Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Ilinger in the doorway, caught between the towers of parchment and the man who tends them. A face I have passed a dozen times without a second thought, a life unfolding in ink and stacked scrolls I never stopped to see.
He freezes at my intrusion. Whatever thought he’d been chasing falls away as he looks between me and the chaos around him.
“I didn’t mean to intrude.”
I tilt my head, extending a hand in quiet greeting. “I’m actually quite glad I found you.”
He looks puzzled, leaning in as if afraid he misheard.
I step farther inside. The light is brighter here than in the more formal rooms of the western wing. Sconces line the walls; I can almost feel how long they’ve burned—how easily time slips away when he works. The scent of oil and ink clings to everything. Maps blanket the room.
“I would love to learn more about Caerhollan and what lies beyond,” I say. “If you’d be so kind.”
His posture shifts, no longer timid. His shoulders settle, and his eyes brighten for a moment before he reins himself in again.
“Of course, my lady. Whatever you wish.”
The room is larger than I realized. Shelves rise nearly to the ceiling, filled with scrolls stacked in precarious towers.
I barely spy the broad oak scribing bench near the window—ink pots and quills lined along the sill and measuring tools scattered across the surface.
Chaos, perhaps, but with a structure he seems to understand.
He turns toward something on the far wall.
A map.
No—a world.
I move toward it, breath caught somewhere in my chest. Caerhollan sits bold among the mountains, the ink dark where the ridge lines break. Settlements mark the hills like constellations. North of the High Hold rests The Jewel, its name adorned with flourishes. At its heart, a small star: the Manor.
Something warm stirs inside me. A sense of home, perhaps. I wonder if I will ever see it.
Farther north, the pen work sharpens. Narrow paths carve through mountain breaks, leading toward a single word.
Thrymnir.
A chill slides down my spine.
“I had no idea…” My voice trails into the stillness.
“This is what’s left,” Fenloris murmurs.
His knuckles tap the desk. There is sorrow in his voice, and something else I can’t quite place. His eyes flick briefly toward the door before returning to the map.
I take him in fully for the first time. He is far less polished than the other courtiers.
Loose brown trousers, a pale cream shirt rumpled with wear.
Ink smudges stain his forearms where his sleeves are shoved back.
Wire spectacles sit crooked on his nose; he keeps pushing them into place as though trying to tame his own thoughts.
His hair is mussed, as though he’s run his hands through it a hundred times.
Perhaps in Vale’s absence he is freer to be.
“What can I show you?” he asks.
“Everything.”
The word slips out bright and eager. He exhales—not quite a laugh—and smiles.
He brings out bound volumes so large it takes both hands to move them. Inside are details of towns and passages, histories inked in careful hand. I try to take it all in; my mind strains beneath the weight of so much knowledge.
I see the flicker of passion when he speaks. Not only about the places on the maps but about their makers.
“My father was a mapmaker,” he says. “His father before him. It used to be considered divine work.” His gaze drifts somewhere far beyond memory.
He speaks quietly, almost reverently. The faded ink and his solemn tone both echoing the ways wonder quietly slipped from these lands.
“It wasn’t only about the road itself but how magic moved with each step.
They didn’t just trace the paths—they charted them through seasons, through storms, through currents most could never perceive. ”
His fingers tighten on the page. The fondness in his voice is edged with bitterness.
My mind returns to that mournful ride with Vale through the valley, the catch in his voice when he spoke of all that had been lost. Caerhollan’s scars run deep.
Centuries deep. I reach instinctively for my throat, as though seeking the pendant Vale now keeps—the ancient stone that once called to me.
A symbol of a world I still barely understand.
Footsteps pass beyond the still-ajar door. I think of all those in the Hold—their pain, their hope.
In the village I kept my distance, partly for safety, partly because I never belonged. Here, among people who may never see me as one of their own, something fierce begins to kindle inside me.
I want to belong.
Maybe it’s the same wild instinct that made me rush to aid a dying stranger rather than save myself. The same reckless heart that did all it could when catastrophe claimed the mill. For someone who claims to withdraw, I seem to have a habit of running toward danger.
A tightness gathers beneath my eyes; I press my lids closed for a breath. A quiet call rises inside me—not quite a roar, but enough to make my spine straighten.
Caerhollan.
Vale.
Worth fighting for.
What could I offer? What small act could matter among those who have endured so much?
My fingers drift over a thick sheaf set aside. “Marothis,” I murmur. I don’t realize I’ve spoken aloud until Fenloris leans closer.
“The Golden Shore,” he says. He pulls the map toward us. “Princess Aurienne resides there now.”
I study the parchment. A city cradling the coastline.
“The palace overlooks the sea to the west and the kingdom to the east,” he continues. “The libraries are said to be so vast the stacks breathe salt into their bindings. At noon the colonnades sing.”
His voice trails into quiet.
“Before the Fade,” he says, “magic protected every road. Passage was easier for those with insight and good intent and it guarded against the lost or wayward. Now…” He searches through the piles, producing a smaller rendering of the great wall map. “Now safe passage is never certain.”
He traces a narrow line between kingdoms.
“Most paths are so treacherous no mortal can cross. Those who try rarely return. Even for us, danger waits at every turn unless the seasons and alliances bless the way.”
Vale traveled one of these very routes. He never said where or why. It hadn’t felt like secrecy—only that the names would have meant little to me.
A tightening settles between my brows. The ink blurs for a moment, and I bring a hand to my temple, breathing slowly until the room stills again.
“I should rest,” I say, stepping back from the table. “But this… it’s extraordinary.”
Fenloris inclines his head. His smile is small but genuine.
“I’ll return soon,” I tell him.
I cannot take in the whole world at once.
But I can begin.