Page 52 of Prince of the Sun

“Quinn and I are… we’re friends.”

There’s that word again.

“You are a Prince of the Sun,” Saechon says. “You have plenty offriendsalready.”

“Not one like her.”

Wooden legs on wooden floor as a chair pushes back. “You are playing a fool’s game, Daerios.” Footsteps. The creak of door hinges. Before his exit, Saechon adds one more warning, “Trust me on this, brother: stay away from Quinn Kallister. There will be consequences if you do not.”

I don’t remember climbing off the roof. I don’t remember sprinting down Mt. Auburn Street, or the journey up the stairs of Stone Hall. It is all a blur of disheveled emotion, of lightheaded stumbles and the ricochet of Daerios and Saechon’s words against the walls of my mind.

What if I said I don’t care what Father thinks?

What if I told you she’s the one?

You risk the fate of Elaërion.

Stay away from Quinn Kallister.

One moment, I am flat on my back on the roof of the Ikarith. The next, I am back in my room, legs crossed on my comforter, staring down into an open box of donuts. Round. Skinny. Chocolate. Sprinkled. Glazed. Twisted. Happy. Unhappy. Beautiful. Their cheerful faces mock me. Laugh at the blind confusion ripping apart my insides.

What, really, were the two brothers discussing? Was it just Daerios’s feelings for me? But if that were the case, how could Saechon both warn him to stay away from meandbe disappointed that I’m notthe one? None of it makes sense.

The elves, and Saechon in particular, are so single-mindedly set on finding the thing that will fix the blight on Elaërion. Is it possible that their conversation somehow connects to the search? That true love—findingthe one—is the cure to banishing the shadows?

But, no. That’s absurd. Real life doesn’t work like a Disney movie.

I lift up the donut. Inhale. Breathe in sugar and sprinkles and sin and everything else I tasted on his lips two nights ago.

What the hell am I to make of the effect that conversation had on me? I’m the one who sent Daerios away two nights ago.I’mthe one who swore we were nothing more than friends. Why the hell does his rejection feel like I’m falling into a fathomless black pit?

This relationship has clearly gotten out of hand.

My first stop the next day is Widener. I need to tease out my new lead, based on the information Daerios revealed about the Shadow Elves.

A quick search through the library’s database reveals that, while no texts have been published specifically about Shadow Elves—unsurprising, given that the elves have hidden the monster-ridden state of their world from humans—the species is mentioned in several hundred books, papers, and dissertations. All elf-written. All in Maevish or Lukkarin. None of the texts are about Elaërion—also unsurprising, given that the elves rarely speak publicly about their realm.

The titles, when translated to English, are as varied as the library itself:

Flora and Fauna of Eastern Missouri

The Economics of Localized Famine

Stability and Instability of Transition-Metal Ions

Without Reservation: Women, Gender, and the American Restaurant

Death of Love at Midnight: A Novel

I scroll through pages and pages of literature, clicking on digital previews to see where and how Shadow Elves are mentioned. To my dismay, they never appear more than once or twice per text, and always as an afterthought. A footnote, or a comparison, or within a comprehensive list of species. It’s as if the elves don’t reallywantto bring the Shadow Elves up, but can’t help themselves.

Eventually, I tire of looking at the computer screen and decide to print off a hundred pages, each one a separate instance where Shadow Elves have been mentioned. Perhaps, I figure as I wait for the archaic printer to chug out a stack of black-and-whites, if I spread before me every half-baked mention of Shadow Elves, every jagged sliver of information, they will tell a complete story.

I secret the stack of papers over to one of the darkest, mustiest corners of the lower stacks, a place I deem Daerios least likely to materialize behind me. Then I go to work.

I highlight. I underline. I circle every instance that Shadow Elves—Zolaë Aldarin Maevish;Pareth Alfhenin Lukkarin—appear in these texts. Then, on a blank sheet of printer paper, I copy every sentence containing those words, one after another, each one entirely unrelated to the one before. By the time I reach the bottom, the document before me is a carefully-crafted treatise of utter gibberish.

I sigh, running a finger down the bulleted sentences. So much for a new lead. In the last hour, I’ve learned the best method for navigating localized famine, how to plot the migratory patterns of white-throated sparrows, the intricacies of gender division in public dining in the 1910s, and—especially thrilling—a brief comparison between Shadow Elves and nocturnal mammals.