Chapter 26 Possibilities
Eira
Sleep offered little comfort.
When Eira finally opened her eyes the following morning, the weakness remained, though it was not strong enough to keep her in bed and served mainly as a reminder of everything that had happened the day before.
The memory returned immediately: the burning pain, the dizziness, the sensation of the floor rushing toward her, the frightened faces around her, and the healer’s voice.
Later, through the haze of exhaustion, she had caught fragments of a conversation she had never been meant to hear about two marks that were both active and both dangerous.
She stared at the pale ceiling above her and remained motionless for a long moment.
Outside, distant gulls cried somewhere beyond the windows, and the sound had already become familiar.
It was a strange realization. Only weeks ago she had never seen the sea, and now its voice greeted her each morning.
The thought should have brought comfort, yet her mind drifted back to the same subjects it always seemed to find lately: Frostvein, Ironfang, the marks, Soren, her father, and the growing number of questions that no one seemed willing to answer.
Eira slowly sat up, and the room tilted briefly before settling again. She felt better than she had yesterday, though not well enough to ignore the lingering weakness entirely.
The healer had ordered her to rest, but the instruction irritated her immediately. Lying in bed would not explain what was happening to her, nor would answers appear simply because she remained still long enough.
A humorless smile touched her lips.
That strategy had never worked in Frostvein, and she doubted it would work here.
Her gaze drifted toward the writing desk, where the shell from the beach still rested beside several pages of notes she had written over the previous evenings. They contained observations, thoughts, and small details she did not want to forget.
The sight steadied her unexpectedly.
Words remained even when memories faded and stories changed. Written things endured unless someone deliberately destroyed them.
The thought arrived quietly and refused to leave.
How many stories had vanished because her father had wanted them gone? How many names had been erased? How many truths had disappeared with them?
Eira frowned.
The question felt larger than it should have, extending beyond Frostvein and somehow beyond her own life.
The conversation she had overheard surfaced again, bringing with it memories of the healer’s voice, references to old laws and ancient bonds, and hints of things that had been forgotten, lost, or perhaps deliberately hidden.
Slowly, Eira swung her legs over the side of the bed.
If answers existed, they would not be found by staring at the ceiling, and she was tired of waiting for someone else to decide what she deserved to know.
Her father had done that for years. Soren had done it in different ways. Even Leander, for all his kindness, seemed convinced that he could choose which truths to reveal and which to keep hidden until later.
The realization sharpened something inside her. It was not quite anger, but something steadier and more useful.
Determination.
She was done allowing others to decide how much of her own life she was permitted to understand.
If her future was being shaped by decisions she did not fully comprehend, then she would begin changing that, one answer at a time.
Eira rose, dressed carefully, ignored the faint protest from her body, and left her chambers with a destination already forming in her mind.
The archives.
If the world insisted on hiding its truths in books, then that was where she would begin looking for them.
The House of Chronicles stood on one of the highest streets in Silverwake, not because it belonged to someone important, but because books disliked damp air.
At least that was what the elderly woman sweeping the front steps informed Eira before pointing her toward the entrance.
The building itself surprised her. She had expected something grand, something closer to a palace.
Instead she found a broad stone structure overlooking the harbor, its slate roof weathered by decades of sea wind.
The windows were narrow, the walls plain, and only the carved symbols above the doorway hinted at its purpose: an open book, a compass, and a quill.
Eira paused briefly before stepping inside.
The scent struck her immediately—a mixture of paper, ink, dust, and old leather that felt strangely comforting.
The noise of the city faded as the heavy door closed behind her, revealing rows of shelves that stretched away in every direction alongside ladders, tables, cabinets, scrolls, and books.
There were more books than Eira had ever seen gathered in one place.
For several moments she simply stood there, overwhelmed.
In Frostvein, books had been valuable. Here they seemed endless.
A stack of volumes suddenly shifted somewhere above her, and Eira looked up to see a woman descending a narrow ladder with alarming confidence while carrying what appeared to be half a library in her arms.
The pile swayed dangerously. One book slipped, followed by another, and Eira reacted instinctively. Stepping forward, she caught the falling volume before it struck the floor.
