Chapter 15
Morning in Vathis carried none of the previous night’s celebratory looseness.
By the time Imani stepped into the corridors, the palace had already reset itself into a noticeable rhythm.
Servants worked with silent efficiency, and guards stood back at their posts, neatly folding away any reprieve the party had afforded them.
She moved toward the library at a steady pace. Her route was clear but drew constant attention, the court’s watchful eye heavy even in the early morning. The atmosphere was calmer now, yet still uneasy, with a persistent tension in the air.
As she walked, Imani instinctively noticed every shift around her without looking.
Guards straightened slightly sooner; servants subtly pressed against walls before she arrived; conversations paused as she walked by.
The watchfulness was obvious, but it no longer surprised her.
She anticipated the deference and the quiet calculations behind lowered gazes.
Because she knew it was coming, she navigated through it confidently, allowing the atmosphere to follow her rather than define her.
She saw being observed as a tool, and she planned to use it.
Today, she would find answers. Guesswork wasn’t enough anymore. Now, she needed a foundation for her decisions.
No one else occupied the library this early.
Its air held a profound peace. Shelves rose in immaculate, ordered rows, leaving nothing to chance.
Ellisar didn’t display his power here; he preserved it in ink and record rather than in spectacle.
Imani had never been much of a scholar, but when something caught her attention, it held her fast.
Narrow ladders ran along brass rails beneath the highest shelves, while carved wooden labels divided the collections by century, magical discipline, and Norn territory. Along one wall, glass-fronted cabinets held brittle scrolls and bundles of correspondence whose edges had yellowed with age.
The librarian appeared before Imani had taken more than a few steps inside, moving with a certainty that suggested she had been waiting.
She was an older Norn woman, her silver-streaked hair pulled back neatly from a face that held more observation than softness.
Her eyes settled on Imani without emotion, and she inclined her head in a measured, genuine greeting, as if she understood exactly who stood before her.
“I was wondering when you’d come by. You have your mother’s posture,” she said, stating a fact rather than offering praise. “And your father’s way of looking at a room, as if it’s already told you a secret.”
Imani nearly gasped but managed a delicate swallow instead, masking her surprise.
The past pressed into the present, threading itself through the power she now carried.
Disliking the sudden ambush of memory, Imani narrowed her eyes and gave a curt nod, refusing to engage with the sentiment despite her curiosity.
“I need everything you have on wandlore,” Imani stated. “Specifically, the Drasil.”
Her wandlore brand warmed faintly beneath her skin as she looked across the shelves.
Norn elves were the only Mesial breed the Fabric marked for wandlore, a distinction their people had spent generations turning into responsibility.
Wandlore witches recorded what they learned—woods, makers, binding methods, failures, anomalies—because knowledge that died with one witch could disappear from the craft entirely.
That tradition made Norn archives different from ordinary magical libraries. Vathis had preserved centuries of wandlore records other territories had never thought to keep.
If anything about the Drasil had survived in writing, she expected to find it here. And now that Ellisar knew both she and Tanyl possessed a Drasil, pretending otherwise offered no protection. It only limited her arsenal.
The librarian’s face paled as she recognized the request’s seriousness.
With a curt nod, she turned and guided Imani deeper into the stacks.
They passed long reading tables scarred by generations of ink stains and wand burns, then entered narrower aisles where the shelves loomed close enough to brush Imani’s shoulders.
Small brass plaques marked entire sections devoted to wand woods, magical inheritance, Fabric manifestations, and the recorded histories of wandlore witches.
Lanterns grew fewer, the light dimmed, and the air thickened with the scents of old leather and dust. Several volumes hung loosely from the shelves, while others sat in shallow wooden cases with handwritten catalog cards tucked beneath their clasps.
Imani stood waiting as the librarian shuffled about the room, selecting several heavy, ancient texts. When she handed them over, their weight was dense with years of disuse, blurring the line between documented history and myth.
“These are the oldest records we have on wandlore’s origins,” the woman said, placing the volumes into Imani’s arms with care.
Imani turned to leave, but the librarian’s hand closed around her arm. The grip wasn’t harsh, but it was firm enough to stop her. The quiet of the space suddenly shifted, charged with intent. Imani didn’t panic. She simply focused, noting the steadiness behind the woman’s hold.
Shifting her grip, the librarian reached into the fold of her sleeve. Her nostrils flared as she pressed a small, folded piece of paper into Imani’s palm.
“I’ve been waiting for this opportunity,” the Norn woman breathed. “Since I heard the true queen was here… and that it was Imani Aowyn.”
The paper was light, unremarkable, but it burned with expectation.
“It’s a trust spell,” the librarian explained, finally releasing Imani’s arm.
“Not a binding, not a means of control. Nothing that forces truth or obedience. I am a divination witch; I don’t change who people are.
I only see. This will help you do the same.
” She placed her hand over Imani’s and squeezed.
“It will help you see who you can trust most in this world. It isn’t perfect, and it requires effort—you must choose when to use it and on whom.
What you do with what it shows you… that remains yours. ”
Imani pulled her hand back and curled it around the paper as she thought of Ellisar, with his careful manipulations, and of Tanyl moving pieces from the shadows.
Kiran, relentless and impossible to predict, came to mind next.
None of them operated in absolute truth, and that was where the real danger lay.
Power could be challenged or taken. But trust was the risk that decided everything.
“Why give this to me?” Imani asked, her tone even but edged with scrutiny.
“Because you’re going to be asked to decide more than anyone should,” the librarian said simply. “And you won’t always get the truths to help inform those choices. This will help.”
Gathering up the books and pressing them to her chest with one hand, Imani left the library without another word. The folded spell burned in her other palm. The corridors felt the same—quiet, ordered—but her internal landscape was loud. What had the librarian given her? She was frantic to find out.
As she walked, more of the game pieces locked into place. The Drasil was a position on an axis she was only beginning to grasp. Ellisar, Tanyl, and Kiran all pulled at that same center, trying to bend the realm’s power to their favor.
When she reached her room and the door clicked shut, sealing her in a space that felt less like a retreat and more like a war room, she set the books down one by one, letting their heavy thuds anchor the moment.
Despite the painful clench in her stomach, she ignored the books and studied the folded paper, turning it slowly between her fingers. It was knowledge in one form, possibility in another. She smoothed the paper flat against the table, her gaze tracking the intricate markings with cold precision.
It was a spell, and one she wasn’t going to save for a desperate moment.
Imani took out her wand.