The panel slid out, and I lowered it gently to the floor before reaching into the concealed space. I felt around and pulled out a sheathed dagger before grasping a glass bottle. I frowned and adjusted my spectacles as I examined the label… Celosia powder was meant for raising individuals to consciousness. What would he need this for?
I set it down, pulling out a few more unmarked bottles. Their contents were dark and coagulated. I reached in once more, andmy hand paused as it hit parchment. Keeping my eyes on the light in the other room, I removed the scroll.
A fresh wave of awe washed over me as I ran my fingers over the ancient, caramel parchment.Now, where did the old man find this?
I pulled a rag from my pocket and quickly scrubbed the grime and natural oils from my skin before gently unraveling the scroll. My heart quickened as an elaborate drawing of swirls and symbols unfolded before me.
Whorls of ink swirled through a large circle and two straight lines that cut through an eight-pointed star in the center. I squinted at the fine lines jutting out from the edge of the circle, like hundreds of razor-thin spokes on a wheel. My eyes swiveled from the scroll to the light beyond the room. My heart picked up its pace as I did my best to examine the ancient parchment and watch for Windsor or Ezrich’s return.
Text lined the page in a language I couldn’t read, written in the same red-black ink of the illustrations. I shook my head, pursing my lips as I tried to understand what I was looking at. Darker script was scratched in the common tongue at the bottom, the ink brighter, the lines crisper. A disgusted scoff left my lips as I realized someone had written this recently. Years of handling ancient documents and artifacts had taught me enough about the proper handling of materials this old.
I repeated the words in my mind in hopes they would make sense and I wouldn’t forget them:
Elevation to the threads. Intimate connection to the gods. Sacrifice. Final gate.
I inspected the whorls weaving through the illustration. Was this an illustration of threadsight? Why would Windsor have this? He’d given no indication of his knowledge of the lost arts, but there were many in Sultira who’d discovered it anyway, despite King Saros erasing magic from history.
I glanced once again at the light in the next room as I carefully rolled up the scroll, burning the image in my mind with repetitive practice, a skill I’d used during my studies with the Death Scholars. As I slid the objects back into the compartment, my fingers brushed against smooth leather.
My hand gripped the old binding of a concealed book, and I pulled it free, my gut tightening in angst as the countdown to Windsor’s return neared zero. I flipped open the journal, scanning the pages and dates, trying to identify who it belonged to.
The journal was familiar. The dark brown leather and celestial etchings on the cover were the exact same as those used by the scholars at the Temple of the Sky in Aedrialis. The pages blew a dry, yet loamy puff of air in my face as I riffled through it, skipping through months until I paused at a long list.
My mouth went dry as I read one of the descriptions:
#87: Female, age 43. Signs of distress when Obscura Stone placed in close proximity. Shrieks upon direct contact. Able to maintain coherent conversation for approximately 3 minutes before her mind broke.
I scanned the date and location at the top of the page, and my stomach threatened to drop out of my ass.
77th of Winter, 071.3E. Stynguard.
Nightmares I fought to forget lunged forward as phantom leather restraints pressed against my wrists and ankles. I blinked against the encroaching tunnel vision, my head lightening in a soft fog. A rush of panicked tremors racedthrough my hands, and I hastily snapped the journal shut and shoved it back into the hidden compartment. My eyes locked onto the light filtering in the other room as I slid the wooden panel over the top, feeling for the vibratingclickonce it was secured.
My heart banged against my ribs, and as I strode out of Windsor’s room and back into the small living area, the light moved. A small shadow stretched across the wall before the door to the cabin swung open. Windsor shuffled inside, his long white hair swaying.
My feet stopped moving, and my eyes snapped to the dagger resting on top of my pack before darting back to the eerie, opaque blue of the old man’s irises. The lines along his lips deepened, and his mouth cracked into a slight smile as he took me in.
A quiet rage sparked behind the wall my power pounded against, and I forced my face to relax as I offered the monster across the room a feigned smile. The monster lurking in the back of the lecture hall of my dream. The monster who had tortured me for months in Stynguard.
High Priest Helmar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
NERISSA
I fear his desperation to protect this land is driving his decisions.
– Undelivered correspondence from Khato, intended for Nerissa Ravindra.
Nerissa – The Vael Lacrima, Island of Kayj
No. No, no, no. He cannot be dead.Aquila cannot be dead.
A wild hysteria rose as I staggered over dead warriors and through the decimated crater. I stumbled, catching myself on a corpse, and my hand slipped against the shredded back of a warrior. My body was numb as his coagulated blood coated my fingers, and I rushed to where Aquila’s massive form lay crumpled in the wreckage of the goddesses’ attack.
My hands slipped over his bloody feathers as I reached him. My heart restarted and banged against my ribs. Aquila’s dark beak was open, his eyes closed, but as I edged my way aroundhim, crawling closer, I could see the slow rise and fall of his chest.
“SELVINA!”
