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We reached the colossal iron doors of the Grand Archives. The two royal guards stationed at the entrance straightened instantly, bowing their heads in rigid deference before stepping aside to unlatch the heavy iron bolts.

As the massive oak doors swung inward, a tall, pale figure stepped out from the dim interior of the library.

Kaelor.

My boots locked into the stone. Soren’s hand instantly snapped to the hilt of his sword, stepping half an inch forward to cover my flank.

Kaelor was clad in a fine, silver-trimmed tunic, carrying a thick leather binder beneath his arm. His washed-out eyes swept over my ash-stained training gear, a slow smirk spreading across his sharp features.

“Princess,” Kaelor drawled, his voice a smooth poison that made the skin on my arms crawl. He paused at the threshold, leaning in slightly as he brushed past us. “Still haunting the dusty vaults? I would have thought a dragon rider had better things to do than dig through dead paper.”

“And I would have thought a transfer had better things to do than steal from dead candidates,” I replied cold, my green eyes slicing into his.

Kaelor’s smirk didn’t slip, but his pale eyes darkened. He threw a quick glance at Soren, then leaned close enough for me to smell the bitter wine on his breath.

“Enjoy your reading, Tauriel,” Kaelor whispered, his voice dropping to a sharp thread. “The shadow on your shoulder won’t save you when the tide turns.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Kaelor turned on his heel and sauntered down the corridor, his boots echoing in the quiet hall until he vanished around the corner.

A charming male, Nyx’s deep voice rumbled suddenly in my sternum, carrying that calm, undisturbed tone. Shall I drop a stone from the tower onto his head? It would take very little effort.

No, I thought back dryly, pushing past the threshold into the library. Not yet.

The Grand Archives were vast, cavernous, and bathed in the dim amber light of floating tallow candles. Towering oak bookshelves reached forty feet into the vaulted stone ceilings, packed with thousands of parchment rolls, ancient histories, and forgotten maps.

Soren took his post inside the main entrance, pulling the heavy oak doors shut behind us, standing guard against the outer hall while I navigated the deep, labyrinthine aisles.

I pulled a brass lantern off a side table, making my way into the deepest, most isolated section of the vault—a section marked with the faded silver crest of the royal realm.

The threat of the heir to More Alora hung over the kingdom like an executioner’s axe. The border skirmishes were growing bolder, and news had reached the council that the heir intended to use an old-world weapon from which neither magic nor shield could offer escape. I needed a weapon forged specifically for the brutal parameters of that ancient duel.

I reached the far wall, where three massive, iron-bound wooden trunks sat half-buried under centuries of grey dust and cobwebs.

These were not standard court ledgers. These were the personal travel chests of Ambassador Lorian—the royal envoy who had been dispatched across the Great Divide to the realm containing Earth centuries ago, well before the era my father had made his own secret crossing.

My heart hammered against my ribs as I drew my dagger, jamming the thin blade into the rusted iron lock of the primary chest. With a sharp twist, the ancient mechanism snapped, the heavy iron lid creaking open to reveal stacks of leather-bound journals wrapped in oilskin.

I sat cross-legged on the cold stone floor, pulling the first journal into my lap, wiping away the thick layer of dust.

“Soren,” I called out softly. “I found them.”

Soren stepped down the aisle, keeping his eyes alert before looking down at the open chest. “Lorian’s journals?”

“Yes,” I whispered, unlatching the faded brass clasp of the top volume. “The records from his expedition to Earth.”

I carefully opened the brittle, yellowed pages. The handwriting inside was a tight calligraphy written in dark ink that had turned brown with age. Sketches of strange, mortal landscapes, complex astrological configurations, and detailed metallurgical diagrams covered the margins.

Mortals and their parchment, Nyx’s voice echoed in my mind, smooth and dry. So much ink to explain such simple violence. Have you found a weapon yet, or am I to spend my evening watching you read?

Quiet, Nyx, I thought back, my eyes scanning the ancient text.

I turned through the brittle pages—past Lorian’s descriptions of the mortal realm, past his notes on Earth’s hidden ley-line nexus points—until my gaze locked onto an entry marked with a heavy, crimson-ink seal near the back of the second volume.

Soren stepped closer, leaning over my shoulder, the warm amber light fanning the ancient parchment.

“Look here,” I whispered, my fingers tracing the faded handwriting.

The entry was dated eight hundred years ago, written during the First Era: