Chapter 20
The air whooshes out of my lungs as I step into the library at last. It’s been a few quiet days since the fateful banquet but tension still coils beneath my skin—like the veins of gold that crawl up the marble walls, blending into the cavernous ceiling above.
Morning light streams in through the tall gilded windows that line the circular walls, reflecting off the polished floor and filling the space with a soft glow.
In the middle of the library, a ring-shaped counter sits atop a low dais, a group of elder tycheroi absorbed in their various tasks at its center.
Rows of white oak bookshelves stretch in perfect symmetry throughout the space, radiating out from the dais like sunbeams. Each shelf is overflowing with a collection of aging scrolls, gilded books, and ancient tomes.
Tables, chairs, and small arrangements of lounges and armchairs fill the spaces between, scholars decorating each with stacks of books beside them.
A golden spiral staircase on the far side leads to a mezzanine level that curls around the walls. More bookcases and small private alcoves crowd the space, and a few tycheroi are scattered among the nooks and strolling through the aisles.
Despite the sheer beauty of it, there’s a coldness to the library—the same chill that permeates the rest of the palace. It seeps through the marble floors and walls. A relentless cold that creeps into your bones.
“Well, there you have it,” Titaia says, pausing beside me with a bored look on her face.
After Helen’s public execution, she’s been attempting to lure me from my seclusion, but I maintained the pretense of being utterly fatigued, claiming that the lingering effects of the nightshade had left me completely drained.
“Books. Lots and lots of dusty books and old people.”
“I take it you don’t have any reading recommendations for me,” I say, a small smile itching the side of my mouth.
It’s just the two of us today. When Titaia showed up at my rooms, I made a show of allowing Nyssa and Myna a day off from their duties. After the second trial, it’s become clear the Flight needs all the help they can get with their mission.
“Come along, then, Princess,” Titaia says, leading me through the tall shelves. She mumbles under her breath as she starts to pull down books and pass them to me.
When our arms are heavy with our collection, we head to one of the smaller tables. I place my stack down, stretching out my arms and breathing a sigh of relief.
“This is a lot of books for someone who apparently doesn’t enjoy reading,” I comment, flashing Titaia a curious look, but she waves it aside, dropping into one of the chairs.
“You asked, I delivered. Think of it as a crash course in all things Eretrian history.” She pauses, a slight frown marring her forehead. “What was your education like on the Isle?”
I know all the plants that can poison, and the plants that can heal.
I know how to pick locks and scale walls in the dead of night.
I know the lethal points on a body where even the slightest cut from a blade can be fatal.
From a distance, I can throw a blade with enough accuracy to hit all of them.
“It was fascinating,” I say. “I learned a great deal.”
“How insightful. I feel like I know you much better now.”
I bite my lip, holding in my laughter. Not that I need bother. It dries up in my throat as my eyes land on a servant returning books to their shelves. Although her face and body are youthful, her skin has withered, and her hair hangs in limp, faded clumps around her face.
“Are there lots of Goiteían here?” I ask.
Titaia’s shoulders tense as she follows my line of sight. “Yes, but not all of them look that way because of it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Has Keres given you a rose yet?” She must read the confirmation on my face because she rolls her eyes so hard I worry she’ll go blind. “I’ve heard half the ladies in this castle bragging about getting one at some point.”
My nose wrinkles with distaste, but I smother the reaction before she looks back at me.
“The the?kós that runs through the royal bloodline of Eretria is unique—as they all are. We can make leaves fall, manipulate harvest and the autumnal elements, wither plants. But at its core, there is a decaying touch. Unlike the season of autumn, it does not strictly apply to plant life.”
Stillness seizes my body, and my breath stutters. “Are you telling me those people have been decayed?”
“Decayed. Withered.” Titaia shudders. “It’s my dear cousin’s favorite punishment for those who displease him.”
This information is new to me, and I doubt the Aviary does not know. Resentment coils in my gut at the thought, and my gaze returns to the withered woman.
Is it possible I’ve found a place I despise more than the Aviary itself?
