“Why do they all get lovely short versions of their names?” She shuffles around some papers, looking for materials to help with her debate preparations. In her stack of notes, there’s an unfamiliar page.
At first, she thinks it belongs to someone else. Maybe she accidentally grabbed something from her desk mate. But she looks closer to find that the note is written in her hand.
I am rotten. I am evil. I am guilty. I am stained with blood.
I am sick. I am wicked. I deserve to be punished.
I am a murderer. I am a murderer. I am a murderer.
Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer.
Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer.
Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer.
Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer. Killer.
The note trembles in her grip. She has no memory of writing it. Her heart speeds up. Blood rushes in her ears.
“Hello? Did you hear what I said?” Alistair asks, standing from the bed and walking toward her.
She crumples the note in her fist and tosses it in the bin. “Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you’d rather be Claud and Alis so we sound like a crotchety old married couple?”
She forces a laugh. “Sure.”
“Are you quite well? You look pale.”
Lightheaded, she rubs her temples. What the hell is that note? Why did she write it? And what if someone else had found it first?
Maybe this is what Dorian warned her about—too much time in the Realm of Nightmares eats away at sleep and sanity.
But she’s only been there twice. Is that enough to make her lose her mind?
“I’m fine,” she lies. “Just anxious for the debate.”
“You’ll get what you want out of Cas. Just play your hand right.” He turns to her wardrobe and flips through her dresses. He pulls out a green lace chemise. “And make sure you wear this.”
THE SECRET HISTORY
Godhood grants immortality, but even greater, an eternally satisfied curiosity.
The Book of Cygnus: Ascension 13:2
Claudia heads straight for the Lexora. She has one week until she’ll take the debate stage with Cassius, where she will almost certainly be slaughtered like a fattened pig, unless she can read—yes,morereading, because this place is merciless—enough about the gods to craft a convincing argument that they should be punished when they do wrong.
It should be easy enough. The gods get to punish the students—High Sage Triche said so upon Claudia’s arrival. He even said that death is always an option. Theoretically speaking, shouldn’t death be a punishment for the divine, too?
As she moves through the shelves, she can’t help but notice there are no books about Sidarphion. There are mentions of him, of course, across Cygnus’s historical tomes and in conceptual discussions of godhood. But all others—Orteslux, Malevimus, Dolericym, and Caedisterra—have more than books dedicated to them. They have entire stacks, whole shelves. There are tomes dedicated entirely to how to pray for their favor. This exists for all others, but Sidarphion… Well, if she didn’t know better, she would think he didn’t exist at all.
The candlelight fades behind her while she tiptoes farther into the dark, grazing the spines of the books to keep her orientation. Farther, farther, she walks, until the candlelight is a memory, a ghost. She can squint and strain and still only pretend to see a pulse of light beating against the worn leather spines, aeons away.
“You look lost,” a familiar voice says. She turns to find just enough light to capture the man before her—Cassius, undone, stubbly, smirking at her as always. He sits at a large desk, his own candle burning down to almost nothing.
“I don’t want to talk to you,” she says, seething. When she comes closer, she sees that he’s surrounded by all the books on her list. Every single one.
“And yet you’re talking to me anyway, as you so tend to do.”
