Chapter Thirty-Two
VIOLET
“You did well today,” Iseul says. Today, she has her hair pulled back into an intricate knot, held in place with a silver comb.
I try to smile, but it feels more like a grimace. She gives me far too much credit. “I butchered every word.”
My response elicits a laugh from her as she stacks the books and notebooks, waving me off when I try to help.
“The old language is not easy to master if you were not born hearing it. Even most fae prefer the common tongue outside of ceremony and tradition.” She places a hand on my forearm. “You haven’t been practicing for long—trust me, you’re doing great.”
“Is it really necessary for me to know this?”
“Perhaps, not the most necessary thing, but it will only help you. Once you have the basics down, I will teach you how to say a few useful key phrases, as well as ones to listen for.” Iseul leans forward.
A stray strand of hair comes loose, dangling in front of her face.
“This might be an act, but this way, if anyone tries to insult you to your face and lie about it, you can properly put them in their place.”
I’ve never had much talent for languages, but Iseul has a good point. “I appreciate it.”
“I don’t like to see people bullied just because someone thinks they are better than them. Status, wealth, and popularity don’t determine someone’s worth,” Iseul says quietly, then quickly shakes it off.
There is pain beneath her words, and I wonder what happened in her past that has made this so personal to her. My heart swells. I want to find whoever hurt her and teach them a lesson.
The implied violence of that thought surprises me.
Once more, I try to help her tidy up the materials from our lesson, which earns me an admonishing tap on the hand.
“Go.” Iseul points down the path toward the library. “I can take care of this on my own. Besides, I know you want to do your own studies.”
Trying to argue with her would be pointless. I pat the slumbering demon at my side as I stand. Bear stirs, blinking their large, round eyes. Sleep vanishes from their expression instantly, and they jump to their feet and hurry to follow.
I wave to Iseul as I step out from the cover of the pavilion beside the water’s edge.
“Try not to strain your eyes too much,” she calls after me.
It feels good to stretch my muscles. I’m not used to studying with such rigid posture.
The old language is a beautiful mix of soft and crisp sounds that take effort to discern at first. What adds an extra challenge is the different sentence structure from what I’m used to. Perhaps if I focus on mastering that first, the rest will be easier to learn.
Bear hides under the edge of my skirt, trotting along with me—as if no one will notice the small, moving bulge at my side. Though I suppose it’s good enough since no one has asked about it.
***
The library is quiet as usual. Scholars will come and go throughout the day, getting what they need and returning it later.
No one speaks to or approaches anyone else.
It seems the proper library etiquette of allowing others their peace and privacy is the same among the fae as it is in the mortal lands.
All who choose to study here do so in one of the designated spaces. Small open rooms without doors with a single table and a cushion between it and the windowed back wall.
I search the shelves for anything that might have more information about Joon’s family. Trailing my fingers along the spines, I scan the titles carefully, but I have already gone through them all. Several times over.
That torn-out page in Joon’s family records still bothers me.
Historical texts are sacred. Written by saint touched scribes who vow to record only verified truths without biases.
It’s forbidden to change or destroy the records, regardless of how unflattering some might look.
Whether royal, noble, or peasant, rank holds no sway over the scribes.
I move on to another section, picking a book at random, and flip through the pages. Then a few more. These appear to be stories written about nobles and royalty, with language typically used in fiction.
The book at the end is leaning against the others, propping them up. Its gilded lettering along the spine is worn and flaking, making it impossible to read the title. I read the first page. It’s a story about a woman courted by a prince she did not love.
I grimace. It sounds like a tragedy. There is enough sorrow in this world without reading about it for enjoyment.
I reshelve the book, but my hand lingers on it as the author’s words linger. In a strange way, it calls to my heart. They painted such a vivid picture, imbued with nearly tangible emotions in only a single page, that I am reluctant to walk away.
Giving in to the strange impulse, I take the book to an empty study area. Within a few sentences, the story has me enthralled.
But she had already fallen in love with the prince’s brother, the king. Not wanting to cause a rift between the two brothers, she rejected them both.
Convinced she was his True Mate, the king secretly sought her out. Their romance bloomed through their clandestine trysts until she became pregnant. By then, they knew neither of them could, nor wanted to, live without the other, so they married.
