ora

man whose stern face was etched with the lines of a hundred years of family history. He had a reputation for valuing

in my simple, practical attire. There was no warmth in his eyes,

to our name, child," he said, his voice a low rumble. "T

cted, that there was more to this "gift" of mine than met the eye. He was leadin

e structure of gray stone, windowless and imposing, more a fortress than a library. The air

h one intricately carved with the names and deeds of the Carlisle main l

crolls. He looked up as we entered, his movements quiet and precise. He had the

erling. M

"This is Sterling. He oversees the d

here was a distance in his gaze, the polite indifference of a

e stood before a newly polished black marble tablet, set in a place of prominence o

silent chamber. Each strike was a punctuation mark in history. Each lett

burned to ash and forgotten. Now, my name was being etched into the very foundation of the

om the King, Lord Alistair gave a curt nod of satisfaction and

k, his voice soft. "Congratula

him, my brother. "Thank you," I said.

eep well of his consciousness. I saw a flicker of conf

ped at a tablet that bore the names of our true parents: Percival and Adeline Carlisle. And listed benea

my palm flat against ou

hat Aunt Adeline feels more like a mother to us than a

word delibe

thing he had felt his whole life but had never dared to name. He, too, had always felt the sting of Genevieve's coldness, the ba

searching now, the polite indiffer

to face him fully. I held his gaze, pouring all of my conviction, all

?" I asked softly. "We are t

out of the archives, leaving him alone with the

t. He had spent his life trying to understand w

art looking for

e wall, his mind replaying every cold word from Genevieve, every secret kind

had been cast. Th