And Thane—he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But I see the way his fingers twitch, the way his breath has gone completely still.
I don’t know the name. But they do. I glance at Lyra—she looks just as lost as I feel.
“Who?” I ask.
Valen exhales, his voice quiet, but heavy. “One of the greatest Shadow Clan generals of the war.” He swallows. “And according to Fire Clan history—one of the worst war criminals who ever lived.”
The air in the library feels heavier now, charged. The name Sylas Veyne lingers in the space like a wound torn open, raw and waiting.
Lyra folds her arms, glancing between Valen and the others. “Alright,” she says, tilting her head. “I’ll bite. What did he do?”
Silence stretches for a beat too long.
Then, Valen exhales. “The Fire Clan called him the Shadow Butcher.”
I shift, glancing at the journal still in his hands. The words land strangely—like a title too sharp, too deliberate.
Jarek scoffs, shaking his head as he pulls another book from the shelf. “That name was earned.”
Rian leans against the nearest shelf, arms crossed. “We were taught that he was the worst war criminal of the Shadow Wars.”
“Taught by who?” Lyra asks, arching a brow.
Valen doesn’t answer immediately. He just flips open the journal, scanning the first few pages. “By the Fire Clan.”
Jarek gestures toward the shelves. “This is what we were taught growing up in the capital. Every history book, every school. His name was a curse.”
Garrick nods, placing a steady hand against the small of Lyra’s back. He continues to keep a watchful eye on her, even though she is standing and speaking to us. “There was no mercy in him. If he had won, the entire realm would have been drowned in shadow.”
Rian exhales. “His own people called him the Dark Hand. He believed in one thing—power. And he didn’t care how much blood it cost to get it.”
I glance at Thane. He hasn’t spoken, hasn’t moved. Then quietly, without looking up, he speaks. “We learned this in Fire Clan school.”
His voice is calm, even—but I hear the weight behind it. He doesn’t have to explain. I understand. This isn’t just a history lesson for him. This washishistory. A history taught to every child in major cities around the realm.
But Lyra and I?
We grew up in a farming village in the Earth Clan region. We were taught many things, but not the detailed history of the Shadow Wars. Our schools prioritized farming, weather, lessermagics. Reading. Math. History of the realm—broad, never deep. The focus was on Earth Clan culture and tradition.
Lyra stares at the journal. “So . . . he really did all that?”
Valen doesn’t answer right away. He turns the page, studying the faded ink, his fingers tracing the careful script as if weighing something unspoken.
A long pause.
Then, finally, he exhales, voice measured, almost challenging. “That’s what the Fire Clan says.”
Lyra shifts slightly where she sits, still pale, weak, but alive. Garrick stays close, his hand near hers—ready, just in case.
I look to Thane. His face is blank—but not calm.
What is Valen suggesting? I sift through his words, the ones he’s said before:“History is written by the victors.”
Could it all be a lie?
The thought catches in my chest like a hook. I want to dismiss it—but I can’t.
This wasn’t just a war. It was a story. One the Fire Clan needed everyone to believe. A story crafted to justify what they did. A story polished until no one even thought to ask:
