Today’s walk with Evelyne had offered a rare sense of peace. She hadn’t judged or pried, just listened. He hadn’t told her everything, not the full extent of the visions or the symbols that haunted him, but speaking even a little of it out loud had lessened the weight on his chest. Still, the visions remained: a gnarled tree and fleeting glimpses of a crimson moon. They felt carved into him, and were impossible to ignore.
Seated at his desk, Cillian began sketching the tree again, just as he had the other night. His hand moved on its own, tracing its twisted form, but his thoughts drifted elsewhere. To the woman in his visions. Draped in black, with snow-pale hair and lips like fresh blood. Her smile walked the line between enchanting and cruel. Beautiful, yes—but there was danger in it. And her voice? That was the real weapon. Each word a trap, soft-spoken and barbed.
He hated that her attention meant anything to him, that her words could reach a part of him he didn’t even recognize. He wasn’t like the other young men. He stuck to quiet corners, lost in books, watching rather than participating in conversation.
Maybe that was why her attention felt so thrilling.
The last time she’d appeared, he had been outside, though he couldn’t remember why. One moment, he was at the breakfast table, and the next, he was crouched in the dirt with Evelyne and Alaric hovering over him. The memory sent a shiver through him. What had they seen? What had he done?
He shook himself free of the thought and opened another book, flipping through pages he had already read twice. His eyes traced the faded text, but his concentration faltered as a knock sounded at his door. “Come in,” he called, hurriedly closing the book and sliding it onto the shelf.
His father entered, the sharp lines of his tailored suit cutting an imposing figure in the small room. Cillian straightened instinctively. His father rarely visited his room.
“I met with Gaviel Stonebridge today. Alaric, thankfully, did not mention your… episode.”
The word struck him like a blow. Shame coiled in his chest. Cillian looked down at his desk, unable to meet his father’s gaze. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.
Brushing past the apology, Aron moved farther in and took a seat at the bed’s edge. What startled Cillian wasn’t the intrusion, but the unexpected gentleness in his father’s expression.
“Evelyne told me she walked with you today. She believes it did you good to get out of the house.”
Cillian nodded, unsure how to respond.
After a pause, his father spoke again. “I need to go to Velenshire tomorrow for business. I think it would be beneficial for you to come along.”
Cillian wasn’t sure about the offer, but his father didn’t make gestures like this often. So he didn’t overthink the reason behind it—just the tiny hope that his father was making an effort was enough for him to accept.
“Alright,” was all he could manage.
His father nodded once, rising to his feet without another word. He left the room as briskly as he had entered, leaving Cillian to sit in the heavy silence that followed.
Cillian turned back to his desk, his gaze settling on the sketch of the tree. Whatever awaited him in Velenshire, he clung to the hope that it might bring him closer to unraveling the mystery of this curse, orwhatever force had taken hold of him. Velenshire was renowned for its extravagant library, a trove of ancient tales and records chronicling the continent’s history. Perhaps, if he could steal a moment away from his father, he might delve into its shelves and uncover the answers he so desperately sought.
***
The streets of Velenshire pulsed with quiet energy as Cillian stepped beyond the lantern glow and fading hum of night. Slick cobblestones shimmered beneath the dim light, and shadows stretched across buildings of worn stone and dark wood, their peaked roofs jutting like silent sentinels into the star-flecked sky. The crisp air carried the scents of smoke and earth, and the faint sweetness of roasted chestnuts. Yet beneath it all, something hung in the silence. Like the town itself was holding its breath.
Cillian wandered the streets while his father met with Lord Shaw to discuss some vague matter of business, details he was never privy to. Truthfully, he was relieved not to be dragged along. He preferred the freedom to explore on his own. Each turn revealed another quiet corner of Velenshire, its charm unfolding around him.
His attention snagged on a swaying shop sign that readRelics and Refinements. Something about it beckoned, like an unseen thread drawing him forward.
As he stepped inside, a bell chimed softly, and warm, jasmine-scented air wrapped around him. Shelves brimming with polished stones and tiny, elaborate figurines made the shop feel like it had barely enough room to breathe.
Behind the counter stood the shopkeeper, her kind smile paired with a crown of brown curls laced with silverthat glimmered like moonlight in the glow of the lamps. Her eyes seemed to pierce through Cillian’s carefully constructed composure as if she could sense his unease, his questions.
“Evening, young man. What can I help you find?”
Cillian cleared his throat. “Good evening. I’m looking for the library. I was told it’s near, but I have lost my way.”
The woman’s smile widened, revealing slight laugh lines around her mouth. “Ah, you’ll find it just a street over. Follow this road until you see the baker’s shop, then turn left. You can’t miss it.”
“Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.”
She chuckled softly. “Go on, now. Don’t keep the books waiting.”
He left the shop with clear directions but an unsettled sense that the woman knew more than she let on.
The path she described led him to the library, a building that loomed like an ancient guardian in the heart of Velenshire. Its columns rose toward the heavens, their surfaces etched with weathered patterns. The air inside was cooler, laced with the scent of ancient parchment and timeworn bindings. Towering shelves loomed on either side, their sheer height and closeness casting the aisles in quiet shadow. As Cillian followed the elderly librarian, he let his fingers drift across the spines, each one whispering of forgotten knowledge.
