Blood Match

Chapter 40: A Trail of Secrets

The day moved with a frantic, energetic pace. Maids and footmen polished furniture. Wood was stacked high in the garden for the formal bonfires. Seating was arranged in spirals and circles, with quiet alcoves nestled beneath trees where guests could stargaze in solitude. Coronados received their assignments, and Claude moved briskly between the kitchens and banquet halls, checking and rechecking the menu for the midnight feast.

Beneath the chaos of the day, Tristan had stolen an hour for himself—a rare moment of stillness—to meditate with Aditya. It had been two years since he'd last seen his guru. They sat cross-legged in the Night Garden beneath the manor, where night-blooming flowers thrived in a gentle, simulated twilight. Moonflower, night phlox, and jasmine perfumed the air. As Tristan slowed his breath, the noise of the world above slipped away. In Aditya's presence, even time seemed to hold its breath.

Tristan tried to quiet his mind, but anxious thoughts kept bubbling up from beneath the surface. Confusion, unease, a frantic sense of searching—for something lost, or just out of reach. No matter how many times he centered his breath, the thoughts returned, circling like restless birds. At last, he opened his eyes with an exasperated sigh.

"Shishya (disciple), what troubles you? Even I can feel your unrest."

Aditya unfolded from his meditative posture with the grace of a man unbound by time. Crossing the quiet garden, he laid a gentle hand atop Tristan's head.

Closing his eyes, he stilled his breath and turned his thoughts inward, reaching not with words but with presence.

Tristan opened his mind and welcomed Aditya's presence. The elder's powerful peace flowed through him, cradling his restless thoughts in a current of loving stillness.

After a few moments, the presence receded—gentle as a breath—but it left clarity in its wake. And with it, a startling truth:

The thoughts were not his.

"Guru," Tristan said softly, his eyes wide with realization. "I understand now. These feelings... they aren't mine."

Aditya offered a quiet smile but said nothing, waiting.

"It's Leo. This unrest is his. I have to go to him—I need to find out what's wrong."

"Good," Aditya replied, rising fluidly to his feet. "Now that you know the true source of your disquiet, yes—I believe it's time."

He waited patiently, his gaze steady, as Tristan turned to lead the way.

Tristan and Aditya found Leo in the sitting room of his suite, seated on the floor amid scattered stacks of leather-bound books. Some were ancient, their spines cracked and gold-leaf faded; others looked newer—journals, perhaps, filled with the scrawled thoughts of long-dead minds. Leo didn't look up as they entered. His fingers flew across a brittle page, eyes scanning with frantic focus, lips moving slightly as if whispering to the parchment.

Tristan hesitated, then stepped closer.

"Leo." No response.

"Leo," he repeated, more firmly this time.

At last, Leo blinked and looked up, the haunted concentration still clinging to his expression like a shadow.

"Tristan, Honored One—what brings you here? Is something wrong?"

Leo blinked again, trying to focus on them, though his thoughts still clung to the texts scattered around him. The pull of the old manuscripts fractured his concentration like shards of light through glass.

Aditya's voice was calm, almost amused. "Shishya Tristan sensed your unrest. We thought it best to check on you."

Leo offered a distracted smile, but it didn't reach his eyes. "I'm fine. Just... researching. Something happened earlier today—something I can't quite make sense of."

He turned back to the open book in front of him, fingers brushing the edge of the page as if he might coax answers from the parchment itself.

"What is it you are searching for?" Aditya said, joining Leo on the floor.

"This morning, Liam woke from a dream and asked me if I recognized a phrase." Leo glanced at them both, voice low, thoughtful. "Liam doesn't speak Greek. And yet... those words: 'When Justice and Mercy meet, in flesh and desire—then will be revealed the true Crown of Fire.'"

He paused, his brow furrowed. "This is only the second time in my life I've heard those words. The first was over a century ago—from the lips of Genevieve, Don Fernando's blood match. She spoke them while lost in a trance, and afterward remembered nothing."

"Ahh, so this is the fire that's stirred within you," Aditya said, his voice low with memory. "I remember when Fernando came to me in India, asking if I had ever heard of a prophecy that spoke of a Crown of Fire. By then, he had already scoured every corner of the world—buying up arcane texts, rare manuscripts, and forbidden tomes from antiquities dealers and black-market traders alike. He was convinced that the phrase meant something important—something tied to your legacy."

Aditya's gaze met Leo's with quiet intensity. "It was then he ordered Alexi to begin forming the Corona de Fuego—not just as a personal guard, but as the military arm of the Divina line. A shield to be raised when the Crown of Fire was finally revealed." He crouched beside the nearest stack, fingers brushing over the bindings. "Where did you find these volumes?"

"From Don Fernando's study—his personal collection," Leo replied. "Why?"

Aditya looked up, his expression sharpening. "These are from his public library, Leo. The ones you need—the ones he collected in his final years—were part of his private archive." He stood and met Leo's eyes. "They were kept in the vault behind the desk he shared with Genevieve."

"There's no vault," Leo said slowly. "I've spent years in that room. There's nothing to suggest a hidden door or safe."

"Come," Aditya said simply, already rising. "I'll show you."

He turned to Tristan. "Find Liam. Bring him to Don Fernando's suite."

"Yes, Guru," Tristan answered, already moving.

Aditya extended a hand. Leo took it, letting the elder draw him to his feet.

Harrison paced in his room. How had it come to this?

Just yesterday, he was in control—a representative of the Order of the Unseen, respected, even deferred to by the VHA. He'd had Marlowe cowed and was on the verge of securing an alliance that could eliminate the greatest threat to the Order's supremacy.

And now?

Now he was reduced to a plaything for a psychopath—and the worst part was, some part of him craved it. Craved the humiliation. The games. The way Gideon twisted and pulled his strings like the consummate puppetmaster he was.

Harrison shivered, uncertain if it was from disgust or excitement. The memory of begging for Gideon’s attention still burned hot in his veins, leaving him trembling with equal parts shame and longing.

He sat down, still trembling. Each breath came ragged, like he was trying to outrun fate. He just had to finish the mission—see it through to the end. Then, and only then, could he reclaim the power that had slipped through his fingers.

And Gideon?

Gideon would be his. All that exquisite talent for cruelty, that savage command—focused solely on him. No more sharing. No more pretending it hadn’t awakened something inside him.

A crooked smile spread across his face as the fantasy took shape. The fire inside him flared white-hot, and for now, that vision was enough.