“They traveled north without incident. Well into summer, long past when winter winds or spring thaws would have made passage treacherous. Magic once let us move freely between kingdoms. Since the Fade, there are only narrow windows left. It should have been one of them.”
A long pause lingers.
“An avalanche took them all. Days passed before we sent a reconnaissance party. By then the pass had been swallowed by snow and ice. We couldn’t even bury the dead.”
I reach across the table and take Ace’s hand. Words fail.
He pivots softly. “So our gloried steward of dusty shelves took on a role most felt was obsolete. And those who did believe in it blamed his line for the king’s death. From the pinnacle of court to barely above exile. His family once guarded kings. Now he guards inkwells and catalogues maps in hopes of being relevant.”
I feel a pang for the timid man buried in parchments. I know too well what it is to be cast aside.
Ace continues, “The man could drown in his maps and no one would notice for a week.”
“Ace!” I scold, shoving him just enough to knock him off balance. His lute clatters to the table.
He grins—utterly unrepentant.
We stay in the library longer. Ace plucking a quiet melody while I turn pages. His notes never forming a full song, his words never quite connecting.
“You look far away,” he finally says.
“Just tired,”I lie.
I haven’t been sleeping well. Worse since Vale left. Dreams jolt me awake. But it isn’t only that.
Something lingers beneath the fatigue.
A hum at the edge of thought.
A pull without direction.
A whisper I cannot quite hear—only feel.
I excuse myself and return to the conservatory. Quiet, as always. Storm clouds veil the glass walls. The garden is muted.
A plate of cheese, meat, and fruit arrives, set beside my journal, but remains untouched. I try to write. Each sentence dissolves—tangled in that same restless blooming beneath my ribs.
Rain begins. Soft at first, then sharp.
By nightfall, the storm is a beast clawing at the mountain.
When at last I lie in bed, thunder trembling through stone and rattling the bones of the Hold, something inside me aches to answer.
Sleep avoids me. My thoughts scatter like dry leaves.
The walls seem to pulse in time with my heartbeat. I press a palm to my sternum. Though I cannot name the feeling—longing, dread, yearning.
I only know that it pulls me somewhere I’ve not yet gone.
The sun hides, the Solarium dulls, and the rain pounds for days. Even Ace’s cheer feels hollow. Even Fenloris must light every lantern to chase the gloom.
I wrap myself in a woven throw, huddled in the conservatory. Still, I cannot shake the chill. The plants recoil. Blooms close, as if they regret ever opening.
I write of the ladies’ laughter. Of Fenloris’s maps. Of Ace’s teasing. But every line feels strained. That ache beneath my ribs never leaves me.
On the fifth night, the storm breaks something.
Not in the mountain. In me.
