Chapter 15 Svenn #2
“I’ve had my breakfast this morning," he replies quietly.
“That’s not enough.” Her frown deepens. “Would you like to join us?”
I barely suppress a scowl at the offer. For just a moment, Cedwyn’s gaze shifts from Rhianelle to me.
Most people can’t hold my stare. Even seasoned warriors find excuses to look away when a vampire meets their eyes. It’s instinct, the prey recognizing the predator.
Cedwyn doesn’t flinch.
His expression doesn’t even change. There’s no fear or challenge there, just a steady, measuring look that lasts a heartbeat too long.
“You’re too kind, Your Highness, but I’ve already kept you long enough,” he says politely. “I should return to my work.”
“Promise me you’ll get proper meals while you’re here,” Rhianelle insists, her attention fully on him now, oblivious to what just passed between us. “The archivists can point you to the refectory.”
“Of course.” He ducks his head again, the picture of meekness.
“Forgive me for the interruption.” He takes his leave, shuffling away with his scrolls. His footsteps are nearly silent on the marble floor.
“I think it takes courage to choose a different path,” Rhianelle says, watching him disappear into the stacks. “It’s admirable.”
I say nothing.
Something about Cedwyn doesn’t sit right. But Rhianelle trusts him. She shakes her head fondly at her scribe’s dedication, then gestures for me to follow. “The maps should be in the records section.”
We climb the spiral staircase to the third floor. The coastal archives occupy an entire wing, dedicated to nautical charts and shipping records accumulated over millennia.
Rhianelle moves through the shelves, her fingers tracing the spines until she finds what she’s looking for.
She pulls out a scroll case. The edges are worn soft from countless hands.
I notice how carefully she handles it, as if the thing might crumble in her hands.
She exchanges a few words with the librarian stationed there to lend her the scroll.
Even the queen must follow proper lending protocols.
The formality makes me blink. In Morsvyenn, Vlad hosted feasts and revelries in our library.
We drank and fucked between the shelves surrounded by centuries-old manuscripts.
But here knowledge is sacred. The librarian handles each scroll as if it contains the secrets of the gods.
“Come with me,” Rhianelle says, already moving toward another staircase. We climb to the seventh floor. The upper gallery is quieter than the levels below. Fewer scholars work up here. The windows are larger, offering sweeping views of the city and harbor beyond.
We settle near one of these windows. Below us, the heart of Volundr pulses with life.
“I missed this,” Rhianelle admits quietly, the words meant only for me.
“You should stay after the war,” I tell her. “Rule from here.”
She’s quiet for a moment, watching the city bustle.
“When I was young, my sister used to bring me here,” she murmurs, her voice barely rising above the hum of the crowd.
“We’d spend days in the libraries reading everything we could find.
At night we’d go down to the docks and listen to the sailors’ stories.
She said Volundr was where we came from.
No matter how far we traveled, or how high we rose, we should never forget the salt in our blood. ”
There’s grief in her voice, old and well-worn but never quite healed. I hate that I was not there when the wound was first carved.
“Aerin became someone else after the Great War,” Rhianelle continues, her gaze distant. “I swore I wouldn’t lose myself the same way.”
“You haven’t,” I assure her.
“Haven’t I?” Her laugh is bitter. “I’m about to bring war to their doorstep, Svenn. All these people, all this life and joy are about to burn because I couldn’t stop Eirik—“
We’re interrupted by the arrival of Rainer Wiolant. He’s dressed practically in leather and sturdy cloth rather than courtly finery. His hands are stained with what looks like oil and metal dust.
“The new harpoon mechanisms are performing beyond expectations,” he says by way of greeting. “We’ll be ready when the seadragons come.”
“Uncle.” Rhianelle’s voice carries both affection and wariness. “I was hoping to speak with you about strategy.”
“Later, perhaps. First—“ Rainer’s sharp gaze finds me, assessing. He turns back to Rhianelle. “We should visit your grandfather.”
Rhianelle blinks. “A trip to Kashran… at this time?”
“Exactly. Kashran does not wish for war, but they won’t welcome seadragons on their shores either,” Rainer’s expression is serious now. “If Eirik’s forces push north, we’ll need allies. Your grandfather still has influence there.”
“He hasn’t spoken to me since Aerin’s death,” Rhianelle says quietly.
“Then it’s time to change that.” Rainer’s tone brooks no argument. “We need every advantage we can get.”
The war isn’t just coming to Volundr. It’s going to spread, consuming everything in its path.
“I’ll go,” she says finally. “But after we’ve made sure our defenses are fortified.”
Rainer nods, satisfied. “The harbor master wants your approval on the evacuation plans. If the fae think they can just sail in and take us, they’re going to learn why this city has never fallen in ten thousand years.”
As we follow him back toward the docks, I find myself hoping that their defenses will be enough.
Because if this city falls, something irreplaceable will be lost.
And Rhianelle will never forgive herself.