Chapter 78 The Confessions Begin

Chapter 78 The Confessions Begin
The first confession comes before dusk.

Not because the Court has grown brave.

Because fear always chooses the easiest door.

I’m in the archive wing with the Archivist, surrounded by shelves that smell like vellum and dust and old power. Sunlight filters through treated glass high above, pale enough not to sting the vampires who pass through but bright enough to make me feel exposed.

The Archivist is explaining reflective node theory again—slowly, patiently, as if repetition might make the universe less irritating.

“Reflection is not merely glass,” they say, tapping their tablet. “It is polished metal, still water, obsidian—any surface capable of storing and returning resonance. The Glassmaker’s work used these surfaces as distributed anchor points.”

“And the Mirror Court used that,” I murmur.

“Yes,” the Archivist replies. “And you used it back.”

They say it so neutrally that it almost sounds like a compliment. Almost.

A knock interrupts us.

Mira appears in the doorway, expression taut. “Elysia. Malachi wants you in the receiving chamber.”

My stomach tightens.

“Now?” I ask.

Mira nods. “Now. Someone came forward.”

So soon.

I exchange a glance with the Archivist. Their gaze sharpens, already calculating the implications, the likely identities, the ripple effects.

“Record everything,” they say calmly. “Names. wards. body language.”

“Lovely,” I mutter. “Nothing says romance like being a political litmus test.”

Mira’s mouth twitches. “Welcome to court.”

The receiving chamber smells like cold stone and faint incense. A small fire burns in the hearth, more for comfort than warmth, casting amber flickers across the walls.

Malachi stands near the window, hands clasped behind his back, posture perfect. He looks like a statue carved out of patience and threat.

Rafe lounges by the door, arms folded. He looks like trouble wearing a grin.

Seraphine is there too.

Of course she is.

She sits elegantly in a chair by the hearth, legs crossed, watching the room like it’s a stage she paid for.

And in the center—standing rigid, hands held in front of him like he’s afraid they might betray him—is a young vampire noble I vaguely recognize from the council chamber.

His hair is dark, his skin too pale even for his kind, and his eyes are fixed on the floor.

He looks terrified.

Good.

He should be.

When I enter, he flinches like my footsteps are a whip.

Malachi turns his head slightly. His gaze catches mine for a fraction of a second—checking. Grounding. Quietly asking if I’m ready for what comes next.

I nod.

He addresses the noble without softness.

“State your name,” he says.

The young man swallows. “Cassian Marrowmere.”

Seraphine’s brows lift in faint surprise.

Rafe’s grin turns sharp. “Oh. That family.”

Malachi’s eyes narrow. “Continue.”

Cassian’s voice trembles. “I attended the Shattered Conservatory.”

Silence thickens.

Malachi doesn’t react outwardly.

But the bond pulses with something dark and cold.

“Why?” Malachi asks.

Cassian’s shoulders hitch. “Because I was afraid.”

Seraphine hums softly, pleased. “Honesty. How novel.”

Cassian glances at her, then quickly looks away.

“I didn’t go to overthrow you,” he rushes. “I didn’t even know what it would be. I just—everyone was talking. The old houses… they said you’d changed. That you were—”

He hesitates, voice dropping.

“Weak.”

The word hangs.

Malachi’s power shifts, the room tightening. Not flaring. Not exploding. Just compressing into something sharp enough to cut.

Cassian flinches, but he forces himself to keep speaking.

“They said the human had softened you,” he whispers. “That your kneeling was a sign you’d lost control.”

Seraphine’s eyes glitter.

Rafe looks like he wants to bite someone.

I fold my arms, steady.

“And what did you find?” Malachi asks softly.

Cassian swallows hard. “A trap.”

His gaze flicks to me then, shame burning in his eyes.

“I saw the mirror,” he says. “I saw the Glassmaker. I heard him talk about autonomy like it was a weapon. I realized—too late—that I was just… one more mask in a room built to hide cowards.”

His voice cracks.

“I took the mask off,” he admits. “And I left.”

Rafe snorts. “Lucky for you the wolves didn’t tear you apart.”

Cassian winces. “Yes.”

Malachi’s gaze is still cold. “Why come now?”

Cassian’s hands tremble. “Because I can’t unsee what I saw. And because… when Elysia spoke, the mirror… reacted.”

I still.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

Cassian’s eyes lift reluctantly. “The Mirror Court—it hummed. Like it recognized you. Like it… wanted you. And that terrified me more than anything.”

My ribs ache faintly.

Malachi’s gaze flicks to me, sharp with concern.

Cassian swallows. “If the Glassmaker is still out there—if he can build more mirrors—then people like me will keep being tempted by anonymity.”

His voice steadies, desperation turning into something like resolve.

“So I’m here,” he says. “To confess. To swear. To be watched. To pay whatever cost you decide.”

The room goes still.

This is the moment.

Mercy or blood.

Strategy or spectacle.

Seraphine leans forward, eyes bright. “And what do you offer in exchange for mercy?”

Cassian’s voice tightens. “Information.”

Malachi’s eyes narrow. “Speak.”

Cassian inhales shakily. “Lady Seraphine wasn’t the only one with interest. The Mirror Court had sponsors. Quiet ones. A council of three—old bloodlines who funded the gathering.”

Seraphine’s smile doesn’t move, but her eyes sharpen like knives.

“Names,” Malachi says.

Cassian hesitates—then glances at me, as if reminding himself why he’s here.

“House Veyl,” he says. “House Morcant. And House… Elowen.”

The last name hits like a stone dropped into water.

Seraphine’s fingers tighten on the armrest.

Rafe’s grin vanishes. “Elowen?”

Mira’s voice from the doorway is quiet and grim. “That house was declared extinct.”

Cassian nods miserably. “So everyone thought.”

Malachi’s power coils, cold and lethal. “Where are they?”

Cassian’s voice drops. “I don’t know. The Mirror Court was designed to keep identities blurred. But I heard whispers. A phrase.”

Malachi’s gaze doesn’t blink. “Say it.”

Cassian swallows hard.

“The Glass Chapel,” he whispers. “They said the real court isn’t the Mirror Court. That was just the invitation. The real gathering place—the place the Glassmaker is building—is the Glass Chapel.”

Silence detonates through the room.

The Archivist—now standing quietly in the corner, unseen until this moment—lifts their head sharply.

“The Glass Chapel,” they repeat, voice precise. “That is not merely rumor. It is a concept referenced in pre-unification texts. A theoretical nexus where reflective nodes converge.”

Seraphine’s smile is faint, but her eyes are calculating fast. “A chapel implies worship.”

Rafe mutters, “Or sacrifice.”

Malachi steps closer to Cassian, voice low and deadly calm.

“How long?” he asks.

Cassian’s eyes squeeze shut. “I don’t know. But… soon.”

He opens his eyes again, gaze pleading.

“They’re recruiting,” he whispers. “They’re telling nobles the king has grown sentimental. That the territory needs a ruler who won’t hesitate. They’re… hungry for the old ways.”

Malachi’s jaw tightens.

And through the bond, I feel it—the old instinct, the ancient urge to crush dissent before it breathes.

But I also feel something else.

A restraint that wasn’t there before.

He looks at me.

Not for approval.

For alignment.

And that alone makes my chest tighten.

“Cassian Marrowmere,” Malachi says at last. “Your confession is noted.”

Cassian trembles, bracing as if for execution.

“You will be confined,” Malachi continues. “Not punished. Watched. Interviewed by the Archivist. You will provide everything you remember. Every scent, every sound, every detail.”

Cassian nods rapidly, relief and fear mixing.

“And,” Malachi adds, voice sharpening, “if you lie, I will know.”

Cassian swallows. “Yes, Your Majesty.”

Rafe opens the door. Two wolves appear, silent and imposing.

Cassian looks at me one last time as he’s led away.

“Thank you,” he whispers.

I don’t answer with softness.

I answer with truth.

“Don’t waste it,” I say.

He nods, eyes shining, and disappears down the corridor.

When the door closes, the room exhales.

Seraphine rises slowly. “Well,” she murmurs. “Your amnesty idea is already paying dividends.”

“Or costs,” I reply.

She smiles faintly. “Dividends often do.”

Malachi turns, gaze cold. “House Elowen.”

Seraphine’s expression goes thoughtful. “If they’re alive, they’ve been hiding for a very long time. That means allies. Money. Protection.”

Rafe’s voice is flat. “Or the Glassmaker’s been growing them like mold in the dark.”

The Archivist steps forward, tablet glowing. “If a Glass Chapel is being constructed, we must locate reflective convergence points. Immediately.”

Mira nods. “We’ll need patrol expansion. And—”

“And honesty,” I cut in quietly.

They all look at me.

I meet Malachi’s gaze.

“The Mirror Court happened because people didn’t feel safe telling the truth,” I say. “If you want to stop the Chapel, we need more confessions. More fear turned into speech.”

Malachi’s eyes darken. “And if they don’t speak?”

I step closer, letting the bond steady me as I answer.

“Then we make it clear,” I say softly, “that the only sanctuary left in this territory is reality.”

Seraphine’s smile turns razor-sharp.

Rafe’s grin returns, wolfish.

Mira looks uneasy.

The Archivist looks… satisfied.

Malachi’s hand finds mine, brief and grounding.

Then he releases it, because the night is coming and the Court is watching and we don’t have time for tenderness.

But through the bond, his voice brushes mine like a vow:

We will end this.

And for the first time since the mirror swallowed me, I believe it.

Because the confessions have begun.

And with every mask that comes off, the Glassmaker loses one more place to hide.