If I was going to be stuck here for the foreseeable future, I might as well learn something. The thought surprised me. A few hours ago, I’d been plotting escape routes. Now I was thinking about settling in. The thought of sitting by the fire with a good book left an ache in my chest.
I thought of all the endless nights I’d spent in the library at Sunspire, scouring every book in Tyrion’s royal collection for some clue about how to break the curse on my kingdom.
I’d drunk a lot of whiskey those nights. Amanti had too. Some nights, we’d laughed more than we read. Other nights, I scoured page after page, tome after tome. And come away without a single answer in the end.
I wasn’t sure if trying it again in this library made me a fool or utterly determined.
Sonoma would’ve teased me as the former. Then she would’ve picked the heaviest, driest tome on the shelf and made me read it out loud until we were both cross-eyed.
The ache that thought left in my chest nearly sent me back to bed. Instead, I crossed the room.
Up close, the collection was even more intimidating. The nearest shelf held thick volumes bound in dark leather, their spines tooled with unfamiliar characters. Some looked like claw marks. Others like vines. A few were stamped only with a single symbol in the center.
The Old Language, I assumed.
I reached out, then hesitated as something tugged at the skin of my wrist.
My sleeve had ridden up. The mark there caught the firelight—a small, inked curve of lines and arcs, the Verdant rune the oracle had etched into my flesh back in Grey Oak.
A favor owed.
I rubbed my thumb over it. The skin warmed, the magic stirring faintly like a sleeping animal shifting in its nest. Someday, she’d come to collect that favor. I could only hope it would be one I was capable of giving.
“What do you want from me?” I whispered to the mark.
It didn’t answer.
When I lowered my hand, my gaze snagged on a spine directly in front of me.
A symbol had been stamped there in faded gold. Not identical to the one on my wrist, but close—same shape, same curve, the lines intersecting in a way that made my skin prickle.
My heart thudded once, too hard.
Slowly, I slid the book free.
It was heavier than it looked. The leather creaked. Dust motes spiraled in the firelight as I carried it to the table near the hearth and set it down.
Up close, the rune on the cover was even clearer. The same shape as the one on the spine, with additional flourishes at the edges. A more elaborate version of the Verdant mark on my skin, but undeniably related.
“All right,” I murmured. “You have my attention.”
I reached for the cover.
“That’s an ambitious choice,” a dry voice said.
Every muscle in my body tensed.
I turned.
Thorne Varros lounged in the archway, one shoulderpropped against the stone, arms crossed loosely over his chest. The lamplight traced the edges of him—broad shoulders, hair pulled back and braided at his nape, eyes sharp enough to slice.
He’d traded his cloak for a simple black shirt and worn leather trousers, but nothing about him looked relaxed. Even leaning, he was all potential energy, like one wrong move would snap him into motion.
As a child, I’d heard horror stories of midnight fae—blood-suckers and teeth-gnashers. Creatures of nightmare. These fae were much more civilized than the legends claimed, at least as far as I’d seen, but I hadn’t seen a whisper of magic from a single one of them yet. That didn’t mean they weren’t a threat.
“Do you make a habit of sneaking up on people?” I asked.
“Do you make a habit of talking to books?” he countered.
