Chapter 122: The Archives of Blood and Silence
It was an unusually grey morning, one of those hush - colored days when the sun refused to rise fully, as if reluctant to peer into whatever secrets might be unfolding below. The Ainsley's estate had grown quiet since Adrian Wycliffe's departure — quiet in the way a battlefield sometimes feels after a storm, when everything is still standing, but changed.
Eva awoke in the solarium, where she had fallen asleep reading the night before. Her sketchbook was open across her lap, and a single word was scribbled in one corner: Lineage.
She couldn't explain why it had risen in her like a bubble breaking through water, but since Adrian's visit and his strange, stinging suggestion that she "belonged," something inside her had shifted. A pull. A thread she couldn't stop tugging at.
Vivienne found her there as the morning fog burned faintly against the windows. "You were up all night?"
Eva nodded. "I'm not tired."
"You wrote in your sleep again." Vivienne pointed to the page. "Lineage?"
Eva glanced down, then back up. "Who are we, really?"
Vivienne didn't answer immediately. Instead, she walked to the side table and poured two cups of tea. When she returned, she handed one to Eva, then brushed a lock of tangled hair from her forehead.
"That's a question only your maman can truly answer," she said gently. "And she's just arrived."
Eva looked up sharply. "She's here?"
Vivienne nodded. "She's waiting in the library."
Eva leapt from the chaise, barefoot and rumpled but wide - eyed. Her feet pattered over marble and polished wood as she raced through the corridor. She didn't slow until the heavy oak door of the west library loomed before her.
She pushed it open.
Evelyn stood by the fire, a thin file in her hands, her posture composed but her eyes soft.
"Maman."
"My heart," Evelyn whispered.
Eva ran to her. She hugged tightly, fiercely, burying herself in the scent of linen and lavender. But after a moment, she pulled back, her gaze serious. "I want to know everything. Please don't hide it anymore."
Evelyn nodded slowly. "Not everything. Not yet. But enough."
She gestured to the leather armchairs near the hearth. When they were seated, she opened the file and drew out a single parchment, old and yellowed, with a red wax seal partially cracked but still intact.
"You've always known you were different," Evelyn began. "Not just because of what you feel, or what you can do, but because of what runs through you."
Eva swallowed. "The bloodline."
"Yes. You come from two great lines — one paternal, one maternal. But today, I will only tell you of the maternal. Because it is the quieter one. The hidden one. And the one I chose to leave behind, for your sake."
She laid the parchment on the low table between them.
It was written in F•••••, inked in the cursive strokes of a hand long gone. At the top, in gilt - stamped letters, were the words:
Maison de Mercière
Lignée gardée en silence depuis l'an 1492
Eva traced the words with her eyes, then looked up.
"The House of de Mercière?"
Evelyn nodded. "A branch of F••••• aristocracy so secretive it all but vanished from public record centuries ago. Not fallen, not stripped — but hidden, intentionally. By choice. Because too many wars were fought over us. Too many games played by men trying to steal what wasn't theirs."
"Like Adrian," Eva muttered.
"Precisely."
Evelyn leaned forward, her eyes lit by the fire. "The de Mercière blood is not loud like the Langfords or the Wycliffes. It does not roar in courtrooms or blaze in parliament. It whispers. It remembers. It creates. We've always passed down artistry, music, perception. That's where you get your ear, your eye for detail, your poetic instinct."
"But I don't understand," Eva said. "If we're so hidden, how do we still exist?"
"There are twelve of us left," Evelyn said softly. "That's all. Twelve names. Scattered like stars. And you, my Eva, are the last heir born into the direct line. The twelfth."
Eva's breath caught. "That means…"
"When I die, you will be the only one with full memory of our bloodline, unless you pass it on. No courtiers. No estates in our name. Only what I've kept here." Evelyn tapped the folder. "And what's hidden in G•••••."
"G•••••?"
"The de Mercière archives," Evelyn said. "One of the oldest private collections in E•••••. Coded. Disguised within a banking institution. Only certain codes unlock the vaults."
