She does not linger. Does not gather the scattered texts or restore any semblance of order to the table. The answer was never going to live in the books alone—it lives in the movement of it. In the hands that approve its passage.
Her boots strike the stone faster now as she makes her way deeper into the library, toward the upper tiers where Elandor tends to lose himself among his records.
She finds him exactly where she expects—half-buried in parchment, spectacles slipping down his nose, muttering to himself as he cross-references three separate texts at once.
“Elandor,” she grits out, palm gripping the sickle blade buried in her skirts.
He startles, only slightly, blinking up at her as if returning from somewhere far removed from the present.
“Ah—Rubi, yes. Have you come to?—”
She pulls her sickle blade free, pointing it at Elandor.
She doesn’t remember deciding to draw it. Sobriety, apparently, has done absolutely nothing for her impulse control.
“Tell me what you know of ironsap exports.” Not a question. A command.
It cuts cleanly through whatever thought he was about to offer.
His eyes blow wide, swallowing thickly at the threat.
He straightens, interest sharpening his features. “Ironsap resin? Caelorian export. Remarkably strong compound, quitefascinating actually—resistant to both water and moderate heat. It’s been used historically in preservation techniques, though its applications have broadened over the years. Difficult to work with unless one has the proper facilities?—”
Rubi cuts him off. “I know what it fucking does, Elandor. Who imports it from Caeloria?”
Elandor doesn’t hesitate.
“We do.”
Rubi stills.
“Nymeris?”
“The Crown, yes.”
Rubi’s stomach drops.
Not Dravara.
Not smugglers.
Nymeris.
Elandor pauses, only briefly before going into a banal explanation. “Trade has increased in recent years. Caeloria has been… generous in their agreements. We’ve seen a notable rise in foreign materials passing through Nymeris for study and refinement—ironsap, lungwort, more Obsidian Shards than usual.”
He’s missing the fucking point.
Rubi’s gaze does not waver. “Who approves it?”
She needs to hear him say it.
This time, the pause lingers.
Elandor’s brow furrows faintly as he considers the question, as if only now realizing it might matter.
“Well,” he begins slowly, “such agreements would fall under the Queen’s authority. Her Majesty has taken a particular interest in expanding our access to foreign compounds. It has been… beneficial to our research efforts.”
Rubi goes very still.
