“No…” I reply hesitantly.
“Tell him to draft it, and I’ll approve it for you.” Wrath leads me down another corridor.
“Truly?” I ask.
That was surprisingly easy. I twist my head to look at him, trying to catch any insincerity. I immediately regret my choice. Grey eyes meet mine in return—two piles of smoldering ash that make a flush burn across my cheeks. It vexes me that Inotice such details about him. He is a monster. He is a scoundrel. He is a killer, lest I forget.
“Yes,” he replies.
“Thank you.”
“You’re inclined to help an Elvarran girl,” Wrath points out. His keen intellect never misses a detail. He likely suspects I have ulterior motives—I do not—and is investigating me.
I lower my gaze to the floor. “I know what it’s like to have an awful father,” I say, my voice distant.
Wrath doesn’t push further, dropping the subject. He stops before a tall door. I notice the embedded gemstones in the handle that shine as he pulls it open. We walk through a short corridor before the library expands into a large, central atrium.
The room soars three stories high. Each level is lined with tall pillars, evenly spaced between railings carved from dark wood and etched with intricate patterns. To my right, a pointed arch blooms into a domed ceiling, with windows that stretch from floor to vault, their stained glass panels casting shards of color across the space.
Beneath the dome stands a tall statue of a goddess, clad in thick robes, carved from dark purple stone with veins of silver running through it. Her left hand holds a scale that is tipped to one side, while her right hand holds a long staff topped with a crescent moon.
It is the most beautiful library I have ever seen. I could spend months here, and wouldn’t be able to read even a fifth of the volumes lining the endless shelves. Everywhere I look, there is another piece of art, each detail accounted for with ornate precision. Below my feet are mosaic tiles adorned with the same crest as my mother’s necklace—a sword with two wings on either side.
Above us is a faded mural on the ceiling. It depicts Elvarrans gathered around a small, glowing spring, as if in sometype of celebration. The water is an almost unnatural shade of blue, the surface adorned with unique, constellation-like patterns.
“It’s Elderaneth,” Wrath says.
“What?” I tear my attention away from the ceiling.
“It’s said that humans jumped into the spring’s waters and emerged with pointed ears, gaining the ability to wield magic.” He absently pulls down the edges of his sleeves.
“It’s depicting the first Elvarrans?” I glance back up at it.
“Yes.”
“Does the spring still exist?”
“About a three-month journey north into the mountains,” Wrath replies.
Surprise fills me. I never even thought to question how Elvarrans came to be, the story revealing a side of them that is more complex, more… human. After being raised to hate them, it’s quite a shift to discover that we are all, essentially, the same—only the use of magic dividing us.
“Have you gone?”
“No. It’s difficult to access and is guarded by a guild whose members vow to devote their lives to protecting it,” he explains. “The last person to visit was Isla Izydor.”
A tense pause stretches between us—my mother. I knew Wrath wanted something from me, but now the object of that desire is beginning to come into focus. Maybe my relation to Isla would somehow help them regain their magic, given her association with the spring. I am a tool to him, I realize—a means to an end, nothing more.
“You worship Itheon in the South, correct?” Wrath asks.
“We do.” I nod, turning my attention back to the goddess statue. “I’ve never seen a depiction this beautiful of Seluna before.”
“We believe that Seluna created the heavens and the earth, and Itheon created the humans and the animals,” he replies.
“Really?” His story differs from what I learned in history lessons. Humans believe that Itheon created all life, the heavens, and the earth, while Seluna manages the underworld and the spirits, guiding people when they pass to the afterlife. Perhaps the true story lies somewhere between the two, each a variation of the same tale.
“Seluna took a human lover and gave birth to Krateus Izydor, the first Izydor.” Wrath recounts the mythos to me. “When her lover died, she cried so much in the mountains that it created Elderaneth.”
“Is that why no one is allowed to visit?” I ask curiously.
