Aya’s finger dug into the side of her thumb, the skin there already raw. But the pain sharpened her focus, keeping her mind from drifting too far into the future.
Some of the names had faded over time, and one was gone entirely thanks to a water stain that had smudged the ink. But it didn’t matter. Because there, at the top of the list, clearly written, was the name she’d expected.
Wrena.
The bitter taste of dread flooded her mouth. She straightened, her palms tingling as she stepped away from the desk.
“Well?” Gale prompted. “Did you get what you wanted?”
Aya turned on her heel, her steps heavy as she walked toward the door. “No,” she muttered as she tugged up her hood. “I did not.”
63
In another life, Will might have found researching in the Synastysi soothing.
His role as Gianna’s Second and overseer of the Merchant Council had afforded him many privileges, but time around ancient texts was not one of them. It was a marvel, holding the cracked leather-bound books in his hands, their spines worn and pages so thin, he was afraid to turn them too quickly lest they rip.
The only person who seemed more fascinated by them than he was, was Callias.
“And look here,” Aya’s father was saying, his pointer finger running across a line of text in the book they had spread between them. “There’s no translation for this word in our language. In any language that we know of.” His kind eyes gleamed with excitement as he met Will’s gaze. “Fascinating, isn’t it? The Divine had language—things—that we simply cannot describe in our own tongue.”
“I hope it doesn’t meanveil.”
It didn’t. The Old Language word forveilwasvoipioand they’d both seen it enough to make their eyes bleed. Butthe caustic remark slipped out all the same, Will’s shoulders tensing as he realized he’d said it aloud.
Callias merely tilted his head back and laughed, his eyes crinkling in the corners in the same way Aya’s did in those rare moments she let herself smile wide and uninhibited.
His hand was warm as he clapped Will on the shoulder. “I nearly wish itdid.” His smile faded as he frowned down at the book in front of them. “If I have to read another utterly useless passage about theVoipio, I might destroy the book its in.”
“I think that’s considered desecration,” Will mused as he flipped the page. Not that he would stop him. Callias laughed again, the sound rich and full, and it was amazing, really, how the man still managed to find pockets of joy despite all they were facing.
Then again, hope looked different depending on the person.
“Who’s desecrating what?” Will turned to find Aya leaning against one of the bookshelves. And though there was an amused grin tugging at her lips, there was something heavy about the way her body leaned on the stacks, as if she needed the support to keep her upright.
“Nothing for you to worry about,mi couera,” Callias replied easily as Nyra rounded the corner, her arms full of books. She dumped them onto the table with a heavy sigh.
“Anything?” she asked Callias.
“Not yet,” Callias replied, his voice still soft and genial. But there was an edge to it, as if he were warning Nyra off.
Aya pushed off the wall, her motions slow. “Can I talk to you?” she asked Will.
“Of course.”
He followed her through the narrow rows of bookshelves. Aya paused at the base of the staircase, her gaze darting between the stairs and the side hall, before she seemed to come to a decision. She veered down the side hall, leading him into a small unlocked office.
“What’s going on?” he asked as he closed the door behind him. Aya was a flurry of micro-movements, her weight shifting between her feet as she crossed her arms. She brought her fist to her mouth, her teeth digging into the skin of her thumb.
Will loved to lose himself in a book, but Aya…Aya was by far his favorite thing to read. He never grew tired of learning her expressions, of studying the minuscule movements on her face and cataloging them in his mind, mapping them to the emotions she’d begun to trust him with.
Will closed the distance between them, his touch gentle as he slid his hands from her shoulders to her biceps, squeezing lightly. She dropped her fist, her other hand coming to cup it as her fingers tangled together.
“I have to tell you something,” she finally murmured, her gaze fixed on her hands. Will covered them with his own to stop her picking.
“You can tell me anything,” he assured her. “You know that.”
Aya began toying with his hand instead, her fingers, calloused from years of wielding a sword and knives, warm against his own as she traced his skin.
