The silence of the Order’s headquarters was a physical weight. It pressed in on Lena from all sides, a stark contrast to the ringing in her ears that hadn’t faded since she’d left Rhysand bleeding in the shadows of his own lair. Every hunter she passed in the cold, stone corridors offered a nod of respect, their eyes filled with an admiration that felt like shards of glass against her skin. They saw a hero, the Order’s finest, the one who had finally broken the ancient de Valois.
Lena saw a traitor. A fraud. A woman hollowed out by a choice that had saved no one, least of all herself.
The wound she’d inflicted on Rhysand was a phantom ache in her own side. She remembered the controlled slide of the silver blade, the hiss as it made contact, the way his body had stiffened not just in pain, but in a shattering betrayal she had seen reflected in his dark, ageless eyes. Forgive me, she had whispered, the words a poison on her tongue. He hadn’t heard, or if he had, it made no difference. The hunters behind her had cheered, and the sound had cemented her isolation. She was utterly, terrifyingly alone.
Her official report had been a masterpiece of deception, every detail crafted to paint a picture of a brutal, decisive victory. She had described Rhysand’s arrogance, his underestimation of her resolve, and the final, crippling blow that had sent him fleeing into the catacombs beneath his sanctuary. She had proven her loyalty beyond any shadow of a doubt.
The summons came in the late afternoon. Master Voronin requested her presence in his private study.
Lena stood before his heavy oak door, straightened the collar of her tactical suit, and composed her face into a mask of placid discipline. When she entered, Voronin was standing by the large, mullioned window, looking out over the fortified courtyard. He turned, a rare, genuine smile gracing his severe features. It was a smile she had once cherished, a sign of paternal pride that had been her entire world. Now, it looked like the grimace of a skull.
“Lena,” he said, his voice warm and resonant. “Your actions have sent a message through the entire vampire underworld. They are in disarray. You have done the Order a great service.”
“I did my duty, Master,” she replied, her voice a flat, toneless thing she barely recognized as her own.
“You did more than that. You severed a festering limb of sentiment that was holding you back.” He gestured to a worn leather chair. “You have earned more than just accolades. You have earned my complete trust.”
Lena’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic bird in a cage. Trust. The word was a mockery.
“As a demonstration of that trust,” Voronin continued, moving to his immense, carved mahogany desk, “I have a task for you. I am consolidating our intelligence on the rogue vampire factions in the Balkans. The original field reports are… sensitive. They are kept here, in my archives. I need you to retrieve the file marked ‘Codex Sanguine.’”
He was giving her unsupervised access to his sanctum. The one place where the Order’s deepest secrets—and his own—were kept. It wasn’t a task; it was a test wrapped in a reward. He was watching to see what she would do with this newfound freedom.
“Of course, Master,” she said, rising. “I will bring it to you at once.”
He gave her a final, appraising look. “I knew I could count on you, Lena. You are the daughter I never had.”
The words, meant to be an endearment, landed like a curse. She inclined her head and walked toward the towering bookshelves that lined one wall, her movements fluid and controlled while her insides churned with a nauseating mix of fear and fury.
Once Voronin had departed, closing the heavy door behind him with a definitive thud, the silence in the room returned, but now it was charged with possibility. The air smelled of old parchment, lemon oil, and something metallic, like dried blood. It was the scent of Voronin’s life’s work: a meticulous, ordered crusade.
Lena found the file with ease. The archives were impeccably organized, a testament to his obsessive nature. Codex Sanguine. A thick, leather-bound folio. Her mission was complete. She could walk out now, deliver the file, and cement her position as his loyal protégée.
But she didn’t move.
Rhysand’s face flashed in her mind—the raw pain as her blade struck home. His words from the art studio echoed in the oppressive quiet: He has been lying to you since the day he found you.
