CHAPTER 177: SHE IS NO MOTHER.

The words were half-faded, but she could make them out.

"Here stood the House of Myrr, guardians of the Veil."

Veil.

That word had once been in her father’s journal. The one Evelyne burned.

House of Myrr?

She crouched, her hand pressing to the base of the plaque where something had been carved into the stone. A shape. A crescent. And...

An arrow through it.

The same symbol.

She whispered aloud, "What were you trying to tell me, Father?"

A sharp crunch behind her made her rise fast.

A figure stepped from behind the tree, dressed in the simple tunic of a groundskeeper. But his eyes...his posture...were wrong. Trained. Measured.

"You shouldn’t be here," he said. His voice was low, but there was a flicker of familiarity in it. "They’ll think you remember."

"I don’t," she said, standing straighter. "But maybe I want to."

He looked around, then tossed her something. A small bundle, wrapped in cloth.

"Don’t open it here," he said. "And don’t come back. Not unless you want the Queen Dowager to know who you really are."

"Who am I?" Liora asked.

But the man was already gone.

She stared at the bundle in her hands, her heart racing. Then turned and walked quickly back toward the palace before anyone else saw.

Back inside, she waited until the doors of her chambers closed behind her.

She unwrapped it carefully.

Inside: a ribbon. Bloodstained. Frayed.

And a pendant...the same symbol again, but older, carved into wood.

And a letter.

"Your name is not a mistake. Neither was your birth. The bloodline continues. Seek the Oracle in the Catacombs before the eclipse. She remembers what your family died for."

Her hands trembled.

The queen dowager may have sent her as a pawn.

But someone else... someone older... had left her this trail.

And the game had only just begun.

The letter lay on her bed, the ink smudged where her fingers had trembled. Seek the Oracle in the Catacombs before the eclipse.

Liora traced the crescent-arrow on the pendant, the worn wood soft from time and use. The same symbol again. It wasn’t coincidence anymore. It was a warning. Or maybe... an inheritance.

She stood, fastening the pendant beneath her dress.

A knock startled her.

Edgar’s voice came through the door, calm as always. "His Grace wishes to speak with you, my lady."

Lucien.

Of course he did. She had disappeared to the gardens, asked too many quiet questions, and returned with dirt under her nails and a new secret she dared not share. He noticed everything.

She opened the door.

Edgar’s eyes flicked once to her face, then to the tension in her shoulders. "Shall I accompany you?"

"No." Her voice was steady. "I’ll go alone."

Lucien waited in the study...a dim, firelit room that smelled of old parchment, steel, and silence. He stood by the window, back to her, arms crossed.

"I saw you enter the east grove," he said, not turning around. "Strange place for a stroll."

She stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "I needed air."

His gaze snapped to her then...sharp and cold, but laced with something else. Worry, perhaps. Suspicion.

"Liora," he said, taking a step forward. "Who gave you permission to wander into forbidden parts of the palace?"

"I didn’t ask for permission," she replied, chin lifting. "I’m not a servant. Or am I only your concubine when it’s convenient?"

His jaw tightened. "You’re something they sent me, not something I asked for."

"Then stop acting like I owe you explanations."

The air thickened between them.

She moved to walk past him.

But he caught her wrist.

Not hard. Just enough.

"Don’t go near the eastern grove again," he said, voice low. "There are things buried in this palace that should stay buried. You don’t know what you’re playing with."

She stared at him. "Neither do you."

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then he released her.

"I’m not the one being watched," he said finally. "You are. And if you continue digging, you won’t last a week."

Liora turned without another word and left the study, heart pounding.

Watched.

She knew it was true. The Queen Dowager didn’t trust her. The shadows she’d glimpsed in the corridor weren’t figments of fear. They were sentinels.

But if there were secrets buried beneath this palace... then maybe her family’s death wasn’t an accident.

Maybe she wasn’t a mistake after all.

That night, as the moon climbed higher, she studied the layout of the palace on an old tapestry in her room. The Catacombs weren’t marked. But she’d seen the hidden corridors near the kitchens. And Edgar once mentioned the old chapel had sealed doors underground.

The eclipse was in three days.

And if the Oracle knew who she truly was...

Then the truth had a deadline.

The moon hung like a blade in the sky, bleeding silver across the palace rooftops. Liora waited until the final bell marked midnight. The hallways were still, save for the quiet patter of rats and the occasional snore of a half-drunk guard.

She slipped from her chambers, cloak wrapped tight, and took the servant’s path to the old chapel. The pendant beneath her dress warmed against her skin, as if guiding her.

