Chapter Forty-Nine
ELYSSARA
The guards lead us deeper through the castle’s winding halls until stone gives way to something far older, far stranger. The air cools, tinged with the scent of moss and parchment, with subtle notes of dust and time.
We step into a cavernous chamber carved straight from the mountain’s heart.
Trees have grown with the stone, their roots winding through staircases and shelves as if earth and knowledge struck a pact long ago.
Golden runes shimmer across the vaulted ceiling, casting constellations of light that shift when you move, as though the library itself keeps watch.
Balconies spiral upward in dizzying layers, each one crowded with shelves heavy with tomes bound in every hide and cloth imaginable. A river of lanterns winds along the walkways, glowing like captured Starlight. Ethereal. Mesmerizing.
It feels less like a library and more like an altar to worship knowledge. Every breath hums with reverence.
And then—
“Ah, there you are!” A voice cuts through the hush, brittle and warm all at once.
From between two shelves totters an elderly man with spectacles sliding down the bridge of his nose, robes smudged with ink, and hair sticking up in directions that suggest he’s lost too many battles with quills or patience.
“I worried you’d never come. Books grow restless when their readers are late. ”
He hurries forward, nearly tripping over the hem of his robes, and begins fussing with a stack of parchment tucked under one arm. “Mind your boots, if you please. The floor remembers every footstep, and I’d rather not track in destiny with the mud.”
He waves his quill at us like a conductor’s baton, already half-turned back to the shelves as if they call to him by invisible threads. Then he pauses, blinking at me, at Kael, as though suddenly remembering who he’s addressing.
“Ah. Of course. Royalty. Tether-bound. Stars above, where are my manners? Elandor, Archivist of… well, everywhere. Keeper of forgotten things, devotee of honest history. At your service.”
He dips into a bow so deep his spectacles slide precariously down his nose, and he nearly loses the stack of parchment in his arms. I catch them before they tumble, shaking my head with a smile.
“Please, stand. No need for all that,” I admonish kindly, reaching for his elbow to help him up. “I’m Elyssara,” I offer.
He smooths down his thick woolen coat, and blows frayed gray hair out of his face.
“Oh, I know, dear—Dravara’s Princess. We have the rightful King Kael, Therion, Rubinia, Seren, Ronyn, Jax, Mavyrn,” he points towards the others one by one, giving them a curt dip of his chin as he recites their names.
“Quite infamous in Nymeris, in fact, you lot. Yes, yes, we’ve been waiting for you all for some time,” he stammers.
Elandor pats down his coat again, fusses with his quill, then finally looks me square in the eyes over the rims of his spectacles. His gaze is sharp despite the absent-minded veneer, a scholar’s mind blazing behind the frailty of years.
“Well, then,” he says, clearing his throat. “If you’re here for answers, you’d best be ready to be disappointed. Knowledge is a greedy thing—it gives nothing freely, and when it does, it costs more than you think.”
What in the Stars does that even mean?
He says it so briskly, as though remarking on the weather, and shuffles off toward a winding staircase swallowed by shelves.
“Wait—what do you mean?” I ask.
“Mm?” He blinks back at me, halfway up the first step, parchment fluttering like feathers in his arms. “Oh, nothing of consequence. Only that knowledge doesn’t so much reveal as it reminds. A most peculiar thing, really.”
I shake my head in confusion, looking to the others for clarification. Kael’s face contorts into a smirk, stifling a laugh at the old, flustered man, and I can’t help it—I laugh. No—I snort, clapping my palms over my mouth to muffle it.
But Elandor doesn’t notice. He simply continues his slow ascent up the winding staircase, scholar’s robes floating on the gentle breeze winding through the arched windows that reveal the cascading waterfall beyond.
Seren edges past me, and whispers, “I actually understood that. Knowledge is never a reveal—it is reminding you of the facts of what already is.” She rushes after Elandor like a protégé chasing a master.
But, I’m not done. Despite whatever lies ahead, I laugh again.
There you go again with that laugh, Duskae. Kael’s rough timbre drifts down the tether like worship and reverence entwined. Wars have started for less, you know.
I spin on the staircase, turning into his chest as he ascends—our bodies collide, and it steals the breath from my lungs.
Because I feel his devotion. His hunger.
His love. His need for me to fall into him.
