Page 85 of Revenant

“I don’t owe any of you anything. Not explanations, cooperation, or even loyalty at this point.” Moriah’s gaze drifts over my shoulder briefly, acknowledging Elias and Pryce who are also gathered in the cramped dorm room before settling back on me. “And if we’re being honest here, if it weren’t for me, none of you would even know Alicent existed.”

“She’d have come to our attention eventually.” Elias growls through clenched teeth.

“So if we’re keeping track,” she hums, disregarding his growing irritation. “I’d say the balance tips in my direction. Again.”

Her arrogance grates, but beneath it I catch something else—fear, thinly-veiled and souring the air. Her kind doesn’t fear easily. Whatever she’s hiding, whatever she’s running from, it must be close enough for her worry.

“Non ne posso più! Last I checked, you’re still in need of our bloody protection,” Pryce snaps, though it lacks its usual fervor. He has always been the easiest to read when he’s unsettled. The unknown doesn’t sit well with him, and Moriah is nothing if not that.

Moriah studies me for a moment before redirecting her attention to Pryce. Then she laughs once under her breath. “Protection?” She repeats the word slowly, as if she’s deciding whether to be insulted or amused. “You cannot be serious? I need your resources.” The word lands with a bitterness she doesn’t bother to mask. To her, we’re not allies. We’re leverage. A means to an end. And the worst part is she isn’t wrong. Veilcrest was rebuilt on bargains like this—desperation dressed in cooperation; alliances formed from necessity rather than trust. She’s just the newest in a long line of people who’ve used us as much as we’ve used them.

“We’ll honor our end, but first, we need to know what we’re dealing with,” I state plainly.

Her disbelief shows in the way her manicured brow lifts, the angle precise and clearly practiced. She looks amongst all of us like she’s reevaluating the arrangement she’s already agreed to. It’s a familiar look—one we’ve seen from creatures far older and far more dangerous than her. They always reassess. And they always underestimate how far we’re willing to go for our freedom.

“You’re nowhere near breaking your curse,” she says flatly. “What I need is a clean break, and up until today, I was doing a pretty damn good job at maintaining appearances with my family to buy us time, but then your so-called friend decided to take matters into his own hands. That stunt Reed pulled? It complicated things for me.” She pauses again, gauging our reactions before pushing away from the window. “For all of us.” Her voice softens on the last word; she knows her family won’t forgive her. They don’t tolerate betrayal, and the fact she’s still breathing means she’s either incredibly lucky or dangerously valuable. Neither option comforts me.

Moriah showed up at Veilcrest months ago with proof of the Calder bloodline. A solution we’d been searching for longer than any of us cared to admit. In exchange, she wanted help disappearing from her family long enough to build a life that didn’t belong to them.

Autonomy.

Considering the name she carries, we all understood why.

The Carrows built their reputation on power and influence, but beneath the polished surface, they were no different than we were.

Violence dressed in expensive clothing.

The only difference is that they don’t feed from the blood on their hands. They’ve done things that make our past look almost restrained.

So no, I don’t blame her for wanting out. But wanting out and surviving the fall out after are two very different things. The Carrows don’t lose—if they catch her, they’ll break her until loyalty is the only option left.

“Elias gave her Veil’s grimoire,” I say finally. “We’re hoping it moves things along.”

Moriah traces my stance with her stare; her focus methodical, cataloguing every word. “You’re hoping?”

“You already know those spells are blood bound. She’s the only one alive who can read them. Give her time to learn, and we’ll finally have something to work with.”

The truth is, we’re still clinging to hope like it’s a lifeline. The grimoire is older than any of us, older than Veilcrest. Its pages hum with a lost magic. If Alicent can read it—truly read it—then she’s more than a descendant. She’s the key.

“I know you bloodsuckers have had centuries to waste,” she says, straightening to her full height. “But you’re used to rotting away in this school, pretending time isn’t moving outside these walls…I don’t have that luxury anymore.” Her eyes flick once toward the window before returning to me. “So whatever’s in that grimoire—it better work, because they already know I’ve turned on them to protect her.” If the Carrows have marked her a traitor, then the hunt has already begun, and we’re standing in the crosshairs whether we like it or not.

“That, my dear, is what we’re trying to clarify.” Elias’s fangs catch the light as he crosses the room in two long strides, stopping just short of her. “Care to explain why your pack has taken to hunting down Alicent? What do they need with a Calder witch?”

Moriah proved just as unhelpful when we left her dorm as she had been the moment we stepped inside it. Elias would have happily gone head to head with a werewolf if the opportunity presented itself, but starting a fight in the middle of a campus full of oblivious humans was out of the question.

Her silence gnaws at me more than her defiance ever could. Wolves lie poorly, but they omit beautifully. And Moriah—every word she didn’t say—felt like her attempt at a warning wrapped in a secret she’s terrified to give voice to.

The five of us granted her asylum for the single piece she contributed to our torturous puzzle. All she demanded was a means of escape from her pack, no matter the cost.

During our brief visit, she only confirmed two things: she attacked her alpha—her own father—to help Alicent escape, and Alicent had conjured enough power to temporarily restrain an entire pack of wolves. Beyond that, Moriah refused to offer anything of substance. Either she truly doesn’t know why the wolves want our little witch, or she has reason to keep the truth buried. With her, both possibilities carry equal weight.

If she doesn’t know, then someone else does—and they’re moving faster than we are. If she does know, then she’s playing a game written in blood, and it will be hers that spills if Alicent gets hurt.

It hardly matters at the moment. The archives still stand, thanks to Bastian’s intervention, which prevented Alicent from reducing the entire room to a pile of ash. The lot of us were too stunned by her magic manifesting to react in the moment. Inherent magic like that shouldn’t exist anymore—not in this diluted age, not in a girl who didn’t even know she carried it. It felt ancient, feral, as if something long dormant had clawed its way to the surface the moment she was pushed too far. And the worst part? We recognized it.

So we’re left with a theatrics-obsessed she-devil and a girl who after further investigation may very well be tied to the Sisters of the Reliquary. Bastian’s attack on Lacey was reckless in every sense. Had we known about her connection to Clara, the situation wouldn’t have unfolded in a direction none of us are eager to revisit.

“You know Zara was only able to locate her because Clara allowed it,” I say, glancing between Elias and Pryce. “There was no universe in which we located Lacey on our own. The Hollowed have never wielded magic on the level of the Reliquary, even with the candle.”