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Wait... What did he just say?

“I...”

His gaze returned to me.

“Don’t waste your time. I don’t know what exactly you are, and I’m trying to do my own research in every spare hour I have, but my resources are limited.”

I stared at him, speechless.

It kept him busy. My trivial problems kept him busy.

“You shouldn't bother,” I laughed softly, trying to hide my despair. “I'll find out. But for that I need my mother.”

“Diana won't be able to help you.”

He didn't look at me, walked over to the statue, and placed his hand on the man's lowered wing, as carefully as if it could break at the slightest touch.

“Why do you believe that?”

“Everyone thinks they know the truth, but the truth is a double-edged sword whose blades reflect the sun at different times of the day. Only those who have the patience to observe have even the slightest chance of understanding.”

He smiled absentmindedly, staring up at the outstretched hand of the winged man.

“Your mother is driven by fear and grief. She is impatient and lives in the wheel of this society. She will not help you. She will keep you small until you become just another puppet of those people who do not know why this city was built in the first place.”

“What do you think this city was built for?”

Alarik ran his hand over the angel wings, then let go of them again.

“If I only knew…” He continued to look around as if he had never been here before. “I’ve been researching this for years, searching for books. But it’s a game against those people who haven’t understood that history is a teacher, not a judge.”

He actively researched... Blairville's history?

For quite some time, I had been wondering what his academic projects were. Both online and in the university library, I had found all of his historical publications, which he had written as part of his history studies. Essays and two massive books. One about Blairville’s founding years, one about the history of the Esadowa tribe. In both he had omitted the supernatural context, even though I was certain that he had done a great deal of research on the subject in his private time and had taken extensive notes.

Of course, I knew that, as director of Vanderwood, he hardly had time for such things and had focused his research on literary studies. Not to mention the thirteen books he had published during his thirties on a wide variety of literary-political topics spanning various literature periods.

I followed him into the next courtyard, which resembled a stepped classroom and thus stood out from the others. But here, too, everything was overgrown.

A stone globe, surrounded by oval stone rings, hung from the ceiling of the open stone beam roof.

Alarik stood directly underneath it, both hands in his pockets, looking up, his Adam's apple protruding. Sunlight reflected in his deep green eyes.

He had managed – probably in his office – to tie his shoes, yet it was as if his inner chaos was finding its way out, even if it was just his disheveled shirt collar.

Suppressing a smile, I took the first step down.

“To your question,” I said, because I didn't want to be the one to bombard him with a thousand questions. Even though I didn't intend for him to do anything to make me feel more comfortable here, because that wasn't his job. He had already done enough for me.

“You gave us these books,” I continued hesitantly, stepping into the courtyard as well, but remained under the colonnade. “I exchanged mine with Julian.”

He looked at me and nodded as if he knew about it.

“You want a new book?”

With a slight swing, he kicked a stone away.

“I want your book.”