Stories of princes and princesses and dragons, where she’d learned that not every character needed saving.
And not every villain needed to be slayed.
In books, she learned about love. She learned about heartbreak, too – and vengeance – things she knew all too well.
Each story watered the seed that had been sown in Ezer’s soul long ago: the desire to live out her own choices.
It gave her hope that there wasmorefor her outside of her tower. That the world was full of color, instead of scrolls scribbled in black and white.
So when the doors of the library shut behind her now, and Ezer was wrapped up in its warm embrace … she felt like she could hardly breathe from the sheer beauty of it.
She hadneverseen so many books at once.
They took up an entire turret of the Citadel. The walls were rounded behind rows upon rows of shelves.
An ornate curving staircase of gold stood along the library’s far wall, stretching upwards like a mighty dragon. Arched windows in the stone revealed the entirety of the soldiers’ barracks and the Thornwell Forest beyond, their edges lined with hoarfrost.
Each step was made of white marble and carved with depictions of the gods in their many forms.
Exquisite, in every sense of the word.
There were carts of books amongst the rows of shelves. And tables stacked to the brim with books. And books holding up other books – enough that she couldn’t count them if she spent a full week here.
And thesmell.
Gods, it was lovely.
Ezer closed her eyes and breathed deeply.
It was of leather, worn paper, and crackling wood from an enormous stone fireplace that stood like a beacon in the center of it all. Itwas round, to allow Sacred to sit on the hearth from all sides, and it stretched all the way up to the library’s domed glass top.
Wardlight bathed a soft, golden glow on everything below.
Several Scribes sat at the scattered tables, amongst pen and ink and haphazardly stacked piles, busy practicing inscribing their runes. It felt like a school.
The kind of thing she’d never experienced, growing up in the south.
She’d never even spent much time around anyone her age.
It was only Ervos.
Only the birds.
‘The Scribes,’ Arawn explained, keeping his voice low as he led Ezer into the space, ‘consider the library a second home. They come here each day to prepare their Knights for battle. They test out new runic combinations, for there are millions. Trulymillions,enough that it would take multiple lifetimes to scratch the surface of what the godstongue can do.’
They passed by a Scribe using his dagger to prick the tip of his finger, drawing a bead of blood that he used to paint a delicate rune upon a bit of stone. Strange, that it did not look painful.
Rather it looked like an artist at work, peaceful and practiced.
The stone began to tremble.
And then it disappeared, gone in a flash, as if had never been there at all.
‘They spend their entire lives studying and perfecting, through trial and error,’ Arawn explained. ‘Learning how to inscribe them perfectly, because any error in the formation, and the rune won’t wake. When we take to battle, we are heightened by their countless hours spent preparing. Their knowledge of the godstongue far surpasses a Knight’s. Without the Scribes, we would die from the first hit we take in battle. The first scrape of a darksoul claw.’ He looked sidelong at her. ‘Our War Eagles, too.’
‘I’ve no knowledge of the eagles,’ Ezer said, as her ears perked up at the mention of them. ‘The prince is a fool if he thinks I’m to be of any worth to himin Minding them.’
Though a part of her could imagine it.