The chapel was half-forgotten...its entrance choked with ivy, the twin statues of ancient kings chipped and blind-eyed. Liora pushed open the doors. Dust spiraled through the stale air, and somewhere deep inside, a floorboard creaked of its own accord.

She stepped inside.

The stained glass was shattered. Moonlight streaked the floor in fragments of blue and crimson. And at the altar...beneath the carved image of the mourning Saint Elira...was what she’d come for.

A stone slab with no scripture. Just the crescent-arrow symbol etched faintly into the corner.

Her fingers trembled as she pressed the pendant against it.

Click.

The slab shifted.

A shallow stairwell yawned beneath it, the darkness damp and alive.

She hesitated only a breath before stepping in.

Meanwhile, elsewhere in the palace...

Lucien paced his chamber. He hadn’t slept...not after the way Liora had looked at him. Not after the east grove.

He poured a drink, the amber liquid steady in the glass despite his shaking hand.

She was hiding something.

Not just defiance. Purpose.

He’d seen it before. In spies. Traitors. In women with revenge nesting in their chests.

And yet...

He didn’t think she meant him harm. Not directly.

But harm was a wide-spreading thing.

He turned toward the fire, eyes distant. "Rowan," he murmured to the air.

From the shadows, his old comrade stepped forth. Dressed in black, no sound to his boots.

"She’s moving," Lucien said.

Rowan didn’t blink. "The chapel?"

Lucien nodded. "Send someone to follow. No contact unless she’s in danger."

Rowan’s jaw twitched. "You care?"

"I want to know who sent her."

"And if she’s telling the truth about not knowing?"

Lucien’s eyes darkened. "Then she’s more dangerous than we thought."

Back beneath the chapel...

The steps led her to a narrow hall carved in black stone, symbols etched along the walls...forgotten words that pulsed faintly in the dark.

And ahead, a chamber opened.

A dome of rough-hewn rock. In its center, a pool...still and glowing faintly gold.

And beyond it, a figure.

Not cloaked. Not human.

A voice slithered through the chamber. Not spoken, but thought.

"You came too late, Daughter of the Lost House."

Liora’s breath caught.

"You knew me?" she whispered.

"I knew your mother. And the one who murdered her."

The air inside the underground chamber grew thick, humming with something ancient. Liora took a step forward, eyes fixed on the figure by the pool. It was tall...its body wrapped in ethereal layers of smoke and bone-white cloth, as if time had tried and failed to bury it.

The golden pool pulsed softly, and the figure turned...not with motion, but with presence.

"Do you know what she gave up for you?" The voice echoed within Liora’s mind, soft and searing.

"My mother?" Her voice wavered.

"Your mother bore the curse willingly. To protect bloodline secrets not meant for kings."

Liora clenched her fists. "What curse?"

The figure’s hand...a shadow with too many fingers...lifted. The waters rippled.

In their reflection, Liora saw herself. Then her mother. Then fire.

The temple blazes.

The people are screaming.

A hand dragging a child Liora,from the flames.

A woman standing behind it all, wrapped in green and gold silks, watching from a carriage, mouth curved in satisfaction.

Liora gasped. "That woman..."

"Queen Dowager Lilian," the voice whispered. "She ordered it."

"No," Liora stumbled back. "She raised the king. She’s supposed to be..."

"—a savior?" the voice hissed. "She is no mother. Only a throne-maker. She feared what your mother discovered buried beneath the Miral lands. Feared it enough to slaughter your clan and forge false peace."

Liora’s knees buckled. Her fingers scraped the cold stone floor.

It was too much.

Too much truth. Too much death.

She looked up, voice hoarse. "Then why me? Why now?"

The figure tilted its head."Because vengeance sleeps within you. And she has waited long enough."

A faint glow stirred beneath the pool.

The figure extended an arm. From its robes, it withdrew a dagger, ancient, its hilt wrapped in faded red cloth, its blade black as pitch.

Liora didn’t take it immediately.

Her heart raced. Her thoughts screamed. But her hand reached, slow and steady.

As her fingers curled around the weapon, her vision flashed...

Lucien, eyes filled with secrets.Her aunt, whispering lies.And a crown. Blood-drenched, cradled by a trembling hand.

She blinked.

The blade was warm now, thrumming with dormant power.

"Your enemies are not just those who cast you aside," the voice murmured. "But those who wear smiles and weave your future."

Above ground...

Rowan crouched near the chapel’s entrance, fingers pressed to his earpiece. "She’s been down there too long."

From the other end, Lucien’s voice cut in. "Wait."

"But..."

"Wait, Rowan. She’s not done yet."