“Has he always been so…” My voice trails off as I turn back to her and catch the flash of misery in her eyes before she conceals it.
“He was…different, once,” she says carefully, her voice barely more than a breath.
“His magic has always been stronger—wilder—than anyone in our bloodline. Even as a child, he couldn’t control it.
Everything he touched shriveled into nothing.
Plants, objects, even people if they weren’t careful.
They had to lock him away for periods of time—when the magic was stronger than his will. ”
Titaia falls silent for a moment, her gaze fixed somewhere far away, as if she can still see the boy Keres used to be.
“But when they did, it was as if his power turned inward, poisoning him from the inside. Twisting his thoughts, his mind”—her voice wavers but hardens just as quickly—“and then the king had a different idea.”
“What did he do?” I ask, my voice scarcely more than a whisper.
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “He pushed Keres harder than anyone should push a child. Forced him to use that power, over and over, until it became second nature. Until he stopped hesitating. Until he gained control. But too much damage was already done. He’s spent his whole life with far too much power and not nearly enough love.
You can see what it’s done. What it made him into. ”
Titaia’s explanation weaves into the narrative like a missing thread completing a tapestry.
It fills the gaps in the scene, shedding light on the confrontation Raven and I witnessed in the king’s chambers.
Her words settle in my chest, colder than the marble beneath my feet.
The man we know now—cruel, calculating, dangerous—wasn’t born.
They shaped him, piece by piece, until the boy he once was disappeared.
Almost like me, only I didn’t become cruel.
I jolt as a flash of lightning arcs through the sky; seconds later, the deep rumble of thunder follows as sheets of rain pummel against the windows. A chill rolls through me, and I rub my hands up and down my arms.
“You probably miss the warmth of the Sorrows,” Titaia says, drawing my eyes back to her, and I seize the opportunity to discuss something lighter—anything that won’t force me to confront the unsettling parallels between a sadistic monster and myself.
“Yes, but I’ve always loved storms.”
“Does it storm often in the south?”
“Not often enough, but whenever it does, I find the tallest building just to feel the world rage around me.”
Titaia arches an elegant brow. “Does a princess have a lot of pent-up anger to unleash?”
“I think everyone is angry.” I shrug, flicking over another page even though my brain stopped absorbing the words a while ago. “Anger is often disappointed hope.”
“I can’t argue with you about that. Here.”
She hands me a book, thinner than the rest of the pile. Its cover is bound in white cloth, the title embossed in gleaming gold: Myths of the Empyrieos.
Curious, I open it to the first page, only to discover an illustrated storybook of tales and legends—for children.
I glance up, only to catch the now-familiar spark of mischief in Titaia’s eyes.
“It’s always good to revisit the basics,” she says with a sly smile.
I sigh and roll my eyes but flip through the pages nonetheless.
Leaning back in my chair, my focus shifts to the illustrations.
The first story is straightforward—a recounting of the Anemoi and the discovery of the Empyrieos.
However, my brow knits as I spot familiar shapes within the artwork, the same forms that flickered in Master Leto’s shadows, now delicately rendered on the page.
Then I freeze.
On the following page, an image captures my attention—a creature with a feminine face, a feline body, and feathered wings.
My fingers glide across the page, tracing its intricate details, while my heart pounds with a steady, heavy rhythm.
It’s not a flawless depiction of Sphinx, but the details are distinct enough to leave no doubt about the subject the artist sought to portray.
I glance up at Titaia and see her staring at the image, her expression heavy with sorrow. Gone is the usual mask of indulgent royalty she so often wears, replaced by the quiet, unguarded melancholy I have caught only glimmers of before now.
“This creature,” I say, turning the book toward her and pointing at the image. “You warned me to be careful before the first trial. Did you know of her?”
Her eyes lock on mine, no trace of the earlier humor in their red-brown depths. “Yes.”
“Does she normally live in that chamber from the trial?” I already know the truth.
“Sphinx does not live here.” Titaia’s voice is thready, laden with barely restrained emotion. She glances around before tilting toward me. “She’s a prisoner.”