Heartbroken, the prince left for distant lands.
Months later, the queen gave birth to a young boy. Two years later, they welcomed another son whom they named.
They lived happily for many years, until the day a Shadouk infiltrated the castle.
I remember reading about the Shadouk in a book of lore.
A demon cursed creature that devours the soul of a living person in exchange for a dark, twisted power that was never meant to exist. Some say it is purely the stuff of myths, others say it is the abomination created by bonding oneself to a demon.
“My Lady, you must come with me. There is no time.”
My head jerks up as I’m startled from my reading by Imugi’s sharp hiss. “What—”
“There is no time. You must come now,” they repeat. Imugi abruptly turns and glides away, expecting me to follow.
Joon—something’s wrong.
I scramble to my feet and race to follow. Bear quickly catches up, taking their usual place. Rather than taking the inner passages that meander past several other buildings, Imugi passes through the doors to the outside for a straight path.
Flecks of ice pelt down as the wind tugs my hair and clothes, trying to steal the breath from my lungs. I shield my face with my forearm as I run.
The storm had swallowed the beautiful day in the short time I was in the library. Wailing gusts push against me as if trying to keep me from reaching Joon.
It’s a short distance, but I am gasping from the exertion by the time I reach the main entry.
Imugi pauses, watching me. Probably to see if I will follow or faint.
I nod and motion to keep going, following the sound of Joon’s and Mingi’s muffled voices.
“Joon,” I call to him. I want him to know I’m here. “Joon!”
There’s another voice, one I don’t recognize. Too deep. Too raw. “Stop her! She can’t—”
I pass through the open door and stop in my tracks.
Joon and Mingi are the only ones in the room.
Shimmering scales break out across Joon’s skin and disappear—the same as the iridescent sheen that flickers over patches of his skin every time he’s siphoned.
Joon stops partway down the steps leading to the underground cavern, holding the mirror. Our eyes meet.
Mingi races over, tugging on my arm, but I refuse to be moved.
Because one of the eyes staring at me does not belong to him—it is not the deep, endless blue that I could drown in—but the summer blue of the Winter Dragon’s eyes.
My gaze drifts down to the arm he clutches with his other hand, but that is not his either.
Betrayal tightens my throat.
The Winter Dragon isn’t some beast he keeps locked up—
Before I can think of anything to say or do, Joon’s body shudders, and then he’s gone. Disappearing into the depths below the castle.
Yanking free from Mingi’s grasp, I spin on my heel and race for my room. I catch myself in the open doorway and stare at everything that is not mine.
He lied.
He’s been lying to me this entire time.
He talked about the dragon as if it were something separate from him, something he controls—rather than a part of him.
He attacked people, freezing them—my parents.
He did this to them.
The betrayal threatens to suffocate me if I stay.
I grab my cloak and run, half-blinded by the bitter tears that sting my eyes.
Imugi sails through the air and hovers before my face, blocking me before I can step outside.
“Get out of my way,” I grind out. My teeth are clenched so hard, my jaw aches.
“Where are you going?”
Joon once said the dragon killed his wives, not him. Another lie, I think bitterly. How gruesome were their deaths? I need to see the truth of their fates for myself.
My heart seizes. Did Joon kill them because they learned his secret too, or had they simply outgrown their usefulness?
“Where is the royal crypt?” I demand, ignoring their question.
“In the chamber below the Temple Tower. Why?” Iseul asks from behind.
I don’t know how she found me, but I’m thankful for her timing.
“You cannot go there!” Imugi hisses.
Bear growls, bunching their body in preparation to pounce to my defense.
I duck under the hovering demon and slip outside. The wind has died down some, but flecks of ice still whirl through the air. I barely feel the sting against my face, determined not to let anyone or anything stop me from getting to the crypt.
A shadow passes overhead, drawing my eye to the large shape.
Through the haze of white, the Winter Dragon weaves through the sky. With a roar, it does a somersault and circles back, coming straight for me.
The part of me that wants to live screams for me to run, but another part knows I am too slow—too far from any shelter—to get away. And my feet remain planted where they are.