I’m surprised to see orc merchants arguing good-naturedly with elven sellers over the price of southern silks at the harbor market. There are even a few fae merchants and Darvan’s crafters here despite the looming war. I suppose Völundr’s neutrality in trade is sacrosanct.
“That’s… a strange sight,” I murmur to Rhianelle. “I thought the Aeonian kept Aelfheim closed to outsiders.”
Rhianelle glances at them.
“A port city can’t afford to turn away traders,” she admits, pausing to choose her words carefully. “We don’t answer to the capital the way other regions do. Völundr was independent for centuries. We had our own kings, our own laws, and our own way of life.”
I watch her face. “I imagine not everyone welcomed the unification.”
Rhianelle’s expression clouds slightly. “No. My uncle chief among them. He believed the Stag Crown should sit on my head, not gather dust in some vault.”
For once, I find myself agreeing with the old bastard.
The thought has barely settled when a low chorus drifts upward from the harbor below. It’s coming from a group of dock workers taking their midday break.
“What song is that?” I ask.
Rhianelle listens for a moment. “The tale of the first Stag King. He married a sea goddess and built Völundr where the sacred spring meets the ocean.”
She smiles at the distant voices. “Come. There’s something I want to show you.”
We leave the harbor district behind, climbing the gentle slope toward the Scholar’s Quarter. The Great Library of Völundr rises seven stories into the sky. Calling it a single building would be misleading. The main structure is connected by elegant bridges to smaller libraries, linked by elevated walkways to more buildings beyond, creating a complex network that sprawls across several city blocks. Every surface is covered in deep blue tiles as if the sea itself has been captured and placed on the walls.
“Wait until you see inside,” Rhianelle says, the excitement in her voice making her sound young.
The massive doors stand wide open with no guards or restrictions. As we approach, a farmer walks out with a book tucked under his arm. He nods respectfully to Rhianelle as he passes.
“Morsvyenn had libraries too,” I tell her. “But Vlad only allowed nobles inside.”
Rhianelle scrunches her nose. “Knowledge belongs to everyone. What good is wisdom if it’s locked away from those who need it?”
I smile at her sentiment, then follow her deeper inside.
The central atrium stretches up all seven stories with a dizzying expanse of spiraling walkways lined with more books than I’ve seen in most kingdoms’ entire collections. Reading nooks are carved directly into the walls at various heights. Mechanical lifts similar to the ones I saw at the port carry people and books between floors smoothly. The air holds that particular scent of parchment and books, the same whether you’re in an elven library or a human monastery.
From the far end of the atrium, a young man approaches with an armful of loose parchment and ink-stained fingers. Rhianelle brightens immediately when she sees him.
“Cedwynn,” she calls softly.
The young scribe nearly startles. He hurries toward us, bowing awkwardly and nearly dropping his papers in the process.
“Your Highness, I didn’t expect to find you here,” he says.
Something about the kid sets my teeth on edge. I study him from where I stand. He was a squire once, if I remember correctly. Rhianelle doesn’t seem to notice. I can see it in the gentle way she speaks, the concern in her eyes. She thinks he’s fragile.
“You didn’t need to come all this way.” Rhianelle’s voice warms immediately. “I thought you’d prefer to stay in the capital.”
“The archives here have better records of the coastal territories.” He adjusts his grip on the scrolls. “I wanted to cross-reference the treaty documents before the council meeting next week.”
“You work too hard, Cedwyn.” Rhianelle frowns slightly. “Have you had your lunch yet?”
“I’ve had my breakfast this morning," he replies quietly.
“That’s not enough.”Her frown deepens. “Would you like to join us?”
I barely suppress a scowl at the offer. For just a moment, Cedwyn’s gaze shifts from Rhianelle to me.
Most people can’t holdmy stare. Even seasoned warriors find excuses to look away when a vampire meets their eyes. It’s instinct, the prey recognizing the predator.
