Page 39 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

The students gathered supplies from the shelves on one side of the round chamber, beneath the windows propped open to display dreary clouds, and she went on guiding them for the rest of the hour.

By the time her last lesson ended mid-afternoon and Emmeline returned to her dormitory to freshen up and grab a thicker cloak, the clock mounted beside the door said she still had nearly an hour before she needed to leave. But she was fidgeting out of her skin.

She’d already read through the files twice when she couldn’t sleep this morning, taking neat, copious notes to bring to Roremar. She checked all her plants and made notes of which would need to be picked or pressed for oils soon.

Finally, she could find no more excuses.

Packing her satchel with a few vials of lavender sprigs—her favorite for reading due to its mild nature—and pressed chamomile oil to soothe any riling energy, she slipped her notes among them and made her way out of the Academy.

At the gates, she lingered to speak with Myrella, Regina, and a male instructor everyone called by his surname, Harttorn, who also taught history courses at the Academy. Then, reluctantly, she took off down the path through the Scholar’s Quarter toward the Accords.

At least if she moved her nervous energy would have an outlet.

Ferns leaned across the edge of the path, partially obscuring the shops and apartments that led to the Academy. Emmeline dragged her fingertips through the draping leaves, grounding herself among Lyra’s nature.

Why was she nervous, anyway?

Anticipation of having to corral Roremar, probably.

But as much as she was loath to admit it, this case was too big for one person. She was smart—she wouldn’t pretend otherwise—but the Isle of Lyra was too large to patrol alone. And another mind never hurt, especially if he was as good as rumors stated.

By the time she reached the City Accords, she’d convinced herself this was a good idea.

The tall, pale marble building gleamed as orange sunbeams pushed through the clouds. By night, it would glimmer like a chip of the moon itself, as all important buildings on the Constellation Isles did. The Temple and Academy, the Accords, and the Trade House attached to the Mezzanine were the most prominent establishments on the isle, and their exteriors showed it.

Navy pendants bearing the Lyra sigil swung between the strong pillars out front, intricate ornamentation and statues of notable Starsearcher scholars carved into the facade. A dome with silver spires topped the building, and if she could have seen it from the foot of the steps, Emmeline knew a legend of the Fates would have been memorialized across its rounded surface.

With a sigh, she scampered up the stairs, the thin lilac train of her skirt and matching cloak slithering behind her.

She heaved the door open and crossed the ancient, tiled floors to approach the desk in the center of the circular antechamber. With its cracked columns, silver braziers, and fresco ceilings, the Accords looked like it was sliced straight from a story written thousands of years ago.

Most notable buildings on the isles were locked in time in one way or another—or most of the isles were, she supposed. Having been ignored by so much of the continent left them to their own devices. It was why their silver coins still had the Fates stamped on them rather than adopting the common currency of the mainland that all clans shared, why seeing chambers that amplified readings with precious resins but also inhumanely pulled Fate ties to the surface could still be found—though they were heavily monitored and she’d never even seen one—and why so many of their rituals and festivals followed outdated customs.

A bored looking Starsearcher who was at least ten years younger than Emmeline sat behind the dark wood desk polished so finely the mystlight orbs above flickered in the surface. A small hand bell and register sat atop the high counter, as well as a crystalline paperweight holding down a scrawled sign stating the Accords were open for pre-approved use only.

“Hello,” Emmeline said when the girl didn’t look up from her book.

No response beyond the rustling of a page turning.

“I have a room reserved with permission from the Temple Master. He wrote earlier.” That earned Emmeline a curious flick of her stare, but no other movement. “He’s also requested that we are able to access whatever records are required.”

Again, no verbal answer, but the girl inclined her head to the left, a silver hoop in her nose glinting, and Emmeline took it as permission. With a nod of thanks, she strode around the desk and down the marble hall lined with portraits of every Fate—or what one artist imagined them to look like since there were no actual records of their appearances.

The Angel had her own life-sized canvas at the end. Valyrie’s silver hair tumbled around her shoulders like silk, rich olive skin awash with the sparkling purples and blues of her ether.

The Angels were all made of raw power, straight from the earth, and Valyrie’s resembled the very cosmos her clan was known for. Emmeline had never had the honor of seeing the Prime Starsearcher, but in almost every rendition, that swirling galaxy of magic accompanied her, spilling off her great white wings and bathing the realm in constellations.

Sometimes a halo of stars surrounded her head. Sometimes she was dressed in silver battle armor and bedecked in triple blades, but she was always magnificent.

As she breathed in the presence that seemed to surround the portrait, Emmeline’s own magic pulsed. She bowed her head, muttering a prayer of gratitude to Valyrie, then veered right as the Temple Master’s instructions had directed.

A few turns down nearly identical corridors later, and she found the private room. When she pushed the door open⁠—

“Finally decided to show?” Roremar teased, though his expression showed not an ounce of humor as he propped his feet on the table. The door clipped closed behind Emmeline, and the air thickened. From the outside, she hadn’t noticed how small it was. No windows, so Roremar’s imposing presence consumed the space. Not much beyond a sideboard with a pitcher, water glasses, and some candles, an empty shelf for them to organize their findings, and a blank chalkboard accompanied him.

“I’m not late,” Emmeline snapped, but her gaze flicked to the clock ticking against one wood-paneled wall. She was right—it was still five minutes until their specified meeting time—but Roremar grinned triumphantly.

Flicking off her cloak, she strode across the deep green and tan patterned rug and suppressed any hint of annoyance.