I open my mouth to ask, and then the lights begin.
One by one, sconces flare to life along the walls. Blue-white flames, cold and strange, climbing from darkness to illuminate the space around us. They spread in a slow wave, circling the rotunda until the entire chamber glows.
I gasp. I can't help it.
The flames burn without heat, without smoke, without any fuel I can see. Some ancient enchantment I couldn't begin to understand. The lantern above the archway ignites next, then the lights in the chamber beyond, a cascade of illumination that feels almost like a welcome.
"Incredible," I breathe, and start forward.
The second rotunda steals what's left of my breath.
Books. Thousands of them. They line the walls from floor to domed ceiling, leather spines and cloth covers and materials I don't recognize, stacked and shelved and organized in ways that suggest centuries of careful curation. Spiral stairs climb both sides of the chamber, leading to a second level where glass cases hold artifacts that glint in the strange blue light. At the center of it all sits a round table surrounded by eight chairs, as if scholars might return at any moment to resume their work.
"Jordi's descriptions don't do it justice," I whisper.
This isn't just a vault. It's a temple to knowledge itself. And it's been hidden beneath Lunaris this entire time. We find the maps with surprising ease, organized by era and region.
I pull a stack of books from the shelves labeled "Lost Histories" and "Pre-Treaty Records," then settle beside Malachiat the table. We work in companionable silence. Him spreading maps across the worn wood, me turning brittle pages with careful fingers. The weight of centuries presses down around us, but it's not oppressive. It's almost peaceful.
A splash of color catches my eye. I look up to find Malachi unrolling a map unlike any I've seen: creatures swimming through painted oceans, winged figures soaring through illustrated skies, the cartography itself a work of art.
"Is that a forgery, or genuinely ancient?"
He squints at the script along the bottom. "It’s around 350 years old, by my estimation."
I lean closer, bracing myself on the table's edge to study an island marked near the coast of Arusha. The script beside it is elegant, deliberate.
"The Island of Larimar," I read aloud. "I've never heard of it."
"Your maps are limited by design." He traces the island's outline with one finger. "And Larimar no longer exists."
My stomach drops. "The way Lunaris 'no longer exists'?"
"No." His voice is quiet. Final. "Larimar is truly gone. Cato destroyed it." He meets my eyes. "That's where the original healers came from. It was their homeland."
"What?" I sink back into my chair, the room tilting around me. "What do you mean?"
"The full history is probably in those books." He nods at the stack I pulled. "The short version is this: Cato wanted to marry Larimar's princess. She refused him. So he sent his army to slaughter everyone on the island and take her regardless."
The words are so simple. So matter-of-fact. And so utterly horrifying. For years, I've heard that healers were hunted to extinction. That unicorns were poached until none remained. I never understood how such things were possible. How an entire gift could be erased from the world.
Now I understand.
People like Cato made it so. He destroyed an entire civilization, murdered every soul on an island, because one woman denied him.Gods. That poor woman. To watch everyone she loved murdered, and then be taken by the man who ordered it.
For a moment, I almost understand the appeal of the memory trade. The mercy of forgetting something so horrific. But then I remember that the Council worships this man. That they've built their entire system around his ideology. And the nausea that rises in my throat has nothing to do with mercy.
I think of the Sages. How they forbade me from speaking about my gift. How they've always insisted I stay far from the Council's notice. They know, I realize.
They've always known what Cato is capable of. They’ve never put much importance on the last three hundred years of history, but there are things that transcend time, civilizations, and borders. Cruelty is one of them. The erasure of powerful women and people deemed "less than" by those in power appears in every culture I've ever studied.
It's a pattern as old as civilization itself. And yet. For every tyrant who rises, opposition rises too. It may be quieter. Less visible. But it endures. I hold onto that thought like a lifeline.
"Pia came from a long line of powerful women." Malachi turns toward me, his voice heavy with something that sounds like grief. "Her mother was the greatest healer of her generation. Her grandmother was a sorceress feared across three kingdoms. Her sister was a Sage."
"Is that why he wanted her?"
"He knew her gifts would be extraordinary. Even before they manifested." His jaw tightens. "She was thirteen the first time he visited Larimar. Seventeen when he returned to take her by force. She hadn't even come into her full power yet, and he was already certain she could restore his Everlasting scepter."
