“That’s half of battle, love. Most of it’s sheer luck when the strategies fall apart. How about this: Lady Scrollkeeper of Ravenscry.”

Much better. Her eyes glittered. Standing there in the pines, with the mist curling around her crimson hair, she seemed more beautiful to me than she’d ever been before. Despite her injuries, she stood up straighter, her shoulders back; some confidence she’d clawed away from her ordeal and taken for her own.

I remembered how small she’d seemed the first time she walked in. How uncertain. A woman trying to compress herself into an invisible ball, waiting for the world to slap her down.

There was no sign of that uncertain woman anymore. She was fully, completely Cirri as she should be.

“Come then, lover,” I said, holding out an arm to her.

She took it, and together we strode into Ravenscry.

Come, both of you.

Cirri signed to us from the Bloodgarden below. Dressed in green velvet, her hair gleaming in the faint misty light, she seemed like one of the bloodroses come to life. The golems trailed her as they had been doing for two weeks now, unwilling to be separated from their mistress.

It seemed that with her abduction, they had learned to fight commands, straining against any order that took her out of sight. Cirri had finally given up, posting them in the library as her assistants, and even now they trooped obediently behind her with stacks of books and scrolls.

Fortunately, they either respected us, or Cirri saved all her willpower for the sole command that they remain in the Tower of Spring at night.

Wroth, leaning on the balcony, stared down at my wife, and before he turned away I caught the envy in his eyes.

“I’m not too proud to admit when I’m wrong,” he said in a quiet growl. “I’ll admit that I remain unconvinced for my own future, but at least one of us has escaped hell.”

I shook my head. “I wish I could give you more hope.”

Wroth glanced up at me, blue eyes catching the sun so they gleamed as pale as snow. “In a way, you both do. I can’t begrudge you happiness.”

Neither of us took the stairs down; Wroth leaped down, landing lightly on his paw-like feet, and I climbed down the walls, claws gouging into the stone. We followed her, trailing her sweet scent.

Cirri waited in the middle of the library, directing the golems as they organized the scrolls and books on a marble-top table the servants had dragged out for her.

Her hands were healing, the scars so fine and interlaced it almost looked like she wore thin silver gloves; only the slight crookedness of several fingers, and the scars themselves, gave away that they’d ever been ruined at all.

Wyn and Visca are coming, she said. What I have to tell you is important. 

Wroth and I sat obediently in the chairs she pointed to. I was to act as her translator; with Brother Glyn’s lessons, I had reached a point where I understood most of what she said.

I smiled at her, receiving a blush in return, but at this moment, she was the Scrollkeeper, not my blushing bride.

To watch her in her element amazed me. Perhaps I hadn’t earned my good fortune, and maybe I didn’t deserve it, but I would never, ever take it for granted.

My advisors joined us shortly afterwards, Wyn’s sleeve smoking slightly from a charred hole, Visca looking more relaxed than she had in years. With the death of the wargs, the constant stress of a looming threat had been swept out from beneath us.

“Go ahead, dear,” Wyn said, gesturing airily.

Cirri looked at us all, her eyes moving from face to face. Anxiety had tightened her shoulders, the downturned corners of her mouth betraying her tension. She took a deep breath and exhaled.

Very well, she said, and I spoke softly as she moved. She put a hand on the table for a brief moment, touching the scroll. For now, this must remain between us, until you decide what you want to do. 

Wyn leaned forward, producing a small notebook and pen from her sleeves, and she immediately began jotting notes.

Much of this is based on hearsay, Cirri said firmly, lifting her chin. But with my research, I’ve corroborated the evidence, to a degree that I believe what I’m about to tell you is true. 

Visca shifted in her seat, head cocked, eyes narrowed.

I gazed evenly at my bride, imploring her to remain confident.

Cirri licked her lips, swallowed again. You’re all—you, as in vampires—you are the children of Fae. You and wargs are both Fae-born, or Fae-made, descended from common ancestors. 

Wyn looked up from her notes, affronted. “Come again?”

Mother Blood. Father Wolf, or Wargyr, as he’s now known. Cirri touched a crumbling scroll. Thurn Hakkon was the one to give me this information, and I’ve found it here. This scroll dates back to the Migration Era of the Fae, prior to the Red Epoch. It took a lot of digging to find it.

She glared at it for a moment; so that was where she had spent many late nights.

The scroll contains artifacts of the mythology of that time. Humans thought of certain Fae as gods, but thanks to this document, we know that it’s more likely they were simply a very powerful, influential dyad, rather than actual gods in a pantheon. But I’ve questioned Wyn about Fae creations—Cirri tipped her head to the bloodwitch, and Wyn’s eyes narrowed—and the cities in the Below.

“And I told you that the Fae were great occultists and innovators,” Wyn said slowly, still squinting at her.

Yes. Cirri beamed. They were. And between the two of them, they created two sibling races: the vampires and the wargs. 

But the Mother loathed Father Wolf’s vicious, untamed creations, and he thought her vampires too… too staid, too concerned with the trappings of civilization. I haven’t the evidence to pinpoint the exact time, but eventually the two split in a bitter, bloody feud, each taking their favorite children with them. 

From what I’ve pieced together, Mother Blood brought her children to Veladar, where the keeps were built, and the early years of the Red Epoch began. They drove out Wargyr during this feud, and created a charm in which to bind wargs, fettering their vicious siblings. The Fae-made creations of Mother Blood ruled for nearly a thousand years, opposed by none. 

Visca rubbed her temples. “Fae. I see. And now, if this gets out…”

“Chaos,” Wyn spat. “Madness. I’d give it three days before the Rift-kin started repairing their Arks and sieging the walls, and we’d be the tyrants for defending ourselves and slaughtering them.”

Cirri nodded slowly. I can’t speak for the rest of Veladar, but the Fae are no more than fairy tales in Argent. I do believe the Rift-kin might choose to revolt, but… there’s more to tell before you decide.

She gestured to Rose and Thorn. Rose fiddled with a gold earring, and Thorn’s arms were crossed, his faceless glower unseen but felt.

The ancestry of your kind becomes obvious when we look at them. You melded sanguimancy with an ancient golem so easily, Wyn; what else could the blood arts be but an offshoot of the Fae’s occultism? Cirri looked at them fondly. But it was hidden knowledge that nearly ended this country forty years ago. The charm for binding wargs… I still haven’t fully translated it. I’ve been focused on proving the folklore I received from both Miro and Hakkon. But the charm itself was lost in Liliach Daromir’s time, when humans burned the keeps and as much vampire lore as they could get their hands on. So much was lost, not only the binding ritual and blood magics, but the vampires’ own knowledge of their progenitor and creation.