19. Chapter 19
K aelin’s Name Day had ended in a scream, and now the palace held its breath, as if that might keep the affliction from pressing closer.
Ren strode through the winding corridors.
Her chest felt tight, her thoughts a storm she couldn’t rein in – recalling the sneer of Kaelin’s lips, the slight tilt of her chin, the gleam in her violet eyes that spoke of amusement and superiority all at once.
Kaelin’s burning look—half challenge, half mockery—etched itself into Ren’s mind, mixed with the fae princess’s razor-edged taunts, her unbearable talent for getting under Ren’s skin, all tangled with the darker weight of reality that came crashing down all too soon.
The Witherblight was here .
As Ren turned a corner, a fae female glanced up from her threshold. Their eyes met, and then the woman slipped inside her private quarters, shutting her door with a soft click .
Fear had already rooted itself here.
Ren hadn’t even meant to find the library.
She’d stumbled upon it by chance as she prowled the endless halls, refusing to shutter herself away in her chambers like some pampered noble clinging to false safety.
Even with the sickness creeping through the palace, she would not be locked inside.
The irony of it all struck her—the fae panicked at the thought of disease brushing their gilded walls, when beyond Pyraelia’s borders, humans lived with the Witherblight waiting on their doorsteps every single day.
For a race who considered themselves superior, they sure had a talent for cowardice when danger came too close to their own gates.
By the time Ren reached the library doors, her hands had curled into fists, her jaw tight enough to ache. She needed somewhere quiet, somewhere to think, to shove aside her irritation toward the fae princess long enough to remember why she was here in the first place.
She pushed the doors open and stepped inside.
The library was smaller than she expected for a kingdom that boasted of grandeur.
Its shelves leaned with age, their contents packed tightly into the narrow space, and the scent of old parchment and fading ink clung to the air. Pale light filtered through high, arched windows, casting elongated shadows across the stone floor.
Ren ventured further, weaving between precarious towers of parchment until she stood before an oak desk.
Her amber gaze fell upon a carved nameplate that was cracked in half and barely clinging to a teetering stack of leather-bound ledgers.
It read Veylan , though the figure behind the chaos hardly needed an introduction.
The fae librarian stood tall and thin as a reed, draped in layers of misbuttoned robes dyed in shades no one had business combining.
Mirella would have a field day trying to sort him out—she’d probably take one look at the disaster of colors and fabrics and demand he march straight into a fitting.
The librarian munched on a biscuit, mid-page-turn of a book that was hanging by its spine, crumbs dusting a nearby codex.
His skin shimmered a deep, opalescent violet, and his silver hair fell in ringlets.
For all his disarray, though, his face was surprisingly clean-shaven.
And his pale, lilac eyes beheld the sleepless gleam of someone who’d fallen too deep into a book and never quite climbed back out.
The last library Ren had stepped into had every shelf standing in rigid, suffocating order.
Pyraelia’s library had towering piles of books leaning like revelers at closing time of a tavern.
Scrolls fluttered through the air on unseen currents, occasionally swooping low to smack passersby in the head.
A roped-off wing shimmered with wards, and something with too many eyes peered out from a crate labeled “ Sorting. Eventually. ”
Ren stepped forward, clearing her throat and immediately regretting it as a cloud of dust ambushed her. Coughing into her sleeve, she managed, “Excuse me… where do you keep your older tomes?”
Veylan startled, knocking his round glasses askew. Ink-smudged fingers fumbled to straighten them, and he blinked at Ren as if surfacing from underwater.
“Apologies, I didn’t mean to startle you. You don’t get many visitors here, do you?”
“Sometimes,” Veylan admitted. “But I was… in the middle of something.” He gestured vaguely to the open volume before him.
Ren’s amber eyes flicked down, catching a glimpse of the lurid illustration across the page, what looked suspiciously like an orc entwined with a merefolk, both males nude and half-submerged in crashing waves.
She arched her brow. “Enjoying yourself?”
Veylan flushed a deep shade of violet, snapping the book half-shut against his chest. “It’s not what it looks like,” he stammered.
Then, with a huff, he pushed his glasses back into place.
“Well, I mean, it is a sensual narrative, obviously, but it’s descriptions are shallow, the pacing uneven, and there are some frankly abysmal word choices.
” His tone sharpened as he leaned over the book again.