Her gaze swept the room. Voronin’s desk was a fortress of mahogany and brass. It was antique, centuries old, its surface polished to a mirror shine, save for one small area near the base. A barely perceptible scuffing on the intricate carvings of ivy, as if a section had been handled repeatedly over many, many years. Her hunter’s instincts, honed to notice the slightest imperfection, screamed at her.
Kneeling, she ran her fingers over the carvings. Her nail caught on a seam so fine it was almost invisible. With a soft click, a section of the desk’s base popped open, revealing not a drawer, but a small, velvet-lined compartment.
Her breath hitched. Inside lay a collection of objects that had no place in the sterile, functional world of a hunter-master. There was a length of faded blue ribbon, a single, perfectly preserved dried rose, and a small, leather-bound diary, its clasp broken. But it was the object nestled in the center that stole the air from her lungs.
A silver locket, tarnished with age, hanging on a delicate chain.
Her hand trembled as she lifted it. It was heavy, solid, and strangely warm, as if it held the residual heat of a life lived long ago. Her thumb found the clasp, and with a soft snap, the locket opened.
Time stopped.
Inside, on one half, was a miniature portrait of a young woman with fiery hair and eyes that blazed with a fierce intelligence Lena recognized as her own. Isabeau.
On the other half… was Rhysand.
He was younger, his features softer, the weight of centuries not yet fully settled on his brow. The artist had captured a hint of a smile on his lips and a light in his eyes that was full of love and life. It was not the face of a monster. It was the face of a man cherished, a man adored. The face of the man from Isabeau’s unfinished sketch.
A cold, creeping horror washed over Lena, so potent it threatened to buckle her knees. This was not intelligence. This was not a trophy from a fallen enemy. These were keepsakes. Relics. Isabeau’s personal effects.
Voronin hadn’t just known about her past life. He had collected it. He had possessed it.
He had held these pieces of her soul in his hands for years, perhaps decades, while he systematically molded her into a weapon. He had watched her struggle, watched her train, watched her bleed for his cause, all while knowing the truth he so vehemently denied. He’d called Rhysand a master manipulator, a creature of lies, but Voronin’s deception was infinitely more profound, more monstrous.
It was not a lie of omission. It was a theft. He had stolen her history, her love, her very identity, and locked it away in a dark compartment, bringing it out, she imagined, to gaze upon in private. This wasn’t about protecting her. It was about owning her.
The paternal guidance, the pride, the mentorship—all of it was a lie. A carefully constructed cage designed to hold not a hunter, but a soul he wanted to control. He hadn’t been protecting her from a monster; he had been building a prison around Isabeau’s spirit, ensuring she could never reawaken, never remember the man he clearly despised with a jealousy that had festered for centuries. He had turned her love into a weapon and aimed it at the heart of the man she had loved.
The ultimate betrayal.
A sound, half-sob, half-gasp, escaped her lips. The fury that followed was not hot and reckless, but a glacial wave of clarity. It froze the grief in her chest, turning it into something sharp and hard. The conflict that had torn her apart was gone, burned away by the cold fire of this revelation.
There was no more confusion. No more doubt.
Her duty was not to the Order. Her loyalty was not to the man who had curated her life like a museum exhibit. Her path was finally, blindingly clear.
With deliberate, precise movements, Lena closed the locket, the click echoing the closing of a door on her old life. She unfastened the tactical clasp at her throat and slipped the chain around her neck, tucking the cool, heavy silver beneath her suit. It rested against her skin like a brand, a promise.
She picked up the broken diary and the ribbon, securing them in a hidden pocket. She left the rose. A final, silent message for him to find.
Then, she closed the hidden compartment, ensuring the seam was once again invisible. She stood, smoothed her uniform, and picked up the Codex Sanguine from the desk.
Walking out of the study, she was no longer Lena Petrova, the conflicted hunter. She was Isabeau’s heir and her own woman, forged in the fire of a devastating lie. As she moved through the hallowed halls of the Order, she no longer saw a sanctuary. She saw a prison.
And she was going to burn it to the ground.