Page 108 of Embers of Ruin

“I don’t know.”

“That’s a popular answer around here. I don’t get any answers around here, actually.”

“I truly don’t.”

Riven says nothing, which is worse. I look at him. “Do you?”

“No.”

Too quick. Just like Onyx, he answered too quickly and looked off to cover the lie. Why are men so easy to read?

Not a lie, perhaps. But not the whole truth either. I’m becoming an expert in the shape of withheld things.

I turn back to the torn page. “There has to be another copy.”

Brother Rivero hesitates.

Ah. There it is. That’s all I needed. Hope, horrible thing that it is, rises before I can stop it.

“Where?”

“The king’s private archives,” he says.

Riven curses under his breath and I look between them. “Wonderful. My favorite kind of archive.”

“No,” Riven says immediately.

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“You’re going to ask how to get there.”

“I was going to ask politely.” I smile sweetly at him, but his expression hardens. It doesn't look like he's in a particularly accommodating mood today.

“No, you were not.”

“No,” I admit. “But I like that you believed I might.”

Brother Rivero shifts nervously. “The restricted archives are sealed by royal command.”

“Thorin’s command?”

“Yes, the king’s command.”

“Of course it is.” I sigh impatiently. Behind every door I need unlocked lies… Thorin.

Right then, the temperature in the room drops and the lamps flicker. Riven’s eyes close for half a second, and I know before I turn. My body knows. My magic knows. The fucking shadows that I thought were regular shadows. Of course. All of the shadows here know.

Thorin is here.

* * *

“How interesting,” I say, keeping my eyes on the torn page. “Speak of the secretive tyrant and he magically appears.”

Behind me, Thorin’s voice cuts through the archive, quiet and cold. “Careful, Lyra.”

I turn slowly. He stands at the end of the aisle, dressed not for training but for whatever meeting I have clearly interrupted by existing. His black coat is fastened with golden clasps, his hair slightly disordered as if he has run a hand through it too many times, and for once he looks less amused than displeased.

Good. I’m also displeased. We can share the displeasure.