Chapter 68 The Shattered Conservatory

Chapter 68 The Shattered Conservatory
We leave before midnight.

Not because we’re eager.

Because walking into a trap on your enemy’s schedule is how you die with manners.

The castle gates open in silence, as if the wards themselves are holding their breath. Moonlight pools on the cobblestones and turns Malachi’s coat into a moving shadow, makes the wolves’ eyes flash like coins when they glance back at me.

Rafe walks ahead, hands in his pockets like this is a casual stroll instead of an invitation to be murdered in public. Mira and Thane flank the Archivist, who carries a glass tablet etched with shifting sigils that look like they’re trying to crawl off the surface.

Seraphine follows near the back.

She’s dressed for war disguised as elegance—dark velvet, throat bared, hair pinned like a crown. She catches me looking and smiles as if we share a secret.

We don’t.

Malachi rides close at my side, his hand at the small of my back. Not holding me. Not steering.

A constant, steady point of contact.

A reminder: beside me.

The road to the Shattered Conservatory cuts through old territory—lands that used to belong to lesser houses before Malachi unified the Southern Territories under one throne. The trees here are taller, the shadows deeper. Even the wind feels wary.

“This place hates us,” Rafe murmurs, glancing at the dark canopy above.

“It remembers,” the Archivist replies. “And memory holds grudges.”

I shiver, pulling my coat tighter around my ribs. The wound is mostly closed, but the skin still feels too sensitive, like it’s waiting for something to try to climb back in.

Malachi notices my movement immediately.

“Pain?” he asks softly.

“Just… aware,” I admit. “Like my body is expecting another trick.”

“That’s because it’s learned,” he says. “It won’t be caught unprepared again.”

The bond pulses warm.

We reach the ruins just before midnight.

The Shattered Conservatory emerges from the fog like the skeleton of a cathedral—iron ribs arcing over broken glass, twisted vines strangling what once must have been beautiful. Moonlight shines through fractured panes overhead, splintering into sharp, pale shards that make the air look cut.

The ground is wet, moss-covered, littered with glittering fragments that crunch softly under our boots.

A place made of edges.

Rafe whistles low. “Romantic. If you’re a psychopath.”

Seraphine steps forward, breathing in as if tasting nostalgia. “I haven’t been here since before Malachi’s coronation.”

Malachi’s gaze doesn’t leave the structure. “Then you know its layout.”

“I know what it used to be,” she replies. “That doesn’t mean it still is.”

The Archivist holds up a hand, pausing us at the threshold.

Sigils flare across their tablet. “There are wards here. Not strong. Not cohesive. But… intentional.”

“Mirror wards,” Mira murmurs.

The air shifts.

Not like a door opening.

Like a gaze landing on us.

I feel it first—not as a voice, but as a pressure against my mind. A cool, curious weight.

The Glassmaker isn’t here in body.

But his work is.

His attention.

A whisper slips through the ruin, carried on a draft that smells faintly of burned sugar.

On time.

Malachi’s power snaps up, cold and dense. The wolves growl, low and feral.

“Show yourself,” Malachi says.

A laugh ripples through the conservatory—soft, echoing, layered. It doesn’t come from one point. It comes from everywhere glass exists.

The broken panes overhead shimmer.

The fragments on the floor glint.

Even the moisture on the leaves seems to catch the light wrong.

So eager, the Glassmaker’s voice murmurs. Like the old days. Like blood on marble. Like love that doesn’t know how to stop.

My stomach twists.

Malachi stiffens beside me, jaw clenched.

“Enough,” I say. “You invited us. We’re here. Speak plainly.”

Silence.

Then the glass overhead shifts.

A figure forms—not fully, not solid. A silhouette stitched together from reflections and moonlight, face flickering in and out as if he can’t decide which version of himself to wear.

The Glassmaker.

Still cracked.

Still beautiful in that wrong, hollow way.

He stands on the far side of the conservatory, beneath an arch of iron ribs, hands folded behind his back like a host greeting guests.

“Elysia Thorn,” he says, voice smooth. “Lord Malachi Varyn. And… guests.”

His gaze slides over Rafe and the others, pausing on Seraphine with a slow, amused smile.

“Lady Seraphine,” he murmurs. “You still wear your ambition like perfume.”

Seraphine’s smile doesn’t falter. “And you still mistake flattery for leverage.”

Rafe mutters, “I’m going to throw up.”

The Glassmaker lifts a hand.

The air ripples.

Something shifts deeper within the conservatory—a low murmur of movement.

Figures step out of shadow.

Masked.

Not theatrical masks—something more deliberate. Polished glass plates covering faces, reflecting moonlight and distorting features so no one can be identified easily.

Vampires.

At least a dozen.

Maybe more.

My pulse stutters.

“Mirror Court,” Mira whispers.

Malachi’s power coils tight, controlled, lethal. “Treason,” he says quietly.

The Glassmaker’s smile widens. “Treason is such an ugly word. I prefer… opposition. Choice. Sanctuary.”

The masked vampires form a semicircle behind him, silent as statues. Some carry weapons. Some stand empty-handed, but their posture screams readiness.

Seraphine exhales softly. “You’ve gathered a bold little nest.”

“A nest?” the Glassmaker laughs. “No, Lady Seraphine. A court.”

His gaze lands on Malachi.

“Your court,” he says, “wants to see if your kneeling was weakness. They want to know if your new rules have teeth… or if they can be used against you.”

