Chapter 9
Library walls had become my refuge. A hush wrapped in the scent of ink and aged parchment, where I could lose myself in histories far older than anything I had known before. Here, among the towering shelves and endless rows of books, I could almost forget how much my world had changed.
Stepping inside, I expected the familiar solitude.
Instead, I found Varyth.
He was sprawled in one of the armchairs near the tall windows, one leg draped lazily over the armrest, the other planted firmly on the ground. In his hands, he held a book, its cover angled away from me, concealing the title.
His eyes flicked up as I entered. A knowing smile curved his lips. “Good afternoon, Isara.”
He said my name like a held breath. Like he had waited for the sound.
I dipped my head in greeting. “Good afternoon.”
Turning away from him, I made my way toward the nearest shelf, sliding the book I’d finished into its place among the others.
My fingers lingered on the spine for a moment before I let go.
Returning a book to its home was grounding, leaving a part of myself within its pages and gaining a new piece in return.
I turned slightly, and glanced back over my shoulder.
He was watching me.
Not even pretending to read. Just… watching. That unreadable expression softening at the edges the moment our eyes met.
“Where are your wings?” I didn’t know why I asked. Probably to fill the silence.
Varyth blinked, a moment of surprise quickly smoothed away.
“You don’t see them,” he said, as if that explained anything at all.
“You mean… you can take them off?”
A low scoff slipped from him. “No. Not quite. Most fae can will them in or out. It’s… inconvenient to walk through doorways with them dragging behind.”
I leaned against the nearest shelf, arms crossing. “So they’re optional?”
“Visible when we choose them to be. Present always.”
“That sounds practical.”
“It is.” His gaze held on me a little too long. “What have you been reading?”
I turned back to face him. “Fae history,” I admitted. “I find it fascinating.”
His brow lifted, intrigue dancing across his face. “Fascinating?”
“The history of your courts, the way power transfers, how alliances rise and fall… it’s unlike anything I’ve ever known.”
“And what have you learned so far?”
I let out a huff, shaking my head. “That your kind love their wars almost as much as their politics.”
He laughed at that, low and rich. “An astute observation.”
I crossed my arms, leaning against the bookshelf. “It’s strange, reading about things that happened thousands of years ago. In Braerlith, history fades quickly. But here… some of you were there.”
His smile didn’t fade, but his expression shifted, considering. “Indeed. We remember.”
I didn’t know how old Varyth was. He looked no more than perhaps thirty, his skin pale as moonlight, smooth and youthful.
But there was a slight crinkle at the corners of his eyes.
As if he, perhaps, used to smile more. And I knew he could have seen centuries, even millennia, pass like the turning of pages in a book.
“Were you?” I asked, curiosity getting the better of me. “There, I mean? For any of it?”
His fingers drummed idly against the cover of his book. “For some.”
“And?” I pressed.
A shadow passed across his features. “History,” he said, “is far less romantic when you are the one bleeding inside it.”
The words sent a ripple through me, though I couldn’t quite name why.
Before I could respond, Varyth set his book down on the small table beside him. The title was still obscured, and some part of me itched to know what had been occupying his attention.
He rose, lazy grace giving way to quiet intent. “Tell me, Isara.” He clasped his hands behind his back as he closed the space between us. “Which stories fascinated you the most?”
I watched his approach, his movements smooth and measured, each step part of a carefully choreographed dance. The distance between us narrowed, yet I refused to retreat.
“The Rise of the Courts,” I answered. “How they were formed, how they maintain their boundaries. The way each court embodies different aspects of power.”
Varyth’s eyes gleamed with quiet approval. “Most humans fixate on our wars or magic. You see the structures beneath.”
I shrugged, trying to ignore the warmth that bloomed at his praise. “Perhaps because I understand court politics better than I’d like to admit.”
“And what do you make of Luceren’s court, now that you’ve had time to observe it?”
I considered his question. The past weeks had given me a glimpse into the workings of his court—the balance of power, the quiet alliances, the unspoken hierarchies.
“Your court is... disciplined,” I said finally. “There’s an order to everything, a purpose. Nothing happens by accident.”
His lips curved. “And is that a compliment or a criticism?”
“Neither. Just an observation.”
