Chapter Thirty-Six #2
She finds him exactly where she expects—half-buried in parchment, spectacles slipping down his nose, muttering to himself as he cross-references three separate texts at once.
“Elandor,” she grits out, palm gripping the sickle blade buried in her skirts.
He startles, only slightly, blinking up at her as if returning from somewhere far removed from the present.
“Ah—Rubi, yes. Have you come to—”
She pulls her sickle blade free, pointing it at Elandor.
She doesn’t remember deciding to draw it. Sobriety, apparently, has done absolutely nothing for her impulse control.
“Tell me what you know of ironsap exports.” Not a question. A command.
It cuts cleanly through whatever thought he was about to offer.
His eyes blow wide, swallowing thickly at the threat.
He straightens, interest sharpening his features.
“Ironsap resin? Caelorian export. Remarkably strong compound, quite fascinating actually—resistant to both water and moderate heat. It’s been used historically in preservation techniques, though its applications have broadened over the years.
Difficult to work with unless one has the proper facilities—”
Rubi cuts him off. “I know what it fucking does, Elandor. Who imports it from Caeloria?”
Elandor doesn’t hesitate.
“We do.”
Rubi stills.
“Nymeris?”
“The Crown, yes.”
Rubi’s stomach drops.
Not Dravara.
Not smugglers.
Nymeris.
Elandor pauses, only briefly before going into a banal explanation.
“Trade has increased in recent years. Caeloria has been… generous in their agreements. We’ve seen a notable rise in foreign materials passing through Nymeris for study and refinement—ironsap, lungwort, more Obsidian Shards than usual. ”
He’s missing the fucking point.
Rubi’s gaze does not waver. “Who approves it?”
She needs to hear him say it.
This time, the pause lingers.
Elandor’s brow furrows faintly as he considers the question, as if only now realizing it might matter.
“Well,” he begins slowly, “such agreements would fall under the Queen’s authority. Her Majesty has taken a particular interest in expanding our access to foreign compounds. It has been… beneficial to our research efforts.”
Rubi goes very still.
The pieces do not fall into place all at once. They align. Quietly. Inevitably.
Caelorian resin.
Nymeris imports.
Mass distribution.
She inhales once, slow and controlled, before asking the question that matters.
“And the volume coming in?” she presses. “Is it all being studied?”
Elandor hesitates.
Only for a heartbeat.
But it is enough.
“…most,” he says carefully. “Though not all shipments pass through the academic channels. Certain materials are… requisitioned.”
“For what purpose?”
Elandor opens his mouth to answer—and stops.
Rubi hates when smart people realize things slowly.
The silence stretches.
Rubi watches the realization move across his face in real time, subtle but unmistakable. The way his posture shifts. The way his gaze drops, then lifts again, sharper now. More aware.
“She’s not studying it,” Rubi says quietly.
Elandor does not respond.
He does not need to.
Rubi’s voice lowers, the words landing with quiet, devastating clarity.
“She’s using it to alter the threvenar so it permanently occupies memory.”
The library does not change. The light remains soft. The shelves loom over them, heavy with knowledge that suddenly feels insufficient.
But something fundamental has shifted.
Elandor did not know.
Which means the archives aren’t missing the truth by accident. Someone has been deciding what truths survive. Information is controlled too.
Thank the gods. She rather liked the bumbling idiot.
So Rubi sheathes her sickle blade, muscles uncoiling just slightly.
Elandor exhales slowly, the sound thin and uncertain in a way Rubi has never heard from him before.
“That would imply—”
“Yes,” Rubi cuts in, her tone steady despite the cold certainty settling in her chest. “It would.”
Her gaze drifts briefly to the book still clutched in her hand, to the name etched into its page.
Ironsap.
Not a tool.
Not a resource.
A method.
Rubi lifts her chin, already moving past the realization and into what comes next.
Because if Ilyra is not simply allowing this—if she is facilitating it—then whatever game they think they’re playing is far larger than any of them understand.
And somewhere beyond the safety of these walls, her friends are already inside it.
“I need to see Dravara’s trade logs, Elandor. I need you to get them,” Rubi says, her eyes never leaving his.
Elandor’s mouth opens and closes, words failing to arrive.
“Ironsap doesn’t move without clearance,” Rubi says, the pieces locking into place. “Not in those quantities. Not without someone signing it through every gate it passes.”
Elandor nods, slowly catching up.
“I need to see if it’s getting into Dravara legally—because if it’s not…” she pauses. And then she says the one thing she’s been dreading, “It means Thalmyr isn’t poisoning the water—Ilyra is.”
Elandor’s eyes still, mouth agape, as if suddenly realizing that the man who prides himself on knowledge, has been basing it on incorrect intelligence. Like his world is tilting. Like truth and lies fold in on each other.
He shakes his head, trying to dislodge the shock. “I— I don’t have Dravara’s trade logs.”
Perhaps it is the first time he hasn’t known the answer, but Elandor looks despondent.
The sickle blade is palmed and pointed before she even consciously decides. She holds it between them. “Well, you have Shades and an advanced messaging network all throughout the Known Realms, Elandor—get it and give it to me.”
Elandor doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Only offers one curt nod in response.
“I need to find my brother. Because if what I think is correct, he’s training an army of the fucking enemy.”
Rubi spins on her heel, slamming the door behind her, leaving Elandor to get her what she needs.
Her hands shake. Bile rises in her throat. But her boots thud with certainty across Elarion Castle to find her brother. Because right now, she’s beginning to think Dravara is the victim.
And Ilyra didn’t just allow it—she facilitated it.
Dread pools in her stomach.
She’s been taking their orders. Trusting their word. Building something under their rule without ever questioning who it truly served.
The guillotine drops…
Rubi and Teddy are living with the fucking enemy.