Page 130 of The Curse of Golden Blood
"Find anything interesting?" I moved closer, letting my senses expand.
"Lots of rules about bowing and formal address." She gestured at the papers. "Did you know there are seventeendifferent ways to greet a high lord, depending on the season and political context?"
I moved closer, studying her face. Something scratched at the edges of my consciousness like fingernails on stone.
I settled into the chair across from her, letting exhaustion show in my movements. "Speaking of protocols, we finally discovered who killed Ciradyl."
Her head lifted from the papers. Interest flickered across her features, but it was measured. Careful. Not the raw grief I'd expected.
"Oh?"
"Ylvena's personal assassin. A shadow fae named Korvain." I watched her face closely. "He's been hunting your bloodline for decades. Ciradyl wasn't random—she was specifically targeted because of what she represented."
"I see." She turned back to the documents. "That's... unfortunate."
"We know where he is now. In the Sun Court's eastern stronghold." I leaned forward, voice dropping to conspiracy levels. "I'm planning to extract him personally. Make him pay for what he did to your family."
"That sounds dangerous."
No fire. No immediate demand to come with me. No tears for justice finally within reach.
I pushed further. "Ciradyl left something behind before she died. A message hidden in the old oak where you used to play as children. She knew they were coming for her."
This was a lie. A test wrapped in fabrication.
"What did it say?"
"Instructions. About your heritage. About powers that run deeper than we realized." Another lie, but I kept my voice steady. "She knew you were Emystra's daughter long before we did."
"That must have been difficult for her."
I nodded thoughtfully, as if her responses made perfect sense. "I should let you get back to your reading. These protocols really are fascinating."
She smiled and returned to the papers. But I was already moving, storm magic flooding through my veins like liquid lightning.
My hands found her shoulders from behind. She started to turn, confusion beginning to dawn in those false golden eyes.
I channeled raw electricity through my palms.
Not the controlled lightning I used in battle. Pure, undiluted power that could fry mortal nerves or overload fae magic circuits. Enough voltage to stop a heart or burn out whatever unnatural consciousness was piloting this borrowed flesh.
She convulsed once, mouth opening in a soundless scream.
Then her entire body went rigid. The illusion held for three heartbeats before cracks appeared along her skin like fault lines in broken glass.
"Clever," she said, voice shifting into harmonics that made the air itself vibrate. "But not clever enough."
The false flesh melted away like heated wax. Golden hair became writhing shadow. Perfect skin dissolved into something that hurt to look at directly—angles that folded in on themselves, surfaces that reflected light that wasn't there.
What remained was hunger given form. A creature of want and hollowness that wore identities like masks.
"Where is she?" Lightning still crackled around my fingers, ready to burn this thing to ash.
"Gone." The wraith's voice came from everywhere and nowhere. "Walking paths you cannot follow. She chose to step through, storm lord."
The thing was still talking when I moved.
I grabbed what passed for its throat. Shadow made solid, cold as winter death. My other hand pressed flat against its chest, right where a heart should have been. Where Miralyte's heart had beaten when this abomination wore her face.
