Though in truth, I don’t know if wecantrust the old Arcanist.
Her jaw works, knuckles white, before she finally extends the Codex with reluctant hands.
The moment Mavyrn’s fingers close over the Codex, the leather groans like a living thing. Silver sigils crawl across its surface in jagged lines, burning through the dark hide like molten veins. The air hums, sharp with static.
She lifts the tome high, voice a rasped command. “Watch.”
The silver veins erupt upward, threads whipping into the air like spun metal. They weave, braid, and snarl, until the first shape of a circle begins to form. And then—just as the last silver thread stitches into place—the whole construct flares, bleeding into molten gold.
Light floods the tavern. Every scar on the walls, every sticky stain on the tables blazes under its brilliance. The air sears with ozone; sparks fall like fireflies in a storm. The circle ripples like molten glass, bending the very air around it, its golden edges pulsing with impossible power. Beyond it, shadows writhe against a horizon that isn’t here.
The room falls silent. Even Ronyn’s smart mouth is shut. All of them stare at the impossible Gateway with wide, reverent eyes.
Nymeris calls.
But my hand tightens on the hilt at my back, because the way Mavyrn’s eyes gleam in the golden light? It isn’t reverence. It’s hunger.
And the thought chills me: this may not just be a Gateway. It might be aplan.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
KAEL
The Gateway spitsus out onto polished stone, and I stagger, boots striking a broad avenue lined with wrought-iron lampposts and cobblestones worn smooth by centuries of use. Lanterns flicker in golden glass cages, casting halos over doorways. The air smells of ink and candle wax, river mist threading cool against the heat of the magic still clinging to my skin.
Elyssara steadies herself beside me, and I force my eyes off her to take in where we’ve landed. Above, spires pierce the sky like quills, slender and deliberate. Between them stretch arched bridges, veined with ivy, carrying robed scholars who move with scrolls tucked beneath their arms, their voices murmuring in the hush of debate. No clang of steel, no barked orders. Just thought. Just learning.
A canal runs parallel to the street, its surface catching the lantern light like a spill of molten bronze. A small barge glides past, piled not with cargo or weapons, but with books bound in leather and cloth, carefully covered in oilskin to guard against the mist. The boatman nods to scholars as he passes, unhurried, reverent—a stark contrast to the secret dealings and blood oaths of The Underbelly.
Here, power doesn’t shout. It whispers from shelves stacked high as towers, from minds sharpened over centuries.
Elyssara’s eyes are wide, reflecting the lanterns, the canals, the ivy-laced bridges. And though my hand hovers near the hilt of the dagger at my belt out of habit, part of me knows—here, steel means nothing but invasion. For us, words will be the sharper weapon.
“Move,” I grunt to the others as they fan around me. Gone are the drink-addled civilians—in their place are razor-sharp soldiers. They nod curtly, hands hovering at hilts.
Robed scholars pause mid-step, eyes wide as they take in our armor, our blades, the scars that mark us as anything but peaceful. Then, like startled birds, they scatter. Doors slam in time with the thud of our boots. Shutters close. A woman drags a boy inside by the collar of his robe, his satchel spilling parchment across the stones. Here, weapons are not tools of defense. They are threat incarnate. And we wear them openly. Because if I’ve learned anything, it’s that betrayal can come from anywhere.
I keep my shoulders square, gaze fixed on the horizon where the city narrows into a grand boulevard. At its end, Queen Ilyra’s castle rises—not a fortress of war, but a cathedral of thought. Pale stone towers climb with deliberate grace, each crowned with arched windows of glass that catch the fading light and scatter it like prisms.
Dawn is almost upon us—the dark sky submitting to the pale pinks and oranges that climb above the castle.
Elyssara walks at my side, her hand brushing the hilt of her blade, but even she looks softened by the sight of a dawn sky, a kingdom built on peace. The tether between us hums as though the city itself plays it like an instrument.
“It’s breathtaking,” Seren whispers from behind me, mouth parted in awe.
“Yeah if you prefer to write strongly worded missives instead of settling things with steel,” Jax scoffs, as if forgetting entirely who she’s speaking to.
Seren sucks in a sharp breath, calming her nerve. “Weapons are what happens when words fail, which makes knowledge and intelligence arguably more important in the context of war,” Seren snaps with a trace of righteousness that I can’t help but appreciate.
“Perhaps,” Jax allows, “but far less enjoyable.” She unsheathes a blade, fogging her breath on its gleaming silver, and wiping it on her leather trousers, making it glint.
“Yes, those with small minds could never appreciate or enjoy the power of intellect,” Seren counters sarcastically before strutting away to the nearest bookstore, peering through the window with a triumphant smile.
Before Jax can argue, Ronyn strides up beside me. “Can we factor in a trip to a Nymerian tavern by any chance?” he asks genuinely.
“No,” Teddy snaps before I have the chance. “We can’t risk losing an entire day to Rubi’s shit.”
Ronyn scoffs petulantly, but Rubi’s face beams with devilish victory.
