Chapter 4 - The Secrets of the Crypts
Instead of returning to the warm halls of the palace, Theron led Maren deep underground, down a spiral stone staircase that plunged far beneath the foundations of the castle into the ancient royal crypts.
The air here was stale, smelling of old dust, dried blood, and centuries of forgotten history. Torchlight flickered against massive stone sarcophagi where past kings and queens of Baldross lay in eternal slumber.
“Why are we here?” Maren asked, clutching her thin cloak tightly around her shoulders as she shivered in the damp cold.
“Because my aunt’s betrayal didn’t start tonight,” Theron said grimly, his boots echoing sharply against the flagstones. “It started twenty years ago, when the first curse took my mother... and every woman I have ever loved since.”
Maren stopped walking. “What do you mean?”
Theron turned to face her, his silver-gray eyes reflecting the flickering firelight.
“You sensed the dark magic wrapped around my heart,” he said quietly. “You thought it was grief. It is not. It is a blood-curse placed upon the royal line of Baldross by a rogue witch centuries ago—a curse that ensures any alpha king who finds his true mate will watch her burn from the inside out on the night of the full moon.”
Maren’s breath hitched. A cold horror washed over her spine as the memories rushed back.
Bran.
Bran had burned from the inside out. Witnesses had sworn they saw golden light—Veorn light—radiating from her hands.
“My pack told me I killed Bran,” Maren whispered, her voice cracking as tears spilled over her lashes. “They said my healing magic was a plague, that I drained my own mate because of a hidden darkness inside me.”
“They lied,” Theron said fiercely, stepping closer until she could feel the radiating heat of his massive body. “The Veorn magic is pure. But centuries ago, the royal family of Baldross hunted and slaughtered your people to steal your healing gifts. A dying Veorn seer cursed our bloodline: ‘When the royal alpha finds his true mate among the condemned, she shall burn by his own hand unless the blood-debt is paid.’”
“And Valora?” Maren asked, her mind racing.
“Valora wants the throne,” Theron snarled. “She believes that if I take a Veorn omega as my true mate, the curse will destroy us both, leaving her grandson to rule the kingdom. She orchestrated the kidnapping of my son to lure you out, and she framed you for Bran’s death years ago to ensure you would never be trusted.”
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Maren stared at him, the heavy weight of a lifetime of false guilt instantly lifting from her shoulders—only to be replaced by a terrifying new reality.
“She has Tavian in the sacrificial chamber beneath the old temple,” Theron said, his hand sliding down to grip the pommel of his sword. “And she is waiting for us.”
