I slowly open the cover, and a recognizable scent assaults my nostrils, but I can’t pinpoint where I’ve smelled it before.
It’s justfamiliar.
The first page is blank, with no author’s name or title. I flip to the next page, and it’s also blank. I go through page by page, expecting something, but each one is the same as before. Empty, except for small dark red marks on random pages. Regardless of how many pages I turn or how closely I look, each one remains the same. However, they don’tfeelempty. They call to me with a heavy weight. There’s a strain to the pages as if they want to be read.
To be understood.
As if they will reveal their contents once they choose to.
Or it’s earned.
A clock chimes somewhere in the distance, alerting me to the midnight hour. I’ve been at this all night without success. I now know exactly what I did at the start of the day. Unless every book in Kintoira’s archives has been purposely edited to exclude the royals and their affiliations with the Veils, this has been a complete waste of my time.
Closing the odd little book, I tuck it back in my bag, push a few volumes on the table out of the way, and close my eyes for a moment. I rest my cheek against the cool, worn-down wood. Exhaustion weighs heavily in my limbs, and my eyes are so tired they hurt. The sounds and smells of the library quiet my mind, offering a sense of respite. Delicate pages being turned in the corner, like a soothing hymn. The steady yet soft tick of a nearby clock, and the fragrance of old parchment and dry ink. It all creates the perfect symphony for rest.
Until it doesn’t.
Slowly, the air becomes heavy with the coppery scent of blood and something far more nefarious. A dense forest gradually begins to surround me, one that’s been turned into a battlefield. Shouts arise in all directions, orders are barked, and war cries bellow. The sound of armor rushing through the trees and the vibrations of hooves shake the ground as the horses’ charge fall upon me. An arrow hisses by, narrowly missing my head.
I duck and hide behind the thick trunk of a tree.
No one ever mentions how loud war is.
If it’s not the clash of metal or the screaming, it’s your own heartbeat. I can feel it thudding against my ribs.
Veils wield alongside the Noctryns.
Fire and ice, steel and shadows.
Black blood drips from the tips of swords, and daggers embed into their enemies with calculated coldness. There’s no roomfor emotions or fear as the threat to a kingdom is demolished. Electric currents fly from the palms of a nearby Veil, and another shifts into an indigo-hued harpy, her mouth open on a punishing screech as she rips out the throat of a wraith. A dark wielder has another wrapped in obsidian shadows, the tendrils tightening around its throat before effectively snapping the decaying head from its shoulders.
It’s absolute madness in every direction.
The Veils alongside the Noctryns are taking no fucking prisoners. They’re extremely outnumbered and still come out swinging.
I grind my teeth as my gaze darts around the battle taking place. I’m in the middle of an all-out clash like a sitting duck.
The sudden smell of decay and sulfur permeates the air, making me try to breathe through my nose instead of my mouth. I tear my eyes to the side, trying to find where the smell is coming from, when they land on the biggest wraith I’ve ever seen in any textbook. It’s facing a Noctryn, also one of the largest I’ve seen, but compared to the wraith, he doesn’t stand a chance.
I hold my breath, preparing to see the soldier decimated and feasted upon.
There’s absolutely nothing I can do to help. But I’m not going to just sit here. I pat my thigh, looking for my hidden dagger, but it’s gone. I wouldn’t have forgotten it. Something isn’t right here.
Without hesitation, the cloaked abomination charges and lunges for the warrior, but the Noctryn is faster than I anticipate. He lands a hit with the hilt of his sword to the back of the wraith’s head. Regaining its footing, it turns around slowly, the hood falling back to reveal rotting skin and hollow eyes. It whips its head to the side before opening its razor-filled mouth and screaming in fury.
I instinctively move backward. It’s a living nightmare in the flesh.
The Noctryn tightens the grip on his sword, using the other gloved hand to wave the decaying monster on. Taunting it. Pissing it off. The wraith descends on the soldier full of rage and force, the ground shaking beneath its charge, cloak snapping behind it in synchronized ferocity. Without hesitation, the soldier pulls the other sword from his back, raises both as he shifts his weight, and digs his heels into the ground.
I bite my lip and pray harder than I’ve ever prayed before.
It doesn’t escape me that I’m praying for a dark wielder, but between him and the wraith, it’s going to be him.
Every single time.
The moment the wraith is close enough that his mouth is opening to retrieve the soul he thinks he’s owed, the soldier brings down both swords in a brutal, two-handed strike, severing the decomposing head from its body. My gaze drops as the head slides from its body, rolls across the ground, and stops inches from my feet.
I look back toward the Noctryn.
