer, she braced a knee on the edge of the bed, her satchel sliding against her back so it wouldn’t be in the way. Her lips hovered above his, ready to close the distance between them.
But then she saw it.
