Valen had given me permission to explore the North wing of the mansion.

It was the first real taste of freedom I’d had in what felt like forever. No locked doors. No cold soup or watching eyes. Just quiet halls, dimly lit by silver chandeliers, and a sense of… possibility.

I moved through the corridors slowly, absorbing everything—the way the red carpets muffled my steps, how the walls here weren’t lined with chains or cages but old paintings, bookshelves, and velvet curtains.

Eventually, I came to a heavy black door. There was no name on it. No guards either. But something about it hummed with power.

“Valen’s room?” I whispered, hand resting on the handle.

It was part of the North Wing, wasn’t it? He did say I could look around.

“…He can’t get angry,” I muttered to myself, and turned the handle.

The door creaked open.

The room was large—far bigger than mine—and quiet as the grave. The walls were shadowy stone, and the furnishings sleek, cold, and expensive. A large desk sat beneath a tall arched window, papers stacked neatly. A weapons rack lined one wall, filled with blades I didn’t recognize. And in the far corner… a massive black bed, draped in deep red.

My fingers brushed along the desk as I wandered. I wasn’t really snooping. I told myself that.

Until I saw it.

Half-hidden behind a stack of old books, tucked into the corner of a drawer left slightly ajar, was a photograph.

I blinked.

A photo. Not a painting. Which meant it was relatively modern. I pulled it out gently.

A woman stared back at me—beautiful in the kind of way that left your stomach hollow. Long, flowing hair the color of moonlight, skin like porcelain. Her eyes were pale green, rimmed in thick lashes, and her lips were curled in the ghost of a sad smile.

There was something heartbreakingly familiar about her… and something utterly haunting.

She wasn’t just anyone. That much I could feel.

I stared at the picture, brows knitting.

Who was she?

Why was this photo hidden?

Before I could think too much about it, I heard something.

The faint creak of a floorboard.

My heart jumped. I turned, ready to shove the photo back—but no one was there.

Still, I suddenly felt watched.

Like shadows were shifting all around me, holding their breath.

I slipped the photo into my pocket without thinking and stepped away from the desk.

The room had gone cold.

And I had a terrible feeling Valen was about to find out I’d been here.

Something twisted in my stomach—tight and unfamiliar.

Too close to jealousy for my liking.

I scowled and shoved the feeling down. I’m not jealous. I hate him. So I’m not jealous of him having a photo of some random girl in his room. I repeated the words like a mantra as I stalked down the hall, the picture still burning a hole in my pocket.

By the time I reached his office, my blood was simmering.

I didn’t knock.

I didn’t wait.

I shoved the door open and marched right in.

Valen looked up from his sleek black computer, his dark rust-colored eyes meeting mine with mild surprise. He was lounging in his high-backed chair, sleeves rolled to his elbows, one hand loosely gripping a pen. He looked too calm. Too composed.

I slammed my hands onto the desk and leaned in. “Care to explain?”

His brow arched. He didn’t sit up—just slowly closed his laptop halfway. “Explain what? I can do many things, little flame. Reading thoughts isn’t one of them.”

I gritted my teeth. “I was in your room.”

He shrugged one shoulder lazily. “You had permission to explore the North Wing.”

“I found a photo.”

That got him.

He stilled. Not dramatically, not obviously—but I saw it. The tightening of his jaw. The pause in his breath. The smallest flicker of something dark behind his eyes.

Then… he relaxed again.

Too fast. Too practiced.

“Ah,” he said softly, folding his hands. “So that’s what this is about.”

“Who is she?” I asked, the anger in my voice too sharp, too real.

He didn’t answer.

“Who. Is. She?” I pressed.

He rose from his chair with slow, deliberate grace, walking around the desk. His steps were quiet, unhurried, but I could feel the tension winding tighter and tighter in the room.

“She was someone I knew. A long time ago,” he said finally.

I narrowed my eyes. “That’s it?”

He stopped in front of me, just inches away. His gaze dropped slightly, almost...sadly.

“She was someone I loved.”

The words hit harder than they should have.

My chest felt too tight, too small.

He continued, voice quieter. “It was before the war. Before the council. Before all of this. She was human.”

