I leaned against the nearest shelf, arms crossing. “So they’re optional?”
“Visible when we choose them to be. Present always.”
“That sounds practical.”
“It is.” His gaze held on me a little too long. “What have you been reading?”
I turned back to face him. “Fae history,” I admitted. “I find it fascinating.”
His brow lifted, intrigue dancing across his face. “Fascinating?”
“The history of your courts, the way power transfers, how alliances rise and fall… it’s unlike anything I’ve ever known.”
“And what have you learned so far?”
I let out a huff, shaking my head. “That your kind love their wars almost as much as their politics.”
He laughed at that, low and rich. “An astute observation.”
I crossed my arms, leaning against the bookshelf. “It’s strange, reading about things that happened thousands of years ago. In Braerlith, history fades quickly. But here… some of you were there.”
His smile didn’t fade, but his expression shifted, considering. “Indeed. We remember.”
I didn’t know how old Varyth was. He looked no more than perhaps thirty, his skin pale as moonlight, smooth and youthful. But there was a slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes. As if he, perhaps, used to smile more. And I knew he could have seen centuries, even millennia, pass like the turning of pages in a book.
“Were you?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. “There, I mean? For any of it?”
His fingers drummed idly against the cover of his book. “For some.”
“And?” I pressed.
A shadow passed across his features. “History,” he said, “is far less romantic when you are the one bleeding inside it.”
The words sent a ripple through me, though I couldn’t quite name why.
Before I could respond, Varyth set his book down on the small table beside him. The title was still obscured, and some part of me itched to know what had been occupying his attention.
He rose, lazy grace giving way to quiet intent. “Tell me, Isara.” He clasped his hands behind his back as he closed the space between us. “Which stories fascinated you the most?”
I watched his approach, his movements smooth and measured, each step part of a carefully choreographed dance. The distance between us narrowed, yet I refused to retreat.
“The Rise of the Courts,” I answered. “How they were formed, how they maintain their boundaries. The way each court embodies different aspects of power.”
Varyth’s eyes gleamed with quiet approval. “Most humans fixate on our wars or magic. You see the structures beneath.”
I shrugged, trying to ignore the warmth that bloomed at his praise. “Perhaps because I understand court politics better than I’d like to admit.”
“And what do you make of Luceren’s court, now that you’ve had time to observe it?”
I considered his question. The past weeks had given me a glimpse into the workings of his court—the balance of power, the quiet alliances, the unspoken hierarchies.
“Your court is... disciplined,” I said finally. “There’s an order to everything, a purpose. Nothing happens by accident.”
His lips curved. “And is that a compliment or a criticism?”
“Neither. Just an observation.”
“You’ve been watching closely.” The firelight flickered just right as he shifted. It caught on the curve of his cheekbone, on the faint, pale scar that traced beneath it. A single, elegant slash marring otherwise flawless skin.
