“Take us to him,” Kael snaps brusquely, and his tone sets Seren on edge. Not because he’s direct—he always is. But because Kael is astute at court-trained manners and politics, and whatever this is… it’s not him.
Elyssara and Teddy exchange a brief glance, but Seren notices too.
This isn’t right.
And she trusts that instinct more than she trusts anything else.
The Shade turns without waiting, gray robes whispering over stone as he leads them through a narrow archway carved with runes. Some Seren recognizes, and others she doesn’t. The air changes as they pass beneath it. Cooler. Thicker. As if knowledge itself has weight here.
This time, there is no dawn meal with the queen. No cinnamon-dusted pastries or spiced wine. No honeyed light illuminating the terrace or courtyard. This time, the Shade bypasses courtly manners altogether and pays the customs of Elarion Castle no heed, by striding directly through the castle’s winding halls until limestone and cascading falls give way to the familiar aroma of old parchment and blotted ink.
Bliss.
Shelves rise along the curved walls, stacked high with scrolls and tomes, ladders crisscrossing the space like veins. Light spills in from high, narrow windows, catching dust motes mid-fall.
Seren’s breath stutters. Like she’s standing on the edge of something she’s been searching for her entire life.
“Ah,” a voice says mildly, somewhere above them. “You’re early. Or late. Time gets muddled when people arrive carrying fate.”
Elandor’s hawkish nose appears over the banister, those same spectacles balancing precariously on the tip, and anotherpair nestled in the craze of his frazzled gray hair shooting up at odd angles.
But Seren doesn’t care about appearance. Not when his mind is the true spectacle. A keeper of knowledge. No—truth. An Archivist. An acolyte of history, of information. And maybe the one person in the Known Realms who can actually tell her the truth of her origins. Her story.Her.
Seren’s face splits into a wide smile.
This is it.
Or the closest she has ever come.
Elandor shuttles down the stairs toward the group, gripping the banister like it’s the only thing keeping him up.
Elyssara ascends the staircase to meet him.
“Elandor,” she beams fondly.
“Well, if it isn’t the Rightful Queen of Dravara and her Fallen,” Elandor announces, throwing an arm out in a flourish and himself off kilter in the same breath, stumbling down a step.
Elyssara reacts swiftly, a huff of laughter escaping her. “No need for the titles, Elandor. Please,” she begs gently. But her face shifts, tilting on an angle. Curious. “And… what did you call us? The Fallen?”
Elyssara hooks her arm in his, steadying him back up the stairs.
“Ah yes. Some things make sense immediately, requiring no context. And other things, well… they need context. Don’t they? Such is the power of good communication—a thing to master, to be sure,” he bumbles, scratching his head with the tip of his quill.
The others stifle their laughter, but Ronyn joins in.
Of course he does.
“You know what they say: nothing like a good bit ofcontext,” he jests sarcastically.
But Elandor spins on him. “Exactly! My word, the reports say that you’re quick as a whip… quite right.”
Ronyn puffs out his chest, nudging Seren in the ribs. “Hear that? Quick as a whip. Look out or I might take your place as the clever one.”
Seren shakes her head, shoving down a laugh. “I think you forgot aboutcontext, Ronie. If women, a tavern, or food are involved, your cleverness isn’t.”
Seren struts away like she’s won, leaving Ronyn stationary on the staircase.
“I’d argue that point, but I’m too clever. A clever man knows when to concede. I submit, my lady,” he says in mock defeat, dropping to one knee and hanging his head.
