I rush to his side, grabbing the hefty tome and set it on the table beside the scroll. I still can’t believe I can read the scroll, and now I want to check every book here. The book’s cover is soft, dark green leather, and around the edge of the hole, tarnished bronze vines and a tree stump design wind around the hole at the center.
Behind me, he’s searching shelves again, then moves out to the other room, searching the shelves full of artifacts. I hear clanking and shuffling, my mind spinning, then he’s coming back through the door with hurried steps, holding what looks like an oval paperweight. It’s a milk-white disk. I almost ask how he knows it belongs, but when he places the disc into the hole, the book transforms.
The disc glows with a vibrant blue and sinks, settling into place as the edges close the gaps, holding it in place. The disk illuminates, as if looking through a window, to another place, another time. There’s a sky with a different set of moons, but it’s the radiant trees glowing to the left that tell me this place isn’t in our system. The locks on the book I hadn’t noticed before spring open with a click. My heart races as Anders turns to me.
“Are you sure you want the answers? Because I’m positive we’re about to get a lot more than we asked for.” I nod, even though deep down, I don’t know.
twenty
. . .
The book fliesopen of its own accord, pages flipping until it settles. Lines of gold script ripple into being. The letters shift and pulse, as though alive, before resolving into readable form. Gold ink shimmers across the pages, forming words I shouldn’t understand—but somehow do. Unease continues to prickle at my skin. This book—it shouldn’t exist.
Anders reads the illuminated passage. “The Fae were born of sky and storm. The Elven, of root and stars. Their magic flows not through will but memory. They do not cast. They become. Their souls remember the world’s first name.”
A chill rips through me. I look at Anders. “What does that mean?”
He shakes his head slowly. “I don’t know. But it’s beautiful.”
The page flips, of its own accord, to a new section. “The Codex of Origin,” Anders murmurs, reading the title. Below it, a picture: five sibling gods, and beneath them, three distinct groups of people. He scans the text, then the image.
“Before the councils were formed, before the gods rose from the breath of the Primordials, there was harmony in separation. The Elven remembered the roots of the world, and the Fae sang to the sky’s firstwinds. The humans—newer, more fleeting—were born of will and fire. Their potential drew the gaze of the divine.”
My gaze drops to the image. The first council: the Elven. Tall, beautiful beings with pointed ears and eyes of wisdom. The second council: the Fae. Similar to the Elven, but harder, more cunning. The third: the humans. We are silent as we study the image, something stirring in me, a deep hum that feels both ancient and utterly new. It pulses behind my ribs, a strange ache of recognition for a memory I don’t possess.
After a few silent minutes, the pages flip of their own accord, like the book wants us to read specific passages. Anders shakes his head. I clutch his side, not amazed but scared. He reads the new illuminated passage:
“Astor and Calia, firstborn of the Primordials, forged the veil with their immortal councils, sealing what could not be destroyed. Kane and Ravana, their middle siblings, hungered for what was never theirs. Jealousy burned them hollow. Rage gave them shape. In shadow, they wait. Though they were not the first heirs to the Primordials, ancient gods whose names are lost to mortal tongues, they pursued the dark, ignoring the commands of their creators. For from their breath came sky, sea, and flame. Their children shaped their own worlds, but even the gods fear what they cannot control. For darkness awaits until the time of the two to unlock and make anew. The veil holds. But not forever.”
“They had parents.” I already knew that, but my head spins with knowledge. “The gods…are born?”
Anders stands, pacing. “Which means they can die. And be replaced.”
Something in the chamber shifts. Anders flips a few pages.
“From the Primordials came five: Astor and Calia, bearers of light and time, knowledge and creativity, and Kane and Ravana, shadow-born twins, seeded with unrest. They were not evil by nature but unruly, insatiable, bound by no law but their own will. They sought to undo the veil of life and death, to lift the chains of mortality from themselves and others. What they created instead was corruption:twisted immortality, a hunger that devoured time and memory alike. The youngest, Caelus, the most contemplative, always watching, always learning.”
A gust of cold air curls into the chamber. Another page flips. The light from the disc dims, turning bluish-white.
“When the two awaken, the veil will stir. The gods will whisper again. Seek the place where roots meet sky. There, the first song may be heard once more. And in song, remembrance. In remembrance, power. But beware: not all who remain in shadow have forgotten their hunger.”
The light dims. The book closes with a soft, final click.
Anders exhales, running a hand through his hair; his earlier paleness has been replaced by a subtle flush of exertion. “This isn’t mythology.”
“No,” I whisper. “It’s a warning.” The air feels heavier now. The disc still pulses, like it’s waiting for someone to ask the next question.
“Raea, I think we need to go before our magic shifts again.” He’s right. I feel something coiled inside me, not a voice exactly, but something older. A presence. A pressure. Something waiting.
My knees feel shaky. “Okay, just for now.”
Anders nods. “We’ll come back.”
“But we can’t just leave this here. What if we don’t make it back?” He reaches for the book, tucking it carefully into his bag. “And a few of the scrolls, too. Just in case.” He rolls his eyes, but shoves those in as well.
I don’t know what we’ve stepped into. I only know this: nothing is the same anymore. Not in this room. Not in me. And I’m not sure if I’m terrified…or ready.
And I swear—for just one breathless second—I hear a voice behind the veil. Low. Cold. Whispering my name.
