Chapter 79
It started with the fabric.
October stood in the weapons room—no longer for swordplay, but for secrecy. The assassin’s cloak had been left behind in the chaos, and now it sat folded on the table before her. Midnight black. Lined with red silk.
Scheuer flipped it over with a gloved hand. “Cheap stitchwork. North doesn’t use this pattern.”
“Exactly,” October murmured. “But it’s familiar.”
Scheuer looked up. “Familiar how?”
October’s fingers grazed the hem. “It’s Southern. From the Southern weaving guilds—Westwater district, maybe. This stitch here, the double-back along the inner lining? That’s how they reinforce ceremonial robes during monsoon season. I remember—my granny made us study it.”
Scheuer raised a brow. “You were a commoner. Of course it’s from the South.”
“Yes,” October said slowly. “But this isn’t noble. This is street work. Assassin-for-hire work.”
She looked up, eyes sharp. “This came from someone who knew my world and wanted to remind me where I came from.”
\---
The next day, she went to the archives.
With just scheuer.
“It’s probably a trap,” Scheuer muttered, following her down the cold corridor, eyes darting between doorways.
“I know,” October said. “But if I ask Baldwin, he’ll burn half the South before we learn anything.”
“And if he finds out you did this without him?”
“I’ll lie.”
Scheuer grunted. “He won’t believe you.”
“I know that too.”
The palace archive was deep beneath the throne room, lit only by old lanterns and the flickering green of enchantment glass. Shelves towered over them, filled with scrolls, ledgers, and forbidden tomes sealed behind rune-locked iron.
“Records on court visitors,” October said. “The last three months. Cross-reference them with southern merchant activity.”
Scheuer gave her a look. “You’ve been watching Baldwin too much.”
“I live with him,” she said dryly. “I absorb things.”
\---
It took hours.
But then—there it was.
A delivery from the House of Vellienne, three weeks before Baldwin’s public announcement.
October’s chest tightened.
“House Vellienne,” she whispered. “That’s—”
“Southern nobility,” Scheuer finished. “Fallen house. Big scandal ten years ago. A daughter disowned. Rumors of dark dealings, exile, and witchcraft.”
October’s lips parted.
“That was my ancestral house.”
Scheuer straightened. “What?”
“my grandmother was born as Sandra Vellienne” she said softly. “Before the name change,before the disgrace, she was one ”
Scheuer stared at her. “You never said.”
“You never asked.”
Scheuer frowned, then muttered, “Remind me to ask more.”
\---
October traced the merchant’s route. The delivery arrived. But there was no return. No merchant name. No ledger signed.
That meant it hadn’t been a real delivery.
It had been a message.
\---
That night, October went alone to the fireplace in her sitting room.
Scheuer had gone to bed. Baldwin was still at war council.
She took the assassin’s cloak, folded inside it a piece of blank parchment, and held the whole bundle to the flames.
Ash rose.
Words appeared again—different from the last letter, but unmistakably in the same ink. In the same hand.
“Blood returns to blood. You should never have left us.”
Her throat tightened.
She let the cloak burn.
Then, from the shadows near the fire, a voice came.
“Clever girl.”
October spun.
A woman stood there—draped in black, with silver hair tied tight. She looked barely thirty. But her eyes were wrong. Too old. Too knowing.
“I remember you,” the woman said, stepping forward. “A tiny thing. Always watching. Always quiet. You used to spy on the priestesses when they lit the bones.”
October backed away. “Who are you?”
“Your aunt,” the woman said. “By blood,by shared curse. I am Lysandra of House Vellienne, and I’ve come to take back what you stole.”
“I stole nothing.”
“Oh, but you did,” Lysandra said, voice soft as ash. “Your grand mother stole from us,she buried our name, spat on our legacy.”
“Your gift is poison,” October snapped. “You use blood and shadows to bend people to your will.”
Lysandra smiled. “So do kings.”
October grabbed the fireplace poker and pointed it at her.
“If you touch me or the baby—”
“Oh, I wouldn’t dare. You’re marked now. Sacred to the North.”
“But not to you.”
“No,” Lysandra said simply. “To me, you’re a mistake. But mistakes can be undone.”
She stepped backward, into the shadows.
“You’ll see soon, little niece. The North cannot protect you from what’s buried beneath your bones.”
And then she was gone.
\---
She didn’t sleep.
When Baldwin returned, she was still sitting in front of the fire, cloak around her shoulders.
“You’re bleeding,” he said immediately, rushing to her. “October—your hand—”
She looked down. Her palm had been cut. Probably when she’d grabbed the cloak mid-burn.
“Sit down,” he ordered.
“I can’t.”
He looked at her.
She swallowed. Then told him everything.
About the cloak. The letter. The archives. The name Vellienne. The woman. The curse.
When she finished, Baldwin sat in silence, staring at the fire.
Then he said, “Why didn’t you tell me about your other family ties?”
“Because I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It matters now.”
“I’m not part of them anymore,” she whispered.
“No,” he said. “But they’re part of you. And that child. And now they’ve crawled out of the dirt to drag you back.”
She shivered.
He reached for her hands. Held them gently.
“I’ll kill them,” he said softly. “All of them. Just say the word.”
She leaned against his chest. “What if it’s more than them?”
“Then I’ll kill more.”
She laughed weakly. “You always say the most romantic things.”
He held her tighter. “We’re not done here, October. We’ve only just started.”
\---
Three days later, they descended into the palace’s forbidden catacombs.
Only Baldwin, October, and an old scholar who smelled like dust and cloves.
“I want records on Southern dark magic,” Baldwin said.
The old man grumbled. “That’s sealed knowledge.”
“And I’m the Emperor.”
That ended the argument.
October stood over a table of worn books, flipping pages carefully. Symbols. Runes. Old tongues.
Then—she saw it.
A ritual. An ancient Southern rite known only to House Vellienne.
The Mark of Return. A blood-bound curse designed to pull exiled family back to the land they betrayed—by madness, illness... or death.
“It’s on me,” she whispered. “It’s already started.”
Baldwin leaned over her shoulder.
“No. It won’t finish.”
She looked up at him. “You can’t fight a curse with a sword.”
“I can fight them,” he said. “And I can find someone who knows how to end this.”
He stood.
And for the first time, October saw something beyond rage in his eyes.
Fear.
\---
That evening, a raven came.
Not a messenger. A bird. Black as coal, eyes gleaming violet.
It perched on October’s balcony, stared at her through the glass, and then screamed—a shrill, unnatural sound.
Then it dropped something at her feet.
A lock of dark hair.
October picked it up slowly.
Tied to the strand was a tiny sigil carved in bone—grandmother's old family crest.
Baldwin appeared at her side a moment later, sword already drawn.
She showed him the offering.
His hand clenched around the hilt.
“No more warnings,” he said. “We strike first.”
.