Page 106 of Embers of Ruin

“Please explain. I’m extremely lost.”

He brightens, and I know immediately I have made a mistake. He obviously loves explaining things. If he had a tail, it would be wagging.

“The silver mark appears in scattered records across centuries, never consistently within the same bloodline and rarely more than once in a generation. Seraphine had it, yes, but there were others. A healer in the northern marshes. A child from the ash villages. A woman executed during the second famine because people believed she caused the crops to fail, though later weather records suggest the drought began years before her birth, so that accusation was both tragic and absurd.”

I blink. “You have weather records?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” I repeat, because apparently that is where my life has brought me. Standing in a forbidden archive at night, discussing weather records with a scholar-priest while slowly discovering my hair may be part of a divine pattern instead of a personal inconvenience.

Brother Rivero turns another page. “The temple scholars believed the silver appeared when Illurine’s power chose a vessel strong enough to hold it.”

The room seems to go still as I look at the page. Not at Brother Rivero. Not at Riven. The page.

“When the divine goddess… chooses…” I say.

Is this why Thorin has me here? Does he believe I am the Cursebreaker because I have silver hair? Is that why he has been hunting me my entire life? Is that why he… is that why he had my parents killed? I swallow the lump forming in my throat, because I’m having a hard time reconciling the man I know with the one I was told killed my parents.

Brother Rivero nods slowly as his words bring me back to the conversation. “That was their interpretation.”

“People are not cups.”

“No.”

“And gods don’t simply pour power into someone because the world has become inconvenient.”

Brother Rivero hesitates. “Some would argue that is exactly what gods do.”

I glare at him. He wisely looks back at the page. My hands curl against the edge of the table. A vessel. Chosen by Illurine. The words should feel ridiculous. Grand, impossible, the sort of nonsense prophets shout in marketplaces before someone drags them away. But instead they settle into places I did not know were waiting for them. My magic stirs beneath my skin and I press my palms flat against the wood.

“No,” I whisper.

Riven shifts beside me. “Lyra.”

“I’m fine.”

“You are gripping the table hard enough to crack it.”

I look down. A thin line of silver-gold light glows beneath my fingers and I notice that the wood is warm. I snatch my hands away as my face flushes with embarrassment.

“Fantastic.”

Brother Rivero looks less afraid than he should. If anything, he looks fascinated, which makes me want to throw the heavy book at him and also ask him six more questions.

“What else?” I demand.

He swallows. “There are prophecy fragments.”

Riven’s face changes.

“Brother Rivero,” he says carefully.

Brother Rivero winces. “I know.”

“Then perhaps do not.”

“Too late,” I say. “He already said prophecy. You cannot unsay prophecy. I heard it. My ears are involved.”