I watched her profile, hunting for the hesitation or guardedness I usually found in people protecting city secrets. Instead, a distinct current of anticipation radiated from her, prickling against my skin. The emotion hit me clearly: relief. She carried herself with the suppressed energy of a woman who had spent years waiting for someone to ask these specific questions.
She moved with decisive speed, guiding us down a narrow aisle where the air tasted colder. Dust drifted like slow snowfall in the beam of the overhead lights.
Aelira stopped before a long row of aged bindings and turned to us.
“Your mother worked extensively in these sections,” she said gently. “She organised much of what still remains here. If there is anything connected to your investigation… this is where her traces would lie.”
A tightness caught beneath my ribs. I was five when she died. Too young to know anything about her work. Everything I learned later came from Eamon—soft-edged stories, half-spoken explanations, grief turning details into ghosts.
“I didn’t realise she handled collections this old,” I admitted quietly.
Aelira’s eyes softened, deep with memory. “Children aren’t meant to carry their parents’ burdens. And adults rarely manage to pass down the truths they tried to protect.”
The words landed heavy between us, saturated with regret. Dane caught the slip immediately. He stepped forward, his focus narrowing into an interrogation. “What truths are you referring to, Ms. Valtaris?”
She held his gaze, her expression unyielding. “The kind that get buried,” she said, her voice dropping. She gestured to the shelves stretching out before us, answering him with the room itself. “Thisaisle contains materials related to rare alloys and artefacts whose origins are… older than our sanctioned records.”
Dane frowned, his gaze flicking from the shelves back to her. “Older how?”
Aelira hesitated—just for a breath. Enough to change the charge of the moment. “There are histories whispering beneath this city,” she said softly. “And names we no longer speak outside of stories.”
A faint chill traced my spine.
“There is… something you should know before you begin,” she said, voice lowering.
She led us deeper into the maze of stacks. The metal walkways grew narrower, the ceilings lower until the fluorescent lights overhead hummed like trapped insects. Each step echoed. The air grew denser, thick with unseen stories.
“You aren’t the first ones searching for enhanced alloys today,” she said, her voice barely a murmur now, almost lost in the hushed expanse. “A gentleman was here earlier. Quite insistent.”
My spine stiffened. Dane’s posture shifted, shoulders squaring. “Who?”
“He presented a warrant permitting entry, but no identification,” Aelira explained. “Unusual, but the seal was high-clearance. Procedurally valid.”
She stopped abruptly at the mouth of a new aisle. Identical to countless others, yet this one radiated a faint, insistent energy.
“Materials on archaic Aurathen-forged metals and what some call ‘mythic tempering.’ If the records for your metal alloy exist, they’ll be among these. The name you are looking for is Arin Brightleaf. Her books on our world’s ancient history are the most comprehensive regarding these materials.”
She gestured down the aisle. “I have other duties. Old Liora had a brilliant system, but others… less so. Any questions, you know where to find me.”
She started to turn, but Dane stepped into her path.
“Ms. Valtaris,” he said, his voice low but commanding. “You led us straight to this specific section. You know what this metal is.”
Aelira paused, meeting his gaze with an even, unbothered expression.
“I know the rumours, Detective. The name appears in the old fables, usually alongside warnings I never paid much attention to. But I am an archivist, not a smith. I catalog history; I don’t pretend to understand the alchemy behind it.” She pointed to the shelves. “If answers exist, they are sleeping in those pages, not in my memory.”
She offered a small, polite smile, then turned, her footsteps receding into the quiet.
Dane watched her leave, his jaw ticking. “Interesting. Someone else is digging.”
“Yes,” I said quietly, a flat edge in my voice. “We’re not alone on this.”
“Right. Let’s split up. You take the left, I’ll take the right. Shout if you find anything.”
I nodded, already moving down the left side of the aisle.
The shelves stretchedinto a shadowy distance, each one groaning under the weight of oversized tomes. Their titles blurred: The Cartographer’s Myths of the Old World. Spirit-Lore and Ancestral Rites. Chronicles of the First Settlers.
