Inside the luxurious suite, he moves to two doors I paid little attention to upon our arrival. With one sweeping motion, he pulls them both open. A private study. No—more than that. Shelves stretch from floor to ceiling, stacked high with books and journals, a hidden trove of memory and history. A private library.
For a moment, I nearly forget why we came.
Vale moves with quiet reverence now, kneeling at the far wall andopening a cabinet packed tight with small leather-bound volumes. “Her journals,” he says softly, brushing dust from one of the covers. A hush settles over the room, and I instinctively honor it.
He sets a heavy stack upon the broad desk—carved wood and dark granite forming a formidable presence far grander than the modest writing desk in our chambers. He pulls out a sturdy armchair, and signals for me to sit. Once I do, he retrieves another stack and rolls up his sleeves. “Many of these are from after the Fade,” he sighs and seems to sink back into himself for a moment. “We need something older.” He reaches deeper into the cabinet, withdrawing volumes with brittle, cracked spines.
Vale opens one, his thumb lingering on the parchment. His eyes flicker—memory, grief, and tenderness entwined. He shakes his head slightly, dissatisfied, and reaches again. “Yes. These.”
He shifts the older set forward, the more recent volumes spilling slightly aside. I instinctively straighten them, suddenly aware of how many lifetimes rest in these stacks.
Before we open the pages, I pause to take it all in. These books are older than even my village. Reverence washes over me—not only for what I am about to read, but for this world I have stepped into. I trace a careful touch along the fragile edges.
Vale opens one and turns it toward me. “I was only a boy,” he says with a warm laugh. “Try not to judge my choices too harshly. We’re here to understand what life was like when magic still breathed.” He winks before lifting another journal and moving across the room. Each of us sets out to uncover what we may.
The ink is faded, but the handwriting remains beautiful. I still myself as I slip into a day in the life of the lady of the manor. Past lady. I suppose I am now the lady of the manor.
An eerie realization.
Her words are kind. Gentle. She writes of people and places with unmistakable affection. I sense no fear in her pages, no shadow of doubt. It feels foreign to me—uncertainty has been my constant companion. She writes of hosting a noble family. Of young Vale’s antics. Of a signature dish prepared for the evening’s meal.
It all feels so…normal.
Through centuries of change and loss, the heart of this place has always been love.
Leaning back, I marvel at the endless volumes. I have always loved the written word, found solace in stories and in my own thoughts pressed to parchment. But these… these are entire lifetimes laid bare.
This may be the clearest image I have of what immortality truly means.
Immortal.
Vale’s mother is gone. His father too. As are so many others lost when magic faded. I close my eyes, carrying quiet grief for lives I will never know.
The Blessed.Is it truly a blessing to watch everyone you love slip into time?
My gaze drifts to Vale. He perches at the window seat, late sunlight casting him in gold. One muscular leg bent, the other dangling, utterly absorbed in the journal in his hands. Will he live through losing me too? Not by blade or betrayal—but by the quiet cruelty of age. Unless…
My mind has always been prone to wander. Some thoughts are softer than others. Some best left unfed. I try to not give the crueler ones breath—but this one… “Vale,” I call cautiously, taking action before I can talk myself out of it.
He looks up at once, rising the instant he senses my tone. I tap my fingers against the desk. “I hope you don’t think me mad, but—I need to do something. I think we both need this.”
His journal is forgotten as he towers beside me. Without giving him time to object, I grab the letter opener. Wrapping my free hand around the narrow steel tongue, I slice.
Pain flares sharp and bright. Vale goes deathly still. My palm opens. Scarlet blood wells fast—too fast—slick and dark against my skin.
Before his voice can find me, before his fear can take shape, the wound seals.
Closed. Gone.
Even through the blood, the truth is undeniable.
“Mira—what were you thinking?” His voice breaks, torn between fury and terror. “That was reckless. Foolish?—”
“I had to know,” I insist, my voice rising. “We can search these pages forever, but no ink can answer this question.”
“What question?” His instinct to protect me clouds the simple logic he cannot yet face.
“If I’m still mortal,” I say, trembling. “If I will grow old and die. If I will leave you to do so.” The fear I have carried quietly floods free at last.
