The men, unsurprisingly, had absolutely no such reservations. Tristan had taken to the bottle with his usual reckless abandon, drinking deeply and far too quickly, while even the Hunter had indulged in more than a few heavy swigs. It wasn’t long before their conversation slowed to a crawl, their words tumbling out in that hazy, unfocused way, the bottle now nearly drained between them.
Elara had been watching them from the corner of her eye all evening, biding her time. She needed them to fall asleep, to slip into that blissfully unaware state, and if Tristan’s current position, sprawled across the settee and snoring like a hibernating bear, was any indication, the time had finally come.
Slowly, she rose from her chair and set the book she’d been pretending to read back on the desk. The room remained still—broken only by Tristan’s soft snores and the Hunter’s near-silent breathing. She slipped from the drawing room, heart hammering, and didn’t let out a careful breath until she reached the hall. Then she moved down the dim corridor toward the library.
All day, while they’d sifted through the Hunter’s extensive collection, she hadn’t seen a single text inTírrísh. Not that she’d been free to look properly. His gaze had tracked her the entiretime, every movement measured, and she couldn’t risk drawing attention to what she was really searching for.
Because, in truth, she still didn’t know where his loyalties truly lay. Sure, he wanted her help to save his brother, and he was willing to defy his lord to do it. But that didn’t mean he was against everything his lord stood for. She couldn’t trust that he wouldn’t stop her if he caught her trying to uncover more about the Sidhe—their language, their history. After all, he had spent years hunting down those who clung to the old ways, rooting out every trace ofTírríshculture from Osin’s new world.
That was his job.
Shehadto remember that. Each glance, each moment of blurred judgment, required correction. TheDraoth Carahad to be influencing her—distorting trust, reshaping feeling. She couldn’t let it take hold. She couldn’t afford to.
And maybe he had already burned every last book in theTírríshscript, wiped away every trace of what had existed before the war. Maybe she was chasing something that had long since been reduced to ash. But she had to try. His collection was immense, sprawling in ways she could never have dreamed back in Verdara. If there was even the smallest fragment left, if there was any chance of finding something—it was worth digging deeper.
Elara nudged the door open, just a sliver, the soft creak barely audible. The room beyond was bathed in a muted light, tiny orbs floating lazily through the air, casting a glow across the library’s towering shelves. At night, the place felt different—almost otherworldly, as though it was a place not meant to be touched, only glimpsed from the corner of your eye. A shiver crawled up her spine, prickling at her skin, and she instinctively wrapped her arms around herself, trying to shake the eerie feeling that settled over her.
Focus.
This was what she did best—research, unraveling the threads of mysteries and pulling them into something clear, something that made sense. But where to begin? Her fingers brushed the spines of the nearest books as her mind raced, trying to piece together everything she had learned so far.
The stones, aligned with a rift, were a potential gateway—a theoretical portal—for the Sidhe to return toTír na nÓg. That much she had established. But her research, the notes she had pored over, didn’t confirm how to fully activate the gate. The equation was incomplete—two parts discovered, but the third, the catalyst, was still unclear.
Elara’s footsteps echoed with purpose as she strode toward the massive circular desk in the center of the room. A chaotic heap of knowledge—scrolls, books, loose pages—thrown together with little care. She dove into the mess, rifling through it with a frantic energy, her hands flipping pages, pushing aside stacks of old parchment, searching for anything that might hold a clue. There had to besomethinghere.
Minutes ticked by—precious, dragging minutes—in which her search revealed nothing but more disorder. In her haste, her arm brushed against a stack of scrolls, sending them cascading to the floor with a soft rustle and thud.
Her breath hitched as she glanced toward the doorway, heart pounding. Only when she was sure no one was about to walk in did she let herself breathe again. She turned back to the desk, braced her hands on the edge, and lowered her head. A tension headache began to throb behind her eyes.
The Hunter was such a slob! How did anyone work like this?
She moved through the stacks with mounting desperation, yanking books from the shelves so quickly her hands barely registered their weight before she cast them aside. It felt like hours had passed, though it was probably only minutes—buttime had a way of warping when you were certain you’d be caught at any second.
Elara’s eyes fluttered closed for a moment before she opened them again—and nearly jumped out of her skin. An orb hovered just inches from her face, its soft, pulsing light throwing gentle shadows around the room, flickering like timid flames.
She blinked at it, the ridiculousness of the situation not lost on her. “I don’t suppose you could help me, could you?”
The orb, unsurprisingly, gave no response. She let out a frustrated breath, shaking her head. “Gods, I’m talking to balls of light now. This is pointless. He probably has nothing on the Sidhe, anyway.”
The moment the words left her lips, the orb flared. It shot off through the labyrinth of shelves with such speed and purpose that her heart lurched. She ran after it, feet barely grazing the floor, until it drew her into a secluded corner—tucked neatly away from the rest of the library.
A curved window was set into the wall, its frame lined with a built-in bookshelf that traced the arc of the glass. Beneath it, a seat was tucked into the curve, lined with deep cushions and draped in faded fabrics, as if it had once been someone's favorite spot for reading and dreaming.
Moonlight poured through, drawing silvery patterns across the floor and casting the sprawling gardens outside in a ghostly glow. The orb hovered beside the left curve of the bookshelf, its soft glow highlighting a weathered tome nestled between two larger volumes. Its light flickered gently, as though beckoning her closer.
“Thank you,” Elara murmured to the orb, her voice soft as she drew the book nearer. The cover was plain, devoid of any title, or author’s name. It resembled a journal more than a formal publication. A quick look at the surrounding books revealed a series of texts proudly bearing the nameYalden Hargrave, a luminary in the healing arts. Her gaze flicked back and forth between the unassuming journal and the distinguished volumes beside it, a tangle of confusion knotting in her stomach.
Elara shot a doubtful look at the orb. “This is it? The only piece on the Sidhe?”
The orb's glow brightened for a moment, as if in confirmation.
She cautiously opened the journal, and her breath caught. The pages were filled with lines ofTírríshscript, flowing like rivers of ink across the paper, with Latherian translations hurriedly scrawled in the margins. The handwriting was messy. As if someone had been working against the clock to translate it all.
She bit back a triumphant laugh. This wasn’t the comprehensive guide she had been hoping for, but it was a start. A damn good start.
Elara leaned back against the cold window, the chill of the glass biting into her skin as moonlight poured over the journal's pages. The detail was staggering. Pronunciation notes, subtle variations in dialect—this wasn’t just some amateur’s work. No, whoever had written this had taken their time, documenting even the smallest of details with a scholar’s eye.
She paused, her fingers lightly tracing the inked lines. It had to be the Hunter. Who else would have written this? Even though the handwriting was hurried, she recognized it as his. What caught her off guard, though, was the detail in the notes. This level of passion, this almost hyper-fixated dedication, didn’t match the image she had of him at all. For someone so stiff, so chained to his sense of duty, this kind of fervor seemed unexpected. But then again, how much did she really know about him?