“You’ve been watching closely.” The firelight flickered just right as he shifted. It caught on the curve of his cheekbone, on the faint, pale scar that traced beneath it. A single, elegant slash marring otherwise flawless skin.
“I’m trying to understand this place,” I admitted. “If I’m to stay, I need to know how it works.”
He took another step closer, and I caught the faint scent that followed him everywhere, crisp dewed grass and sandalwood.
“And how is that going?” he asked. His voice dropped lower, almost intimate in the quiet of the library. “This... understanding.”
I refused to be the first to look away. “It’s a work in progress.”
Amusement broke across his face, but it was quickly replaced by curiosity, assessment.
His gaze dropped briefly to my lips before returning to meet mine. I tried to breathe, but the weight of him captured it somewhere in my throat.
“Perhaps I could help with that.” He took another step forward.
He was close now, close enough that the warmth of him danced across my skin, and I could see the faint stubble on his chin. I should have stepped back. Should have maintained the distance I’d kept since arriving.
Instead, I remained where I was, my back against the bookshelf.
“There’s a text you should read,” he said. “If you’re truly interested in understanding Luceren’s court history.”
He looked past me to the shelves behind my head. His chest grazed my shoulder as he stretched upward. Too close to be a mistake.
His fingers curled around the spine of a book above my head, the leather-bound volume sliding free with a whisper against the shelf. He didn’t step back immediately. His chest rose and fell, and the solid strength of him brushed against me with each breath.
The grey tunic he wore stretched taut across his chest and arms, clinging to muscle with every movement—broad shoulders, corded forearms, the defined line of his biceps flexing as he grasped the book.
My eyes trailed upward before I could stop them, dragging over the column of his throat, the cut of his jaw.
His lips parted slightly.
And I realised, with a jolt, he’d caught me staring.
“This one.” The words rumbled between us.
He finally pulled back, enough to place the book in my hands.
The tome was heavier than I expected, bound in a deep burgundy leather that was supple and worn beneath my fingers.
Silver filigree lined the edges, catching the lamplight.
The title was embossed in flowing script, The Wanderer’s Path: Chronicles of Bassius Draven.
I traced my fingertips over the elegant lettering. “This isn’t a history text.”
Varyth chuckled. “It’s based on a true story,” he said, folding his arms as he leaned against the edge of the bookshelf.
“It follows a fae adventurer who united the courts. Not with magic or armies, but with wit, charm, and a dangerous amount of skill. While each court governs itself, there are rules we all adhere to. This book explores the foundation of those agreements.”
I glanced back down at the book, “So, it’s history, but… dramatised?”
His smile deepened. “A more creative retelling, perhaps. But the heart of the story is true.”
“And you think this will help me understand your court?”
He huffed something that might’ve been a laugh, stepping back enough that I could breathe again, though the warmth of his presence lingered. “It will give you another perspective. And perhaps a well-earned break from the drier texts you’ve been buried in.”
“I prefer that history gets straight to the point.”
“Sometimes the journey of a story is worth taking.”
“What do you mean by that?”
Varyth ran a hand through his hair. “Having lived much of the history you’ve read, I can tell you that the events around it—the emotions, the choices, the reasons—not just the facts of what happened, matter too.”
“Any examples of what I’m missing?”
He hesitated. Then, after a beat, “The last great war. I’m sure you read that it ended the enslavement of fae?”
I nodded. “Yes. That is what the books claim.”
Varyth nodded in return. “And I’m sure you noted that my court opposed it.”
Cold wariness crept in, but I held my composure. “I did.”
“I’m not surprised you did,” he said flatly.
“But I think it’s important to understand that the war was not as simple as the books suggest. The court that led it, Nyxaria, had other intentions beyond their noble cause.
They sought power, territory, expansion.
They saw an opportunity to justify their ambitions and hid behind it. ”
Varyth’s hand drifted toward a shelf carved from bleached bonewood, fingertips brushing over the smooth surface of a crystal orb nestled in a silver cradle.
“Words won’t do it justice,” he murmured. “See for yourself.”
I reached for the orb.
Cool glass met my fingers, smooth, inert. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
The orb pulsed once, then ripped the floor from beneath me.
Wind howled. Ash bit at my skin. Screams tore through the sky.
I was on a battlefield.