The woman stopped, looked down at the rescued book, and then at Eira.
"Hm."
That was apparently the entirety of her gratitude.
Eira wasn't sure how to respond.
The woman descended the remaining steps and relieved Eira of the book.
She was perhaps sixty, or perhaps younger; age became difficult to judge in people who spent their lives reading instead of worrying about appearances.
Her grey hair was gathered into a loose knot, ink stained two fingers on her right hand, and spectacles rested low on her nose. Her sharp blue eyes missed very little.
"Thank you," the woman finally added. "I wasn't certain you intended to catch it."
Eira blinked.
"I did."
"Good."
The woman tucked the volume beneath her arm.
"It was an expensive book."
The answer arrived so matter-of-factly that Eira almost laughed.
Instead she asked, "I'm looking for the keeper of the archives."
The woman sighed.
"A pity."
Eira frowned.
"I'm sorry?"
"Most people come looking for books."
The woman adjusted the stack in her arms before adding, "Far fewer come looking for me."
For the first time, amusement flickered across Eira's expression.
The woman noticed immediately.
"That's better."
"Better?"
"You looked entirely too serious when you walked in."
Before Eira could answer, the woman continued.
"I am Ilva Hart."
The name meant nothing to Eira, though the confidence with which it was spoken suggested it should.
"I oversee the archives."
"Then you're exactly who I was looking for."
"Possibly."
Ilva tilted her head.
"What are you searching for?"
Eira opened her mouth and then stopped.
The answer suddenly felt far more complicated than she had expected. Old laws, the marks, Frostvein, herself, and the world all crowded together in her thoughts, leaving her uncertain where one was supposed to begin.
Ilva watched her struggle, not impatiently but curiously.
Finally Eira said, "I think I'm looking for answers."
The older woman studied her for several seconds before nodding slowly.
"Ah."
The sound carried a strange note of understanding.
"That explains it."
"Explains what?"
"The expression."
Eira frowned.
"What expression?"
"The one worn by people who arrive believing answers are stored neatly on shelves."
A brief silence followed.
Then Ilva smiled, not mockingly but knowingly.
"Unfortunately, those are usually the hardest visitors to help."
To Eira's surprise, she found herself smiling back.
For the first time since arriving in Silverwake, it felt as though she had stepped into a room where nobody expected her to be anyone except herself.
Ilva studied her for another moment before turning away and gesturing for her to follow.
"Come."
That was apparently all the invitation Eira was going to receive before the older woman disappeared between the shelves without checking whether she was being followed, forcing Eira to hurry after her.
The deeper they ventured into the archives, the larger the building seemed to become, and what she had first mistaken for a large collection of books gradually revealed itself as something far greater.
Rooms opened into other rooms, shelves vanished into distant alcoves, and ladders climbed toward shadowed galleries high above.
Maps hung from the walls, cabinets contained carefully labeled scrolls, and everywhere Eira looked there were records of lives she would never live and places she would never see, a realization that left her feeling strangely humbled.
"How many books are there?"
Ilva glanced back over her shoulder.
"I've never counted."
"You oversee all of this."
"Which is precisely why I know better than to count."
The answer came so quickly that Eira couldn't decide whether it was wisdom or mischief, though she suspected it was probably both.
Eventually they entered a circular reading room overlooking the harbor, where sunlight spilled through tall windows onto several scholars seated at distant tables while the scratching of quills filled the otherwise quiet space.
Ilva deposited her stack of books onto a desk, causing the wood to groan in protest, and then turned her attention back to Eira.
"Now," she said as she folded her arms. "What answers?"
Eira hesitated again, increasingly aware of how often she seemed to do that and how much she disliked it.
"The marks."
Ilva waited without responding.
"The old laws."
Still nothing.
"The North."
The silence stretched long enough for Eira's frustration to grow before she finally frowned.
"What?"
"What what?"
"You keep looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"As though I haven't actually answered."
Ilva's expression brightened.
"Because you haven't."
The irritation arrived immediately.
"I told you what I'm looking for."
"No."