“Though, to be fair, the author is highly renowned, so I’m going to see it through.
But sometimes, I suppose the name sells more than the craft these days—” He stopped abruptly and cleared his throat.
Ren watched him squirm for a moment before she said, “Fascinating critique. But I was actually wondering where you keep your older tomes.” She folded her arms, tilting her head toward the looming shelves around them.
“Unless you plan on recommending me more… sensual narratives. Though if I had a preference, it would probably be the kind with detailed illustrations.”
The poor fae nearly dropped his book, violet skin flushing darker as he spluttered into his collar.
“I couldn’t agree more! Illuminated manuscripts of sensual narratives are most intriguing,” he blurted, voice pitching higher.
“The layering of inks, the gilding techniques—their cultural value far exceeds their, ah, base intent—”
Ren burst out laughing, the sound echoing off the crooked towers of books.
She shook her head, grinning at his horrified earnestness.
“Saints, I was only pulling your leg, though I do appreciate your enthusiasm on the subject.” She tipped her chin toward the shelves.
“Now will you show me where you keep your older tomes, or do I need to dig through the chaos myself?”
He beamed. “Ah! A seeker of stories, are we? Come, come. They’re in the back.”
Ren followed as he swept past, muttering to himself in what might’ve been two different languages.
He glanced over his shoulder as they strode through a crooked aisle.
“Looking for historical records? Magical tomes? Or perhaps…” He leaned in conspiratorially, voice lowering to a hushed whisper, “forbidden grimoires?”
Before Ren could answer, he straightened and continued, “We don’t believe in censorship here. But do be careful and don’t return them with torn pages or bloodstains. That’s where I draw the line.”
Veylan’s boots made soft thumps against the dusty stone as he led her through a narrow corridor flanked by towering shelves.
“This wing was once sealed after a minor cataloging revolt,” Veylan explained cheerfully, stepping over a toppled stack of books.
“The sentient shelving tried to alphabetize the archivist by species.”
“That seems excessive.”
“Oh, it was.”
As Veylan led Ren deeper into the maze of the library, past swaying ladders, humming scrolls, and a shelf that appeared to be snoring rather loudly, they turned a corner into a dim corridor.
And promptly walked into mayhem.
A stack of books flew into the air with a whoosh , scattered parchment spinning like leaves in a storm. In the center hovered a portly ghost in a crooked powdered wig, arms flailing as he recited something that may have once been poetry but now resembled a cursed limerick.
“—and lo! She wept ‘neath moonlit flame,
Though I, her knight, forgot her name!
'Twas love, or lust, or tragic fate—OH DAMNATION, WHY COULDN’T SHE WAIT?!”
Veylan let out a long sigh. “Sir Pindlewhip, must we do this again?”
The ghost turned mid-rant, his misty face lighting up at the sight of company and training on Ren. “A visitor! Oh, dear parchment, she has the look of a muse! A sharpness in the eye and calluses on her hands. Clearly, an adventurer. ”
“She is not your muse,” Veylan grumbled. “She’s here to read, not to be serenaded by your unfinished epic.”
Sir Pindlewhip clutched his feathered quill like a sword. “I died mid-sentence while drafting the greatest literary masterpiece the realm has never read!” His voice echoed with righteous indignation.
Ren asked, “So you’re haunting the library… because of your unfinished poem?”
The ghost clutched his translucent chest. “Artistic injustice, madam!”
Veylan waved a hand through him, making Pindlewhip sputter. “If you don’t quiet down, I swear on the Sacred Index of Everturning Tomes I’ll exorcise you with lemon water and blessed vellum.”
Sir Pindlewhip sniffed and floated backward into a nearby bookshelf, muttering lines of rhymes under his breath.
Veylan looked to Ren. “He’s harmless. Just don’t let him edit anything, or you’ll end up with fifteen prologues and a tragic love triangle that never resolves.
” Veylan paused mid-step, glancing at a tattered romance tome floating by.
“Ugh, another love triangle,” he muttered, snatching it from the air.
“Why is it always two brooding males and one ‘conflicted’ heroine? Honestly, I’d have more respect if she just left them both. ”
At last, they reached a section nearly swallowed by ivy that had forced its way through cracks in the ancient stone. A gilded archway overhead bore faintly glowing script in fae and other ancient languages, the letters humming low, like a sleeping creature murmuring in its dreams.