Chapter 6 - Secrets of the Foundling
The lower catacombs beneath the Palace of Oakhaven smelled of centuries of damp earth, limestone rot, and forgotten parchment.
While the Great Hall above glittered with chandeliers and gold leaf, the foundation of the palace was a labyrinth of ancient crypts and disused servant quarters carved directly into the mountain bedrock. Few nobles ever set foot down here; even the kitchen staff avoided the deep archives, whispering tales of royal specters and collapsed tunnels.
Elia held a small iron lantern, its amber beam cutting through the thick cobwebs that draped across the ceiling like funeral veils. Beside her, Cassian moved with silent efficiency, his injured shoulder bound tightly with strips of linen torn from the tower bedsheets.
"Are you certain it's down here?" Cassian asked, ducking beneath a low stone archway.
"Martha told me once, when she had the fever," Elia whispered, her voice bouncing faintly off the damp walls. "She said she kept a record. She was terrified every day of her life that Valen’s hounds would find us. She said, *'If they ever come for you, Elia, the truth is buried beneath the Third Cistern, where the laundry chutes meet the old river gate.'*"
They reached a cavernous chamber where the rushing sound of underground water echoed from the darkness. A massive iron wheel, rusted red, hung over a stone basin that had once gathered rainwater for the ancient fortress.
Behind the cistern, half-hidden by a collapsed stack of rotten wooden crates, was a low iron door secured by an old, corroded padlock.
Cassian drew a heavy iron pry bar from his belt. He wedged it into the latch, braced his boot against the stone wall, and pulled. With a screech of tearing metal that made Elia wince, the ancient lock snapped.
The door swung open with a mournful groan, revealing a small, dry alcove carved into the rock. Inside sat a single wooden chest bound in bands of tarnished brass.
Elia knelt before the chest. Her fingers trembled as she brushed away the thick layer of dust covering the lid. In the center of the wood, carved clumsily with a small knife, was a symbol she recognized instantly: the same three-petaled nightshade flower as her silver pendant.
"Open it," Cassian said, holding the lantern lower.
Elia lifted the heavy lid.
Inside lay no gold, no jewels. There was only a child’s worn woolen blanket—the soft, pale blue fabric bearing the royal crest of House Aurelius, stained with twenty-two-year-old soot—and a thick, leather-bound journal wrapped in oiled animal hide to protect it from the damp.
Elia picked up the journal. The leather was stiff with age. She opened the cover to the first page.
The handwriting was jagged, uneducated, the script of a woman who had taught herself to write by candlelight using discarded scribal scraps.
*"My name is Martha Cole,"* the first entry read. *"I write this because I will surely burn in hell for what I have done, but may the gods forgive me, I could not slaughter an innocent babe."*
Elia’s breath caught in her throat. She looked up at Cassian. The prince was leaning over her shoulder, his jaw tight, his eyes scanning the faded ink with predatory intensity.
"Keep reading," he urged quietly.
Elia turned the brittle pages until she found the date: the night of the winter solstice, twenty-two years ago.
*"They came at the fourth hour of the morning,"* the journal recorded. *"The Royal Physician, Doctor Castor, brought the vial to the nursery. He told me the King had ordered the newborn princess to be put to sleep peacefully, that the child was born with an incurable rot of the blood that would bring a plague upon the line. But I saw the Duke standing in the garden shadow below the balcony. I saw the gold coins Castor slipped into his sleeve."*
"Castor," Cassian hissed under his breath. "The old court physician. He supposedly died of a sudden fever three days after the princess vanished."
*"I could not let them poison her,"* the entry continued. *"When Castor turned his back to prepare the syringe, I struck him across the skull with the bronze wash kettle. He fell like a slaughtered bull. I grabbed the child, wrapped her in the nursery blanket, and took the hidden laundry chute down to the deep sluice gates. I set fire to my own quarters behind me to make them believe the fire had consumed both of us."*
Tears blurred Elia’s vision, dripping onto the yellowed parchment. "She gave up everything... she lived in poverty, scrubbing filthy rags by the river for twenty years, just to keep me breathing."
"Read the next paragraph," Cassian commanded, his finger tapping the bottom of the page.
Elia wiped her eyes and read aloud, her voice trembling in the damp cavern:
*"Castor dropped a ledger when he fell. A cipher-book bearing the seal of the Chancellor’s private vault. The orders were not signed by Duke Valen alone. The cipher mentions the 'Eastern Covenant'—an agreement to deliver the royal bloodline to the Empyrean Empire across the sea in exchange for three thousand mercenary pikes to enforce the Duke’s reign."*
Elia looked up, horror chilling her blood. "Valen wasn't just trying to seize the throne. He was selling the kingdom to our greatest enemy."
"The Empyrean Empire," Cassian murmured, his face draining of color. "They have been massing their naval fleets along our southern coast for six months. Valen told the High Council the fleet was merely conducting trade maneuvers. He was lying. He was clearing the path for an invasion."
A sudden sound echoed from the dark tunnel behind them.
The slow, steady clapping of leather-gloved hands.
"Brilliant," a voice echoed through the catacombs. "Truly brilliant, Prince Cassian. You always had the tactical instincts of a bloodhound. It is a pity those instincts could not keep you alive."
From the shadows of the archway stepped Duke Valen.
He was not wearing his aristocratic robes. He wore a coat of black ring-mail, an ornate rapier sheathed at his hip. Behind him stepped Lady Seraphina, dressed in a hunting suit of dark green velvet, her hands holding a loaded, mechanized light crossbow pointed directly at Elia’s chest.
And flanking them were twelve armed men wearing the crimson tabards of the High Inquisitors, their blades drawn, their faces completely masked.
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"Valen," Cassian spat, stepping instantly in front of Elia, his broadsword clearing its sheath with a lethal rasp. "You violated the royal crypts."
"The crypts belong to the dead, my dear Prince," Valen said, smiling with cold, aristocratic amusement. "And within a few moments, both of you will join your illustrious ancestors here in the dark."