"And you've been keeping it from me."
"I've been protecting it," Evelyn said firmly. "And you. If others knew the full truth — if even your name Ainsley was tied to these archives — there would be consequences. Political, economic, even violent."
Eva looked into the fire, her jaw set. "I want to see it."
Evelyn hesitated. Then nodded. "We'll go. Today."
*****
The flight to G••••• was swift. Vivienne had arranged the jet without question; she'd known this moment was coming. As they landed and moved into the cold, gleaming city, Evelyn held Eva's hand tightly. There were no armored guards, no procession. Only a black car waiting discreetly at the airport.
The building they entered was quiet and tall, its facade stone, its signage neutral: Marchand & Cie — Patrimoine et Conseil.
Eva looked up. "This is a bank?"
"A mask," Evelyn said. "One the de Mercières have used for over two hundred years."
They entered. A man in a tailored suit met them at the private reception room. He did not smile, but he bowed.
"Madame de Mercière. And the heiress."
Eva blinked at the title, but Evelyn nodded curtly.
"No questions," Evelyn told her as they followed the man down a long corridor and into a room that looked more like a chapel than a vault. Stone walls, high ceilings, a gold - leafed fleur - de - lis on the marble floor.
The man pressed his hand to a scanner, and a small portion of the floor shifted open like a puzzle box. A drawer emerged — no longer than a piano bench — and in it lay a single bound volume.
"Only you may open it," the man said, looking at Eva. "It's tied to your maternal DNA. Even Madame may no longer access the full ledger."
Eva stepped forward, hand trembling. When her fingers touched the cover, something warm pulsed beneath her skin.
The book unlocked with a whisper.
Inside, there were names. Pages of them. Written in centuries of hand: Clémence de Mercière, 1503. Agnès de Mercière, 1571. Solange de Mercière, 1668. And on it went, each name followed by notes in varying dialects: musician, healer, writer, botanist, poet, architect.
"I didn't know they were all women," Eva whispered.
Evelyn smiled faintly. "Not all, but many. The bloodline favors sensitivity, not conquest. Those who inherited our gifts most purely were almost always daughters."
"And me?"
Evelyn turned to the final page.
There, written just weeks after Eva's birth, was the last name entered:
Évangeline "Eva" Claire de Mercière Maxwell — Lioré Alias "Ainsley" — The twelfth Flame
Family of D'aragon — Solenne
Bloodline of Athena, Aphrodite, Aira, Vaethea
"No title," Eva said.
"No," Evelyn said. "Only legacy. Only truth."
That night, back in the Ainsley's estate in G•••••, Eva could not sleep.
She sat at her window, a blanket around her shoulders, the fire flickering low behind her.
Maman entered quietly and sat beside her.
"You saw the book?" she asked.
Eva nodded. "They called me the Twelfth Flame."
Maman said nothing at first. Then: "Do you know why your I chose not to tell you about the rest? About the Maxwell's? The Lioré's?"
Eva looked over, startled. "You know?"
Maman smiled gently. "Of course I do. Vivienne and I… we've kept many things safe. Not because you are fragile, but because you deserve to grow without the weight of a crown pressing your skull before you've had a childhood."
"You said you'd tell me when I'm grown."
"I will. But for now, the de Mercière truth is enough."
Eva pulled the blanket tighter. "It felt like… falling into a poem. Reading that book."
Evelyn reached over and brushed a curl from her cheek. "Because that's what you are. A living line of poetry. Old and new."
They sat in silence for a while.
Then Eva said, "They made me feel like I belonged to something real. Not just danger or training or secrets. But something… chosen."
"You are chosen," Evelyn whispered. "By the ones who came before you. And by the ones who love you now."
Eva turned and hugged her fiercely.
And in her heart, she whispered a promise — one she would keep for the rest of her life.
To honor the de Mercière line.
To protect its light.
To never forget that she was not a prize, but a flame.