Malachi’s expression is cold enough to freeze blood. “You’re offering them a place to hide.”

“I’m offering them reflection,” the Glassmaker replies. “A place where names don’t matter. Where loyalty is not demanded by crown or threat.”

He turns his pale, shimmering gaze to me.

“And where an anchor isn’t forced to stand behind a king’s shadow.”

The masked figures shift slightly, attention snapping to me.

I feel their eyes, even through glass plates.

Curious. Hungry. Envious.

“She doesn’t stand behind me,” Malachi says, voice like iron.

The Glassmaker tilts his head. “Not tonight. But tomorrow? When the Court demands a demonstration. When the borders burn. When a rebellion rises. When your king has to choose between territory and you—”

His smile turns sharp.

“What will he choose, Elysia?”

The question hits too close to the bone.

I answer anyway.

“He’ll tell me the choice exists,” I say. “And I’ll decide with him.”

A ripple goes through the masked court.

Unease.

Because that isn’t the answer they want.

The Glassmaker’s eyes narrow. “Pretty words.”

“They’re not pretty,” I say. “They’re inconvenient. That’s why you hate them.”

Rafe steps forward with a grin that belongs on a wolf about to bite. “So what’s the show, Glassy? You invite us out here to monologue or to die?”

The Glassmaker’s gaze slides to him. “Ah. The wolf who plays at being a friend. How charming.”

Rafe’s grin sharpens. “Say something useful.”

The Glassmaker spreads his hands.

“I want one thing,” he says. “A bargain.”

Malachi laughs, low and dangerous. “No.”

“Not with you,” the Glassmaker replies smoothly. “With her.”

Silence drops.

Malachi’s power flares, the ground frosting around his boots.

“Do not,” he growls.

The Glassmaker ignores him completely, gaze locked on me.

“I offer you a choice,” he says softly. “Real choice. Not a king’s gentler cage.”

His hand lifts, palm up.

A shard of glass rises from the floor, spinning slowly. Within it, light flickers—images.

A future.

Me standing before the Court, crowned, power shining—alone. Malachi absent.

Another image: Me beside Malachi, but he is cold again, distant, crown heavier than love.

Another: The Mirror Court kneeling to me, faces hidden, loyalty offered without demand.

I feel my power react to the images—curious, not convinced, but affected.

Malachi’s voice cuts through, sharp. “Do not look.”

I keep my eyes on the Glassmaker instead.

“I’m looking,” I say, “because I refuse to be afraid of possibilities.”

Malachi’s jaw flexes.

The Glassmaker’s smile turns triumphant.

“Then hear my bargain,” he purrs. “One night. One walk through the Mirror Court. No crown. No king. No bond influence. Just you, and what you are without him.”

My skin goes cold.

“That’s impossible,” Mira snaps. “The bond—”

“I can dampen it,” the Glassmaker says smoothly. “Temporarily. Not break. Not harm. Simply… quiet. So she can hear herself.”

Malachi takes a step forward. “If you touch her bond again—”

“You’ll do what?” the Glassmaker asks, amused. “Kill me? You can’t. Not like this. Not without giving them exactly what they want: proof your kneeling was a lie.”

His gaze flicks to the masked court.

“They’re watching,” he whispers. “Your subjects. Your doubters. Your wolves. Your queen-to-be. This is politics, Malachi. And you’re finally learning it has teeth.”

Malachi’s hands curl into fists.

The masked vampires lean in, hungry for the decision.

Seraphine’s gaze flickers between me and Malachi like she’s weighing an investment.

Rafe mutters under his breath, “Don’t you dare go alone, sugar.”

I don’t answer him.

Because my attention is on the bargain.

On the danger.

On the worst part—

It’s not entirely a trap.

Not because it’s safe.

Because it’s tempting.

The idea of silence inside my skull—no bond hum, no ward whisper, no constant pressure of being seen as valuable and hunted—hits something sore and exhausted inside me.

And the Glassmaker knows it.

He smiles like a man offering water to someone dying of thirst.

“One night,” he repeats softly. “Then you return to your king with truth.”

My pulse pounds.

Malachi’s gaze locks on mine, fierce and raw.

He doesn’t command.

He doesn’t forbid.

He simply says, through the bond, so quietly it hurts:

Don’t leave me.

I swallow.

Then I speak aloud, to the Glassmaker, to the Mirror Court, to every watching shadow.

“You want one night?” I say.

The Glassmaker’s eyes gleam.

“Yes.”

I step forward, just enough to make the masked nobles stir.

“Then you give me one thing first,” I say. “Proof.”

His smile falters slightly. “Proof of what?”

“That you can dampen a bond without harming it,” I say. “That you can create silence without turning it into a doorway.”

A pause.

Then his smile returns—slow, sharp.

“Clever,” he murmurs. “Always clever.”

He gestures.

“Bring the mirror.”

The masked vampires part.

And from the shadows behind them, something is wheeled forward—an ornate, towering mirror framed in black iron and cracked glass, its surface shimmering like water that doesn’t reflect the sky.

My stomach drops.

Because I recognize that wrong shimmer.

It’s the same texture as the Hive’s inner chambers.

A mirror built to swallow.

And the Glassmaker’s voice curls through the conservatory like a lover’s promise and a killer’s threat:

“Step close, little anchor. Let’s see if you can survive silence.”