The lingering chill from Lorcan's shadow was still an echo on my shoulders the next morning. It wasn't unpleasant, surprisingly; it was grounding. When my temper flared or my anxiety spiked, I could feel that faint, residual coldness, and it acted as a tiny, internal Sunstone, reminding me to breathe and focus.
The mandatory rest day was not a luxury. I woke up feeling profoundly bruised, as if my very atoms had been forcefully rearranged.
Vesper arrived early, carrying a fresh, luxurious velvet tunic and a somber expression.
"The King's announcement is imminent," she said, her tone all business. She had not mentioned the incident in the Pit but Fae silence was its own kind of loud. "You are to meet him in the Royal Communications Hall. You will be seen by the Court Scribes, the Chief Archivist, and the Herald of the Night. They need to prepare the official records for the declaration."
"More Fae politics?" I sighed, pulling on the heavy velvet tunic. "Will Isolde be there to offer another round of assassination threats?"
"The King made it clear she is to be contained," Vesper replied, helping me fasten a belt set with dark, polished stones. "This is less about political rivals and more about solidifying the narrative. The King cannot simply marry a mortal from the dirt realm. You must be recorded as the long-lost Solar Heiress, Seraphina Lyra. You must pass the historical inspection."
The Royal Communications Hall was a smaller, more sterile chamber than the Grand Salon. It was lined with ancient, glowing scrolls and manned by serious-looking Fae scribes with quill pens and stacks of aged parchment.
Lorcan was already there, speaking in low, clipped tones with a heavy-set Fae woman wearing the silver badge of the Chief Archivist. He was dressed in a dark, structured tunic that only emphasized his cold, distant power.
When I entered, he glanced up, his gaze sweeping over my face and my shoulders. He was checking, I assumed, for lingering damage or magical instability. He saw the cold echo on my skin and gave a tiny, almost imperceptible nod.
"Seraphina," he said, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet hall. "The Chief Archivist, Lady Meridian, will be detailing the official record of your lineage and your role in the Prophecy. You will answer her questions truthfully, and you will be articulate."
Lady Meridian, a Fae with intelligent, calculating brown eyes, stepped forward. "Your Highness," she said to Lorcan, then turned to me. "This is a matter of historical fact, not Court opinion. I need to ensure the records are watertight."
"Ask away," I offered, steeling myself.
"The records state the Solar Fae lineage was driven into the mortal realm 400 years ago," she began, flipping open a scroll. "Your late family maintained secrecy through isolation. Tell me, Seraphina Lyra, what proof can you offer of your heritage, beyond the mere ignition of the Sun-Fire?"
This was the first time anyone had asked me for proof of the Solar lineage, not just my power. The truth that my mother had kept a tiny, brittle wooden sun charm sounded ridiculous.
Before I could answer, Lorcan cut in smoothly. "The proof is threefold, Archivist. First, her ability to break the Veil Seal, which only Solar blood can affect. Second, the Solar Mark."
My breath hitched. Solar Mark? I looked at Lorcan, utterly confused.
Lorcan didn't look at me. He just gave the Archivist a silent command with his eyes. Lady Meridian, looking skeptical, motioned to a scribe.
"The Sun-Fire is volatile because it is untempered. It needs a binding mechanism," Lorcan explained, looking at me with cold, detached interest. "The Sun-Fire itself is proof of the lineage. Seraphina, extend your wrist."
I reluctantly did so, offering my bare wrist. Lorcan didn't touch it. He merely held his hand over my skin, and the air around his fingers grew thick with dense shadow. The cold was immediate and intense.
The shadow wasn't painful, but it was suffocating. It pressed down on my skin, seeking the heat within. As the shadow concentrated on my wrist, a faint, tiny symbol began to glow just beneath the surface of my skin. It was a delicate, intricate knotwork pattern, like a small, burning brand.
I gasped, looking at the glowing mark. It was faint, almost invisible under normal light, but the King's shadow had forced it to surface.
"The Solar Mark is dormant until activated by its counter-magic," Lorcan explained, his eyes fixed on the Archivist, not me. "It is the indelible proof of her ancestry, triggered only by the deepest shadow. It is self-authenticating."
Lady Meridian's skepticism visibly melted into awe. She scribbled frantically on her scroll.
Lorcan pulled his shadow back. The mark vanished instantly, leaving my skin merely cold.
"Now, about the communication process," Lorcan continued, turning to the Herald. "I require a detailed record of the Court's acceptance of her lineage, and a strategy for managing any dissent. I will accept no challenge to the prophecy. Seraphina, you will review the draft decrees and ensure they sound... compelling to the human ear."
He was giving me work. He wasn't just parading me; he was putting me to work in the administration of the wedding.
Lady Meridian immediately dumped a stack of scrolls onto the desk in front of me, drafts of the official proclamation. "Start reading, Your Highness. We need to ensure the language is appropriate for the Royal Seal by dusk."
Lorcan watched me, a faint, chilling smirk playing on his lips. "You are the solution, Seraphina. Start acting like it." He turned and left the hall, leaving me surrounded by scribes, scrolls, and the heavy weight of royal documentation.
I looked down at the scroll, realizing this was a subtle test of my intelligence and adaptability, not just my magic. And as I started reading the verbose Fae legalese, a middle-aged, quiet Fae scribe working nearby, whose eyes were a soft, watery green, shifted slightly and nudged a secondary scroll toward me with his foot.
I glanced down. It was a smaller, older parchment, tucked carefully beneath the official documents. On the side, scrawled in faint Fae script, was a single, disturbing sentence: "The King lies about the Sunstone's true purpose. Do not trust the binding."
I froze, heart pounding. I looked up at the scribe, but he was meticulously sharpening his quill, his green eyes focused entirely on his work. I had just found my secret ally.