Chapter 6 – Veins of the Lost House

History was written by the victors. But someone had tried to burn the truth out of the pages.

The infirmary released her just before curfew, and Lira walked back to the suite slowly, her body still sore, her shoulder wrapped in three layers of healing mesh that smelled faintly of mint and ash. The hallway lights dimmed one by one as she passed, enchanted lanterns flickering low to signal the end of day. The academy wanted her in bed.

But Lira couldn't sleep.

Not yet.

Kael wasn't in their room when she returned.

He'd left no note.

Just a small vial of a pain-dampening draught placed on her nightstand—uncorked, barely touched.

She didn't drink it.

Instead, she sat at the desk, fingers drumming lightly on the wood, eyes fixed on the empty space where her House crest was pinned to the wall. House Briarhelm, the great fiction of her enrollment. A borrowed name, a borrowed crest, all carefully scripted lies.

But her Binding Mark?

That was real.

Too real.

She rolled up her sleeve and stared at the faint curve of glowing sigil just beneath her collarbone. The warmth had faded since the duel, but the shape had shifted. It was subtle, but she was sure of it—a new line, a faint loop near the edge, like a flower unfolding.

The mark was changing.

Evolving.

She needed answers.

She slipped from the room just after midnight, cloaking herself in a simple concealment weave and hugging the far wall of the corridor. The academy at night felt like another world—quieter, yes, but not peaceful. The walls whispered. The statues seemed to breathe.

She headed for the restricted wing of the Grand Library—a place students weren't allowed without faculty approval. Which she absolutely did not have.

But Oris had given her more than forged papers when he smuggled her in.

He'd given her a skeleton key.

And the lock on the library door didn't even hesitate.

Inside, the library was vast and strange—like someone had stacked a dozen castles on top of each other and filled every corridor with books, scrolls, artifacts, and long-forgotten things that still pulsed with faint magic. She moved silently past long, spiraling ladders and shifting shelves, searching not for what was visible, but for what was missing.

The seventh House.

She didn't know its name.

Didn't know if it even had one.

But she remembered the binding circle from the Rite—faint, half-buried beneath the others, as though someone had tried to erase it from history but couldn't quite scrub it clean.

She followed her instincts.

And the tug of the mark.

Deep in the west archives, beyond the Bloodcraft vault, she found a sealed cabinet marked only with a rusted sigil: a perfect circle with seven notches. The glyph was faint, etched in old blood.

Her mark burned.

Lira hesitated.

Then reached out.

The cabinet creaked open.

Inside, only a single book lay waiting—its cover unmarked, its leather cracked with age. She opened it slowly, breath catching in her throat.

There were no words on the first page.

Only a symbol.

Her symbol.

Exactly.

The Binding Mark in full, undamaged form. A perfect match.

She flipped the next page.

Lines of faded text shimmered under her fingers.

The Seventh House was not defeated. It was consumed. Their bonds were too strong. Their magic too wild. They did not pair; they merged. Two souls, one vessel. The others called it unnatural. Dangerous. And so they broke them.

The last of the line bore the mark. Her name was Eryndra. Her power broke the dome.

They erased her. And buried the rest.

Lira stared at the page until her eyes blurred.

The last of the line bore the mark.

She wasn't just bonded to Kael.

She was a remnant.

A descendant of something outlawed. Something the other Houses had killed to destroy.

No wonder the instructors didn't recognize her magic. No wonder Veylan looked at her like a secret.

She closed the book slowly.

And someone behind her said, "You shouldn't be in here."

Lira spun, already reaching for her blade—small, dull, not nearly enough—

But it was just Rowan Thorne, leaning against the nearest shelf with an expression caught somewhere between concern and dry amusement.

"You scared the piss out of me," she snapped, lowering the knife.

He stepped into the light. His red-gold hair was tousled, his sleeves rolled to the elbows, flame sigils flickering faintly across his forearms.

"I figured I'd find you here," he said. "Your mark was glowing like a lantern two halls over."

She blinked. "You could see it?"

"I could feel it. And I'm not even the one you're bonded to."

He stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Lira, you need to be careful. There are eyes on you. Whispers. The Veiled Thorn is asking about you."

Her blood turned to ice. "That's just an old story."

"No," Rowan said quietly. "It's not."

He looked at the open book in her hands.

His voice dropped.

"What did you find?"

She hesitated.

Then said, "Proof."

He raised a brow.

"Of what?"

She looked up at him.

"Of why they'll kill me if they find out what I am."