Earlier that day, Nyx Archeron had dragged answers from a ring of captured spies. One by one, they broke beneath his interrogation, their lies stripped away until only the truth remained. A truth he never expected to hear.

Your name.

At first, he dismissed it as a desperate attempt to mislead him—a final act of spite from dying men. But then another confirmed it. And another.

A witch.

Not just any witch, but a former member of a coven long whispered about in fearful stories.

The revelation sat like poison in his veins.

Now he stood at the edge of the training yard of the River House, watching you move through familiar sword forms beneath the fading light. The blade in your hands was the one he had gifted you during the last Solstice. He remembered placing it in your palms, the quiet smile you’d given him, the trust that had passed between you without words. Back then, the sword had felt like a promise. Now it felt like a lie.

You sensed him before you saw him. The air shifted, and the shadows at his feet stirred restlessly, curling and uncurling like living things agitated by their master’s emotions. Slowly, you lowered the sword.

“Nyx?”

His gaze locked onto yours.

There was no warmth in it. Only hurt.

“You lied to me.”

The words were quiet, but they struck harder than any shout. Your stomach dropped. You had always known this day might come. Every secret eventually found its way into the light. For years, you had buried that part of yourself so deeply that sometimes you almost convinced yourself it had never existed.

Almost.

Nyx stepped closer, his jaw tightening.

“Tell me it isn’t true.”

He didn’t need to explain. You already knew what he meant.

The sword suddenly felt too heavy in your hands. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The evening breeze moved through the yard, carrying the scent of steel and dust, but the silence between you felt suffocating.