Page 46 of The City Of Fractured Memory

I nod, but don’t elaborate.

“The Chief said–”

“Do you really think you’re going to leave your sister alone just so you can chaperone me? If we find anything of importance, especially if it ties to Riven, I’ll let you know immediately,” I insist, desperate to do my job without him constantly breathing down my neck.

Thankfully, he seems placated by that idea as he nods his agreement, turning his attention back to Vesper.

“Send word if–” I stumble, not wanting to say the words out loud. “Just let me know if she needs anything.”

“Thank you,” he smiles sadly, grabbing my hand as I start to turn to the door. “Be careful. I don’t think there’s anyone we can trust right now.”

I stare out at the city through the window behind him, the sunlight forcing its way through the thick mists above. The same thought circles my mind.

Riven warned me to be careful who I trust too.

Now I’m not sure if that warning had been a threat…or a plea.

The streets of Eidravelle feel like they’re cloaked in the kind of hush that follows catastrophe, though given my Shadow’s ever-looming presence, it’s hard to tell if I’m simply imagining things.

Lanterns in doorways gutter against the wind as we walk away from Xavier’s home, stepping over the threshold’s dark stain, the half-dried blood glinting under the pale morning light. Neither of us speak for a while, the only sound the echo of our boots on the cobbles and the distant cries of children playing in the streets.

“You didn’t tell him what Raph said,” Stryx says, breaking the silence as she looks at me curiously.

“He’ll need time,” I murmur, my eyes fixed ahead. “Whatever’s happened to Vesper… he won’t think clearly until he knows she’s okay. I think his bias towards Riven might be starting to cloud his judgement, and I don’t want it to start feeding mine too.”

Stryx tilts her head, her eyes tracking to my set jaw. “And you? Do you still feel the same?”

“I don’t have time to constantly question Riven’s motives,” I say flatly. “If Raph was right about it being connected to a cult, we can’t afford to speculate. We need facts. But if it is all true and these people are connected to the murders, to the Fracturing…”

“Then the danger’s bigger than we thought,” Stryx finishes, her voice low.

We turn into the main thoroughfare leading toward the Memosyne, its towering walls looming like the edge of a dream, the ornate gates glimmering in the filtered sunlight. Even from this distance, the air around it shimmers faintly with ward-magic, the faint tang of old incense and sanctity seeping into the air around us.

“You really think we can find the answers here?” Stryx asks as we approach the guards at the gates.

“What’s that saying? Three people can only keep a secret if two of them are dead?” I reply, pulling the hood of my cloak further over my face. “Someone somewhere must have written something they shouldn’t have, and if there’s anywhere in this city that would have a record of a secret society, it’s the Archives.”

“And if it’s real? What if they find out we’re onto them?”

I grimace. “Then we’ll find out how much of a sin curiosity really is.”

Twenty-Two

The cavernous library I used to love so much feels wrong now. It’s as quiet as the last time we stepped in here, but what was once a beautiful, peaceful silence now feels ominous and heavy. Dust hangs suspended in the air like ghosts caught mid-breath, and every step I take seems to echo too loudly through the marble aisles. This place should be sacred—the great heart of the Memosyne, repository of the city’s oldest truths—yet now it feels hollow, like something vital has been siphoned away along with Cyril’s last breath.

I pause near the central desk, letting my hand brush against the gilded metal where he used to sit. His inkwell still stands here, stoppered neatly, like he might shuffle back in at any moment and scold me for being too rough with the parchment.

“He’d hate seeing me here like this,” I murmur, mostly to myself.

Stryx glances up from a shelf a few paces away. “Because you’re miserable or because you’re not hunting his killer?”

“Both.” My voice is low, the words sharp-edged with self-loathing. “I keep telling myself I’ll avenge him. But instead I let his murderer walk free. Just because he’s untouchable.”

I exhale deeply through my nose as I drag myself away from the desk and join Stryx in the stacks. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me. He’s cursed Xavier and Vesper, we literally caught him in the act of killing Cyril, and yet for some inexplicable reason, I keep finding myself hesitating when I try to hate him.”

I open one of the heavy tomes Stryx has gathered, its pages the colour of old ivory, inscribed with curling sigils and faded sketches of ancient symbols. Stryx sets down a stack of scrolls and leans against the table, studying me with a frown.

“It’s because you don’t understand his motive.”