Chapter 110: The Nursery Beneath the Manor

Nora's hand touched the cold handle shaped like a closed fist. The wood groaned, and the door swung inward without her having to push. Stale air rolled out, carrying the scent of dried lavender and something metallic, like old coins left too long in the dark. Darius moved to stand at her shoulder. His presence was a wall of warmth at her back, but he did not step past her. "The air is old," he said quietly. "Centuries old." Hope stirred against Nora's chest. The baby's hand still glowed, the silver light pulsing in rhythm with her heartbeat, casting long shadows down the narrow staircase that descended into the dark. Nora shifted Hope to her left arm and reached for the wall with her right hand. Her fingers found stone, then wood, then something smooth and cold that clicked under her touch. The staircase lit itself. Pale blue flames bloomed in sconces set into the walls, one after another, racing downward in a wave of cold fire. The light revealed steps worn concave by feet that had walked them for generations. Nora counted as she descended. Twelve steps. Twenty. Thirty. At the bottom, the staircase opened into a chamber that stole her breath. The nursery was enormous. The ceiling arched high overhead, supported by carved beams that depicted wolves in flight, their bodies stretched toward a moon that was always full, always silver, always watching. The walls were lined with cradles. Not the simple wooden bassinets Nora had seen in pack villages, but ornate structures of dark oak and iron, each one large enough for a child to sleep in until the age of five or six. Each one bore a nameplate fixed to the headboard. Nora stepped closer to the nearest cradle. The nameplate read *Redmoor Alpha's First Son*. The cradle beside it read *Redmoor Alpha's Second Son*. Both were empty. Both had been prepared, the bedding clean, the blankets folded, a small toy carved from bone placed at the foot of each mattress. She moved down the row. *Thornveil Heir.* *Greyfang Luna.* *Ash Valley Alpha.* The names continued, a catalog of future rulers, each cradle waiting for a child who had never arrived--or who had been taken elsewhere before they could sleep in this room. Darius walked the opposite wall, his jaw tight. "There are forty cradles here," he said. "Minimum." "Forty-seven," Nora corrected without looking up. She had already counted. Her eyes traced the nameplates, searching for a pattern, a gap, anything that would tell her which pack had been the first to trade a child into this system. The nameplates were arranged in order of power. The largest cradles, the most ornate, stood at the far end of the room, raised on a platform that lifted them above the rest. She walked toward them. Her boots echoed on the stone floor. Hope made a soft sound, not crying, but aware. The glow from her hand brightened as they approached the platform. The first cradle on the platform read *Blackridge True Heir.* The bedding inside was dark blue, the blankets embroidered with the Vale crest. A thin layer of dust covered the fabric, but the pillow still bore the indentation of a small head. Someone had slept here. Nora reached out and touched the blanket. It was cold. Dead. But beneath her fingers, she felt the faint echo of something else--a thread of magic so old it had almost turned to stone. She turned to the next cradle. *Northern Alliance Peace Child.* The nameplate was newer, the wood less darkened by age. And beside it, the last cradle on the platform. The nameplate was polished. The silver letters gleamed as if they had been cleaned that morning. *Frosthold Queen,* waiting for a child Nora had never promised.