Page 54 of Revels on an Angel’s Grave

Falliare disappeared into the arched doors of a building opposite their hiding spot. It’s weathered wooden frame stood between the gallery and one of those centuries-old buildings bearing a hand-painted sign that read Archival Residences. Narrow patches of grass cut paths on either side.

“Do you think he’s after another of those pieces of stone?” Myrella asked, flicking a glance up at Desmond. Her hand tightened on her satchel, where their half of whatever Falliare had purchased in the port was wrapped in colorful scarves and tucked away. “Maybe he’s collecting them.”

“I don’t know, but I swear on the Fates if he’s only here on business and we’re following him to some boring temple assembly, I’ll punch the man myself.”

“Grouchy again,” Myrella tutted.

“Not. Grouchy,” he seethed.

Myrella snickered as she craned her neck to see over the railing, a reaction she’d given him more and more over the past day as his nerves ratcheted up further with every second he was in this city and couldn’t go where instinct told him to. It was like some addicting, poisonous habit he was suppressing.

His Fate ties trying to force fortunes of the one person he was avoiding wasn’t helping.

Desmond gritted his teeth, but Myrella dropped the topic, saying, “I don’t think there’d be any kind of temple assembly tonight. Not with the celebrations going on around the city.”

“Not any honest ones at least,” Desmond agreed. “Don’t a lot of museums here have sanctuaries attached from the days they performed bonding ceremonies and rites?”

In the early days of the Starsearchers, when Valyn was one of the only major cities in their territory and the Angel and Fates walked the cobbled streets, life had been more centralized. Due to their protection of precious artifacts, places like Museum Row were revered as holy sites, hosted rites to Valyrie, and performed bonding rituals. Their persisting presence was similar to how the Constellation Isles still had their prominent buildings on each isle, carved of gleaming moonstone.

Myrella’s nod was hesitant. “Yes, but why would Falliare care about any of that? Perhaps he’s looking for references for developments on Lyra?”

Desmond drummed his fingers against the stone railing, unable to find an explanation. Finally, too fidgety to stand there, he straightened. “Let’s find out, little dreamer.”

With Falliare inside the sanctuary, they scampered across the cul-de-sac, doing their best to not appear too hasty—or too sober given the state of most warriors in this damned city tonight. Desmond forced his steps to slow and stride to be lazier, his fingers fluttering at his sides.

Patience was never his strong suit, and the towering carved facade of the gallery seemed to be staring down at him. The stone gryphon poised atop its pointed roof riled his nerves.

A fountain of Valyrie surrounded by carvings of every Fate sigil bubbled before the sanctuary, mystlight lanterns swinging in the breeze and casting the entire space in archaic, haunted shadows.

They rounded the sanctuary, steps muffled in the grass. Benches were scattered around a tiny stone pond for prayers to the Angel, the weeping branches of cypher trees hiding Desmond and Myrella as they crept closer to the back entrance.

He swore his magic hummed louder beneath his skin, uncomfortable ever since he arrived in Valyn but more so now.

Desmond tipped his head back, studying the structure, and pointed to a round window set into the peak, the wooden frame chipped. A soft halo of yellow light spilled through the dusty glass, rays angled up as if glowing from below. “Bet there are rafters.”

“Probably safest for us.”

“Watch those loud steps,” Desmond teased as he grabbed the back door’s rusted iron handle.

Myrella scoffed, whispering, “I do not have loud steps.”

“You’re no jungle cat.”

“As if you’re any better, big lumbering warrior that you are.”

Desmond bit back a laugh.

He pressed down on the latch and swung the door open, holding his breath as he waited for the hinges to squeak and alert whoever was inside to their presence, but it was thankfully quiet.

“After you,” Desmond said.

They sank into the shadowed space surrounded by clothing racks and crowded supply shelves, and he pulled the door softly closed behind them, wedging a crumpled robe at the base to soften any sound and leave it propped ajar for a quiet escape.

Mystlight barely spilled in from the main room of the sanctuary, but it was enough for their eyes to acclimate. A staircase stood on their left, and Myrella quickly—fairly quietly—scaled to the rafters above. Dim voices floated to them, words not discernible through the walls.

As they emerged on the second level, Desmond was slammed with a burst of incense that clawed at his mind, tugged at his magic.

“What in the Fates?” He swallowed a cough as the fog forced itself down his throat.