To fall apart in his arms. And I want to.
Gods, I want to. But there’s a small, sacred part of my heart that lives behind a fortress, and despite the way I have ripped at its walls, begging it to crumble—it won’t. Not entirely.
Because I’ve been here before. I’ve let myself free fall into him. I’ve let him hold my fractured pieces together with his bare hands.
And then he let go.
The fractured pieces shattered into tiny, sharp splinters.
I know why. I know he saved me. But the splinters of my soul don’t care for why they broke, just that they did.
As if he sees the broken pieces in my eyes, his arms wrap around me, soothing, and the rich rumble of his voice drips like honey down the tether. I will wait as long as it takes for you to find safety in me again.
And his words wreck me, as if pressing on a wound that hasn’t yet healed.
The prickle of tears sting my eyes, and the smell of oakmoss and leather wrap around me like a cloak.
What if I never do? I ask, as we stare at each other in silent embrace.
My heart aches, because this question has chased me from Thornewood, no matter how fast I move.
Then I will wait lifetimes. I will stay by your side until the question of my loyalty and love becomes a guarantee.
For you Duskae, there is no limit to my devotion.
You have always been forever for me. His words don’t drip like honey, they cut like a blade, slicing through my resistance until it almost bleeds out.
A whimper escapes me, sharp and insistent, and I can do nothing but submit to it. I nuzzle my face into his neck as if I can hide from myself there. The tears fall, gliding down my cheeks like my vulnerability is in a race to the bottom.
Kael’s thumb hovers at my chin, as though seeking permission before daring to touch me.
But his resolve hardens as he grips my chin lightly, forcing me to look into his ocean eyes—the eyes that break me and put me back together.
The eyes that beg me to feel everything I’d rather bury at the very bottom of my soul.
I love you, Elyssara Dawnmere, and I am not going anywhere. I will stay. I will outlast every scar. His words etch into my soul like sacred scripture—a promise. A vow.
The warmth of his heartbeat through his leather armor grounds me here, despite all the ways I crave to run from the intensity of his words, his eyes, his love.
But he doesn’t wait for me to speak. He drags his hands down my throat, across my neck, until his calloused palm spreads across my chest. My heart.
“I know you can’t say it yet, my love. I don’t say it because I need to hear it in return.
I proclaim my love for you because it is the truth, and you deserve nothing less,” he says, his voice certain, unwavering.
The rough tips of his thumbs wipe tears from my eyes, and something about the gesture feels holy. Reverent. Like a promise to hold the shards of my heart in the palm of his hand until they meld back together.
I can’t speak, words distant and elusive, but Kael sees that, too, in the same way he sees everything when it comes to me. “Best not keep Elandor waiting,” he says, giving me permission to end the conversation.
I nod, sniffling and composing myself. “Best not keep the rest of the realms waiting, either,” I say, and turn to climb the stairs after Elandor.
Kael releases me slowly, as if reluctant to let go of the vow he’s only just spoken into existence.
My chest is still tight, but my feet remember how to climb—step by step the staircase reaches higher into the mountain, coiling around a broad tree trunk as the Elarion township grows smaller through the arched windows.
At the landing, the library opens into a quaint, intimate chamber carved directly into the mountain’s bone. Shelves line the walls in concentric rings, every surface sagging with scrolls, bound tomes, and artifacts arranged with obsessive care.
A long oak table dominates the center, etched with burn marks, ink stains, and drawings carved by impatient hands. My friends sit around it, patiently waiting for us, never pushing, never rushing the fragile connection between Kael and me.
Elandor fusses over a stack of scrolls so tall it threatens to topple. He mutters to himself, then shuffles a parchment back into place as if that single sheet might tip the balance of history.
“Come, come,” he beckons without looking up, quill wagging toward the table.
“The library likes you best when you sit. It hates impatience, though it also doesn’t like when you make it wait.
” He stills for a moment, tip of the quill poised at the edge of his mouth, as if he’s deciphering his own words and if they make sense.
He shrugs nonchalantly, deciding to let it go.
“Anyhow, sit. I’ve been waiting for this moment for many years. ”
I trade a glance with Kael who fights a smirk, but his hand brushes mine in the smallest of touches, steadying me before we take our seat around the oak table.
I let out a heavy exhale, composing myself.