I blinked. “And?”

“And she’s dead.” His tone didn’t waver, but something behind his eyes shattered—quietly, deeply.

I looked away, suddenly unsure why I’d come here.

Why it mattered.

Why it hurt.

“I didn’t mean to pry,” I mumbled, suddenly more embarrassed than angry.

“No,” he said, reaching out and brushing a knuckle along my jaw. “But you did. And now you know.”

I should’ve slapped his hand away.

But I didn’t.

Because in that moment, he didn’t feel like a monster.

He felt like a man mourning a ghost.

And I didn’t know what to do with that.

My breath caught.

Something inside me twisted—harder, sharper.

I stared at him. “What do you mean… she was human? Who was she?”

Valen’s gaze flickered. He leaned on the table, tired, like the weight of the past had just slammed back onto his shoulders.

“Lilith, don’t ask,” he said, voice low.

“Tell me,” I pushed. “You can’t say that and then walk away.”

“Lilith,” he snapped, a flicker of frustration breaking through. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

He wouldn’t meet my eyes. Instead, he ran a hand through his dark hair, shoulders tense.

But I wasn’t backing down. “Just tell me.”

I reached out, fingers brushing his arm—and in a flash, he turned.

His eyes burned red.

“Your mother…” His voice cracked, like something breaking apart inside him. “She was your mother.”

He sighed. The fight drained from him.

“I loved her,” he whispered, bitter. “But she loved him. Your father.”

“No,” I breathed, a choked denial. “That’s not—she died when I was a child. She—”

“She was a child,” he cut in sharply, voice jagged, harsh like glass. “Barely older than you when I met her. Brave. Stupid. Kind. She didn’t belong in this world.”

I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think.

I backed into the desk behind me, gripping the edge hard enough my knuckles turned white.

“You’re lying,” I whispered.

His eyes softened just a little. “I wish I was.”

Silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating.

Then, almost gently, he said, “You look like her. The fire. The way you fight. But not your eyes. Those…” He paused, pain flickering in his gaze. “Those are his.”

I didn’t realize I was crying until I saw the tear hit my hand.

Valen stepped forward slowly, reaching for me with caution, like I might shatter.

I didn’t stop him.

The tears came faster, hot and silent, and I pressed my head into his chest.

A soft sob escaped. Then another.

He didn’t speak.

He just stood there, still and silent, before gently laying his hand on my hair—his other arm coming to rest across my back.

Not a captor. Not a monster.

Just a man full of ghosts.

I don’t know how long we stood like that—my head buried in his chest, his hands warm and steady on my back. The weight of what he told me sat heavy in my chest, colder than any vampire's touch, more suffocating than any locked door.

Eventually, I pulled away. He let me go without a word.

“I need some air,” I muttered, swiping at my eyes. My voice was hoarse.

He didn’t stop me this time. Just nodded, quiet.

I left his office, not really knowing where I was going, my steps slow, mind reeling. I didn’t care that I was supposed to stay in the North Wing. I just… moved.

I ended up in one of the side halls—one I hadn’t explored yet. It was lined with portraits and heavy velvet curtains, the air colder, the lights dimmer. Older. Forgotten.

A cracked door drew my attention.

It was barely open, like someone had been there recently and didn’t bother to close it fully.

I pushed it open.

Inside was a small study. Dust lay thick over the books and desk, but the chair had been moved recently—and there was a faint scent in the air that didn’t belong.

Something metallic. Faint. Wrong.

I stepped in cautiously.

On the desk sat a parchment—old vampire script scrawled across it. I couldn’t read most of it, but one word jumped out in bold, black ink:

Valen.

And below it, another name I recognized—Lucien. The white-haired vampire I saw in the hall.

I picked up the parchment. A corner of it was scorched, like someone tried to burn it—but failed.

My stomach tightened.

A secret meeting. Talk of Valen’s growing power. A plan to divide the court. And the words:

“If the girl becomes useful, extract her.”

The ink chilled me more than the words.

They knew about me.

They were watching.

I folded the note, slid it into my sleeve, and backed out of the room quietly, heart pounding like a war drum.

There was a traitor.

And I had just found the first thread in the web.