I rush toward the sound, dropping to my knees and peering beneath the splintered remains of a table. Two figures huddle there, covered in dust, eyes wide.
“There you are,” I breathe. Relief crashes into me.
“High Prince Farron,” Mandaria whispers. “We didn’t know where to go?—”
“Come now.” I haul them both out. “Straight through those doors. Caspian’s leading everyone to safety. He’ll get you out.”
Paavak hesitates. “What about you?”
“Run!”
They do.
I make to follow but hesitate. How can I leave my library like this?
The ceiling groans, then cracks, caving in dust and debris from floors above, right in front of me.
A shadow falls across the floor as the redwood bookshelf, one of the tallest—the one I used to climb to reach the poetry on the top shelf when I was only a kid visiting here—splinters free from the wall and crashes to the ground.
I stagger back, coughing, arms raised as the air explodes in dust and falling pages.
I can see the exit, but I can’t make myself leave.
When I return, it won’t be the same. What if it’s all gone?
“No.” My fingers brush the shelf’s shattered edge. The wood is warm, still alive. But only just.
What if saving our home is too much, even for Rosalina?
Another crack splits the ceiling. A beam falls. The leaves on the remaining trees curl inward, blackening at the edges. Flames lick higher in the fireplace, and the reading couch catches.
I stand there, frozen, helpless.
This place, this room…it’s mine. The heart of the Autumn wing. Where I learned to read. Where I first heard stories of heroes and fools, gods and monsters. Where I found peace.
It contains all the histories, every story, every legend, every encyclopedia. It is lives upon lives upon lives within the pages.
And now it’s dying.
The grief comes so fast I can’t stop it. I press a hand to my chest, trying to catch my breath, trying to?—
Trying to do something.
But all I can do is watch as the place I love most in the world crumbles before my eyes.
“Farron!” a booming voice yells. “Farron!”
Then a monstrous shape leaps over the broken beams and lands before me. Dayton, the High Prince of Summer, the golden wolf.
“Day—” I say, breaking into a sob.
He gives a little whimper and nudges his wet nose against my cheek. “We need to get out of here, Fare.”
“I can’t.” My face burrows into his neck, tears sticking to his fur. “I can’t lose this too. All the stories, the knowledge… I’ve lost so much?—”
“I know you have, my love,” Dayton says. “Your life is worth more than this. The great thing about stories is we can tell them again. They live in the hearts of people.”
My fingers wrap tight in his fur, and I blink through my tears. A shelf has fallen in front of the fire, and it’s catching the books.
