Page 207 of Severed Heir

He stopped, turning to face me. “No. Youareworthy. But first, you must accept this kingdom as your own. My father always said Hadrian was the greatest man he ever met. He’s powerful. So are you.”

“We watched him sell barrens,” I said.

“I don’t condone what he does, but he isn’t the first.”

Three guards waited at the edge of the estate, their armor gleaming beneath the early light, the Malvoria crest stamped across each chest. My stomach twisted at the sight—at what it cost to earn that armor. One was a red-haired man, who eyed the blades strapped across me. I still carried the sword I’d taken from Callum. The rest of my things from the academy had been griffin-posted the morning after the festival. Archer’s doing.

“Any outside weapons must be surrendered to the blacksmith,” the red-haired guard said. “Sir Hadrian wants only Wrathi metal on display.”

“My metal stays,” I said.

Archer’s gaze slid to mine, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at his lips. “You heard her.”

The guard hesitated. “Sir Wrathi doesn’t like things out of place. I only speak truth to protect you.”

“I don’t care what Hadrian likes,” I replied, voice firm. “He can live with my blades not matching his kingdom.”

The guard stepped aside and opened the door. “Suit yourself,” he said under his breath.

The moment I stepped through the threshold, memories crashed into me. The duel with Caius. Sneaking into Hadrian’s study with Bridger. Finding his hidden ports.

Hadrian stood at the end of the hall, fingers drumming against the banister. “Severyn,” he said, drawing out my name. “You must get your punctuality from me.”

“No, I don’t think so.”

He smiled faintly, then shook his head. “There’s much to discuss. The civilians are preparing for your transition.”

Rage surged in my chest at the sight of him in this estate. “I want answers.”

Hadrian waved off the guards. “Thendor, prepare the country for a festival tomorrow. Let them wear red.”

I stepped forward, drew a dagger, and slammed it into the wooden banister with a sharpthunk. “I don’t care about your damn festival,” I said, voice tight. “I want to know why the hell I didn’t know you were my father for twenty-two years.”

Thendor didn’t even flinch. “Right away, sir. I’ll have a phoenix letter delivered to the doorstep of every Wrathirian,” he said dryly.

Hadrian barely spared him a glance. His focus stayed on me. “You have your mother’s anger,” he said with a soft, almost wistful smile. “It was her finest trait.”

“No. This isn’t my mother’s anger.” My voice cracked through the air. “I’m pissed, and rightfully so.”

Hadrian tilted his head, then gestured toward a side room where a vaulted library waited. “Showing you the truth will be easier.”

I glanced at Archer. He gave a small, unreadable nod, and we followed Hadrian inside.

The library stretched farther than I expected. Walls lined with ancient tomes, the scent of dust and ink thick in the air. At its center sat a long-carved table surrounded by high-backed velvet chairs, more suited to a Serpent bid than a reading room.

Hadrian crossed the room in silence and approached the farthest shelf. He ran a hand over the spines, then pulled free a thick, leather-bound book.

“A library?” I asked, brows raised. “You hid the truth in a library?”

“I didn’t want to love your mother,” he said quietly. “But I did. I couldn’t help it. We were both in similar situations with our significant others.”

“How so?”

“You’ve met Ellison.”

I slammed my hand on the table. “Cut the bullshit. I want answers. Real ones.”

Hadrian set the book down with deliberate care, his fingers lingering on the leather binding before flipping halfway through. “This is the original passage,” he said quietly. “The record from when Andri met his truemate.”

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