Suri hesitates before carefully passing me the volume. “Yes, I was aware of that.” There’s a hitch in her voice. “I’ve seen it. That one has no illustrations, only text. They…aren’t the same book.”
A chill tears into me, because Sabine has been putting all her trust into Woudix’s book. For fuck’s sake, it’s even supposed to contain the secret to putting the fae to sleep.
Immediately, I crack open the book.
It reeks of mustiness, the pages nearly disintegrating beneath my fingers. I’ve flipped through the volume that Woudix gave Sabine, too, and at first glance, they looked identical. This one isalso written in a forgotten language, with only a few words of the Immortal Tongue here and there. But come to think of it, I don’t recall any illustrations in that version.
I flip the page and freeze.
It’s an illustration—one I’ve seen before. One definitely not in the copy Woudix gave Sabine.
“Lady Suri, get some sleep,” I say, my voice suddenly hollow. “I’ll make sure Sabine gets this.”
She wrings her hands, blinking hard in the low lantern light, but nods.
“You, too, Rian,” I snap as soon as she’s gone.
“What?” His retort is sharp, wounded. He scoffs as he motions to the direction of the castle entrance behind us. “What about the Blades?”
I slam the book closed, shoving it under my arm. “We’ll put tails on them in the morning. I’ll have Folke stick so close to Artain he’ll wonder if his shadow has come to life.”
Rian paces, rubbing the back of his neck, looking like he’s working through about a hundred possible lies in his mind.
“Rian, go,” I bark.
He stops. His hand falls away, and for once, he obeys.
The castle is eerily quiet. Many of the residents are still out enjoying the festivities, which will stretch until dawn. Even now, I can hear music playing as far off as the border to the Silent Ward. But there are guards at the entrance to Raven Hall, and kitchen servants preparing for tomorrow’s full day of banquets.
Their movements clatter against my ears—even their breathing deafens me now.
I climb the narrow stairs to the second floor, where a tiny contemplation room, a place for prayer and meditation, is set unobtrusively at the hallway’s end.
I close the door behind me.
My heart thrums as I drop to the kneeling bench—worn smooth from centuries of use—and set the book on the low prayer altar. A shelf built into the wall holds a single candle and a box of matches beside it.
It’s pitch-black in here. Normally, that wouldn’t matter—my night vision’s good enough. But that’s what tricked me last time when it came to this specific illustration.
I brace one hand on the edge of the altar, the other fumbling for the matchbox. My fingers shake as I strike a match, the flame flaring to life.
Warm light spills across the parchment.
Blood-red ink gleams in its glow—the color my night vision can’t pick up on.
Slowly, I flip through the book. As I suspected, it’s the same series of illustrations that I stumbled across on the lowest level of Drahallen Hall: The ten fae seated around a stone table. Meric with his maze. Alyssantha in the throes of passion with two maids.
I flip through the pages slowly, dread pooling in my gut with every turn. These illustrations are vibrant, nearly untouched by time—more vivid and detailed than the faded murals buried in Drahallen’s crumbling plaster.
I stop on the image of Immortal Solene standing before the ancient, smoke-filled city of Calisyrune. She practically pulses on the page—her hair writhing like it might slither off the parchment.
I close my eyes for a breath, swallowing down the bitter taste rising in my throat, then force myself to turn the page.
As expected, it’s the matching image, the same one I saw in Drahallen Hall’s basement: Solene unleashing brimfire, the city swallowed in ruin as trees bloom and the raging Ramvik River runs clean.
Nature triumphant.
This was the image that first seeded a fear I couldn’t shake—that Sabine, deep down, might do the same. That she might choose nature over humanity, the way Solene did.
