I lift an eyebrow.
I take another deliberate step.
The sprite zips in front of me and thrusts a furious little finger in my face, tiny features twisted in warning.
It doesnotwant me to go in there.
Which of course makes me want to go in even more.
I step forward again.
The sprite panics, shrieking in high-pitched protest, flailing its arms, wings beating so hard they send little whirlwinds of frost spiraling across my face.
But I don’t stop.
I cross the threshold.
I step inside.
11
My fingers cling to the edge of the door as if it’s the last lifeline I have, because maybe it is. If I let go, if I drift even a little too far inside… that means I’ve truly done it. Defied Luceran Frostwynagain. There will be no denying it, no pretending I stumbled or got lost or followed a sprite by accident.
So I keep one hand rooted to the wood and squeeze my eyes shut.
If I can’tseethe forbidden room, then maybe I haven’t technically broken the rules yet. Maybe I can tell myself I only stepped inside to… grab the sprite. Rescue the sprite. Something.
Gods, I am being ridiculous.
I take another small step, stretching my arm so far behind me that my shoulder aches. Only my fingertips graze the door now. One more step and I will lose it entirely.
My heart thunders so loudly I swear it echoes off the walls. What am I doing? Nothing in this room could possibly be worth provoking more of his wrath.
Just one look. Then I will leave. No harm done.
I open my eyes slowly, cautiously, a squint at a time. Then wider. Wider still, until the cold air stings them.
My jaw drops.
It is not a torture chamber or a crypt or some Fae vault of horrors.
It is alibrary.
A colossal, two-storied library rises before me, crowned by a domed ceiling glazed with snow and frosted stained-glass windows lining the walls. Shelves tower to impossible heights, row upon row upon row, so many they disappear into shadow.
Thousands of books.
Ancient tomes sag beneath layers of dust. Others are swollen with frost, their pages curled stiff as bark. Cobwebs drape between the shelves like silver thread, and a few books lie sprawled across the floor, half-buried in snow that drifted in long ago.
The room feels untouched, abandoned, forgotten, as though no one has crossed this threshold in decades, perhaps centuries.
And my heart aches.
Because this room is everything I once dreamed of, a treasure trove of stories. A world of words.
I release the door. It closes behind me with a soft thud.
There is no turning back now.
