“I’m trying to understand this place,” I admitted. “If I’m to stay, I need to know how it works.”
He took another step closer, and I caught the faint scent that followed him everywhere, crisp dewed grass and sandalwood.
“And how is that going?” he asked. His voice dropped lower, almost intimate in the quiet of the library. “This... understanding.”
I refused to be the first to look away. “It’s a work in progress.”
Amusement broke across his face, but it was quickly replaced by curiosity, assessment.
His gaze dropped briefly to my lips before returning to meet mine. I tried to breathe, but the weight of him captured it somewhere in my throat.
“Perhaps I could help with that.” He took another step forward.
He was close now, close enough that the warmth of him danced across my skin, and I could see the faint stubble on his chin. I should have stepped back. Should have maintained the distance I’d kept since arriving.
Instead, I remained where I was, my back against the bookshelf.
“There’s a text you should read,” he said. “If you’re truly interested in understanding Luceren’s court history.”
He looked past me to the shelves behind my head. His chest grazed my shoulder as he stretched upward. Too close to be a mistake.
His fingers curled around the spine of a book above my head, the leather-bound volume sliding free with a whisper against the shelf. He didn’t step back immediately. His chest rose and fell, and the solid strength of him brushed against me with each breath.
The grey tunic he wore stretched taut across his chest and arms, clinging to muscle with every movement—broad shoulders, corded forearms, the defined line of his biceps flexing as he grasped the book. My eyes trailed upward before I could stop them, dragging over the column of his throat, the cut of his jaw.
His lips parted slightly.
And I realised, with a jolt, he’d caught me staring.
“This one.” The words rumbled between us.
He finally pulled back, enough to place the book in my hands. The tome was heavier than I expected, bound in a deep burgundy leather that was supple and worn beneath myfingers. Silver filigree lined the edges, catching the lamplight. The title was embossed in flowing script,The Wanderer’s Path: Chronicles of Bassius Draven.
I traced my fingertips over the elegant lettering. “This isn’t a history text.”
Varyth chuckled. “It’s based on a true story,” he said, folding his arms as he leaned against the edge of the bookshelf. “It follows a fae adventurer who united the courts. Not with magic or armies, but with wit, charm, and a dangerous amount of skill. While each court governs itself, there are rules we all adhere to. This book explores the foundation of those agreements.”
I glanced back down at the book, “So, it’s history, but… dramatised?”
His smile deepened. “A more creative retelling, perhaps. But the heart of the story is true.”
“And you think this will help me understand your court?”
He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, stepping back enough that I could breathe again, though the warmth of his presence lingered. “It will give you another perspective. And perhaps a well-earned break from the drier texts you’ve been buried in.”
“I prefer that history gets straight to the point.”
“Sometimes the journey of a story is worth taking.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Varyth ran a hand through his hair. “Having lived much of the history you’ve read, I can tell you that the events around it—the emotions, the choices, the reasons—not just the facts of what happened, matter too.”
“Any examples of what I’m missing?”
He hesitated. Then, after a beat, “The last great war. I’m sure you read that it ended the enslavement of fae?”
I nodded. “Yes. That is what the books claim.”
