No,a millennium old.
Paintings lie ripped from their hooks, those somehow remaining knocked askew. All of it coated in heavy, dark dirt.
Ruins.
My heart sinks.
Is this meant to be taken as an indication of what awaits Ryc and me? Connak mentioned this place serving as a reminder of what happens when the gods don’t get their way. Why would they wantthis?
Defeat sweeps over me faster than I can brace against it. “What if the archives are like this? Or worse, what if they’re like the Moon Temple library?” I ask and my quiet voice still manages to catch an echo.
Ryc appears beside me, his stare fixed forward. “We won’t know until we find it. And even if they are, we’ll do what we must to find answers.”
As I stare at the whole of the room, my fingers find his and lace themselves tight.
Gods, I hope he’s right.
Eve lets out a long, disbelieving whistle as she wanders farther into the room. “I knew the fall of the last High Rulers was a bloody affair,” she says. “But I didn’t know Illa Ysari wasleftlike this.” There’s a clear note of disapproving disgust in her tone.
“The council could never agree how much each country should fund or staff restoration efforts,” Ryc replies, sounding particularly distant. “The issue was shelved long before I became Sovereign King. It was easier to let it go.”
Eve scoffs, a bitter, sharp sound. “Why am I not surprised bureaucratic bullshit is the reason the wellspring of our kind wasleftthis way.”
“None of this was covered in Lilith’s lessons,” I say, taking a few slow steps into the foyer. Ryc doesn’t follow and my hand slips from his. “What happened?”
“There’s no solid answer,” Ryc says and I glance over my shoulder. “The only known truth is the High Rulers were killed. There were no survivors for firsthand accounts to be recorded.” His attention shifts toward the right, and his lips work into a fine line.
In a swift sweep, Ryc walks past me, approaching the far wall.
“I never understood how a fortress like this could be infiltrated, wiped out, and left before any of the Sovereign Kings took notice,” he says as he brushes a hand over the wall, clearing a large swath of white.
Four jagged gouges tear through the center of the revealed white, darkened by clinging dirt.
My eyes widen with the realization of what they are.
The Moon Temple earned identical markings the night of the eclipse.
“I think now I have a better idea of what happened,” Ryc says quietly as he dusts his hand against his thigh.
“Netharis has pierced the veil before,” I whisper as I approach, reaching for the deep grooves.
I trace my fingers along them.
And while my hands aren’t broad enough to have created them, a typical demon’s would be.
“We saw how easily Netharis tore open portals throughout Ollora. There’s no reason he couldn’t here,” Ryc says as he watches me study the wall.
Of all the gods, Netharis would benefit from a severed connection between fae and Aether. They’d grow weaker, and in time, under the threat of dying out, they’d become more likely to accept demonic offers.
Thatfeels like something Netharis would reach for.
Above the end of the scarring, an ornate gold-framed painting hangs off-center. The canvas slashed, the lower half remains in place while the upper has curled into itself.
A portrait of a pair judging by what I can see.
An important pair, no less—the clothing too fine.
“Were the last rulers both winged fae?” I ask, hoisting myself onto my toes to reach for the upper half.
