Drystan sat up, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “Now that’s a plan I can get behind. Who’s buying the first round?”
Sorcha half expected Nethran to dismiss the idea outright, but he closed the book in front of him with deliberate care and leaned back in his chair, surveying the group.
“Fine. We’ll take an hour. Eat, drink, clear your heads, but we return here tonight. This doesn’t wait until morning.”
They exchanged relieved glances around the table.
Even in Nethran’s rare moments of leniency, they came with boundaries, but it was better than nothing. Everyone began moving at once, stretching and lifting themselves up as if they weighed as much as boulders. Sluggish, they all began to file out as Sorcha finished stacking books, scrolls and tomes. She grabbed her cloak from the back of a chairwhen a loud bang echoed through the library. She froze, listening for the sound. Then it came again. As her eyes slid over the library, she spotted books scattered across the floor, some open, others torn or askew. Sorcha took another step forward to further examine, but a hand tugged at her arm. She turned to see Rhosyn smiling at her as she pulled her toward the door. “Come on, we’ve only got an hour!” Sorcha smirked. “Alright, you’re right. Let’s go.” But Sorcha kept her eyes on the shadow moving between the aisles of books.
Chapter 8
Whispers in the Library
The tavern doors swung open, warm air chasing away the chill. Mason and Drystan were already bickering over the first drink. Commander Nethran took his usual seat, ignoring the bunch. The rest of the Circle trickled in, visibly relieved.
Rhosyn greeted them with a knowing look. “I see you’ve started without us.”
Drystan replied dryly, “Time is ticking.”
Emry shot Drystan a look before raising his glass in a mocking toast. Drystan winked and blew a kiss at Emry, who pretended to dodge it. “No way, philanderer! Gods know what company you’ve been keeping.” Another round of laughter erupted, the day’s tension melting into shared humor. Eirin smirked. “At least this place is quieter
than the library. Fewer chances for Drystan and Mason to trip over themselves.”
With drinks in hand, the Circle settled into simple conversation. Riona glanced around, shaking her head. She lifted her drink. “To ancient texts that say absolutely nothing.”
Drystan raised his in response. “And to the brilliant fools who read them, anyway.”
Mason muttered into his glass, “Speak for yourself.”
Rhosyn laughed. “We’re all fools.” She raised her glass higher, and Eirin smiled as he reluctantly lifted his in return. Sorcha leaned back, watching the surrounding faces. They weren’t just colleagues. They were her friends.
A serving girl passed by with trays of bread and roasted roots, the scents of rosemary and garlic chasing away the old must of scrolls and ink. Emry hardly looked up, his charcoal scratching quick strokes across the page. He angled his notebook toward Rhosyn, murmuring something about the strange twist of the flower’s petals.She leaned closer, her dark braid sliding over her shoulder, debating whether the curl of its stem was natural. Their quiet talk pulled in Mason, who offered a dry remark that set Riona snorting into her cup.
The hour slipped by in shared laughter and debate, food dwindling to crumbs between them. By the time they returned to the library, the exhaustion had settled deep.
Scrolls and books lay scattered across the tables. The occasional rustle of pages or the sigh of frustration broke the quiet hum of the room only.
By midnight, fatigue had gripped them all.
Drystan had fallen asleep with his head on a pile of ancient texts, a faint snore escaping him. Across the table, Riona blinked heavily, chin propped on her hand. Emry sat beside her, already dozing, his charcoal still clutched between his fingers. Eirin, ever diligent, worked through his stack of scrolls, though even his focus wavered. Mason had his head in a book as well, literally, drooling.
At the hearth, Sorcha flipped through yet another book. This one was different. With its edges worn, it had notitle, no author, no dates, the inside a guide to flowers and herbs. But as she turned the pages, an odd hum began to resonate from it. She looked around, checking if anybody else noticed, but no one stirred. The words that had filled the pages began disappearing, replaced by script she had never seen before.
She rubbed her eyes, certain exhaustion was blurring the words, when Eirin leaned over her chair, his voice low, breath warm against her skin.
“Find anything useful, Sorcha?”
She looked down at the book, but it had returned to its original state, and before she could process it, his lips brushed the curve of her ear. The sudden contact sent an unexpected shiver down her spine as she turned her head toward his touch. Eirin was smirking as he placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her gently back into the chair. She exhaled, leaning back in the chair as Eirin’s hands began to work. His thumbs pressed into the knots of tension, tracing slow, deliberate circles. The weight of the day faded beneath his touch.
A book snapped shut.
Commander Nethran stood at the table, his presence cutting through the quiet. The faint glow of the runes on his forearms flickered in the firelight; his expression unreadable.
“That’s enough for now. There’s no sense in running ourselves into the ground. We’ll regroup after breakfast and split into teams for rounds.”
The Circle stirred, and Eirin returned to his seat, stacking the books he had in front of him. Drystan mumbled something incoherent, earning a jab from Riona.
“Wake up, Drystan. Lumora needs its heroes. It won’t save itself.”
