Chapter 28
?──── Serenya ? ────?
I sigh as I flip another brittle page, the weight of my boredom as heavy as the obsidian scrolls. Dimitri’s library is grand with its high vaulted ceilings, tall shelves packed with tomes both ancient and newly bound, but none of it seems to help.
A couple of days of research and all I have found is vague references to the Veil and poetic nonsense about the “barrier of stars,” nothing substantial or useful.
I run a hand through my hair and push the current tome away, its dusty cover shutting with a dull thud. “Useless.”
I stand, stretching the stiffness from my legs, then wander down a different row.
Maybe something in the older sections, the ones Dimitri warned were unorganized and untouched for centuries, might offer more.
My fingers skim along the spines of books until one catches my eye.
It’s small and bound in faded green leather, half buried between two larger volumes.
The title is half-worn, but readable. Legends of the Lost Pantheon.
I tilt my head. I haven’t come across this one in my studies before. It doesn't look like it has been opened in centuries. I take it to the nearest table and eagerly flip it open.
The text inside is written in elegant script, the language old but readable. I skim, expecting vague myths or fables. A few pages in, a name leaps out at me.
Phynnera , the goddess of light.
My heart skips, and I lean closer.
Phynnera, goddess of love, courage, and light. Beloved by mortals, feared by shadows. However, even light has its other half. For Phynnera loved the god Roxnos, Lord of Secrets.
I freeze.
Roxnos.
I have never heard the name before. My brow furrows as I read on.
Roxnos, once a god of twilight and silence, ruled the edges of creation where shadows whispered and stars were born.
Few worshipped him. Fewer still remember his name.
But in him Phynnera saw not darkness, but balance.
They were together for an age, until a great evil tore the heavens apart and their fated bond was broken to protect all realms from ruin.
My original plan forgotten, I flip through the book, searching for any more mention of Roxnos.
There are only a few. A tale of him shaping the first shadowborn fae.
A whisper of his name etched into ancient stone in a now-lost kingdom.
Gravenholme , the page reads. A kingdom swallowed by the flood, where the Vorthari worshipped The Lord of Secrets .
I slowly sit back, eyes wide.
The Vorthori. Shadowborn fae.
I run my hand over the page, tracing Roxnos’s name—no portraits, no sigils. Only words. Only pieces. Yet, something in my chest stirs. I need to know more.
After more hours of poring over the brittle pages, I haven’t found any more information on Roxnos. Who was he? How could someone like Phynnera—someone so radiant—fall for a god of shadows?
I push back my chair, rubbing my temples. I need a break. Space to breathe, to think. I’ll eat first, even if I’m not hungry. Maybe my thoughts will settle.
Dinner is quiet. The dishes barely register to me—steamed vegetables, roasted meat, and a lovely red wine.
Dimitri, lounging with his usual effortless grace, raises a brow at me. “You’re unusually silent tonight.”
I blink out of my haze. “Just tired, I suppose.”
He tilts his head. “Tired…or distracted?”
Ravelle leans forward with excitement. “Is it research? Did you find something?”
I hesitate, then give a small nod. “Not what I was looking for, though. I was looking for mentions of the Veil, but instead, I found something else. Something about Phynnera and a god named Roxnos.”
Dimitri stills. Ravelle frowns. “Roxnos?”
I nod again. “The text calls him the Lord of Secrets . Shadow fae worshipped him. It also said that Roxnos and Phynnera loved each other. I’ve never heard of him, though. Not in any temple teachings or in any of the sacred histories.”
Ravelle’s expression grows thoughtful. “A very old name,” she murmurs.
“I once heard a scholar in the south mention it. Only once. He claimed there was a dark fae who used to worship a god of twilight and shadow. Not like demons from Varkahen, but fae, like you. He called them Vorthari. No one took him seriously. I didn’t either. ” She shrugs. “It sounded like a myth.”
Dimitri’s gaze meets mine. “We found a temple,” he says, “when Koen and I were looking for the other champions. Just ruins, really. The markings, however, were unlike any I have seen before. I thought it was just some forgotten death god. But it felt ancient. Powerful.”
I sit up straighter. “You think it could’ve been his?”
He shrugs. “It was, but there’s very little left. The gods who fall out of favor tend to fade or get erased.”
I swallow. “Why would Phynnera love a god of shadows?”
“Balance, maybe,” Dimitri says. “Even the brightest light needs a place to rest.”
I stare into my wine, heart heavier than before. A forgotten shadow god and the goddess of light. I want to learn more. I mentally add that to the list of things to research while I am here.
Which reminds me—
“I need to send a message,” I say. “To Alira. I need her and Torin to know I’m safe and to keep covering for me, especially if Koen asks about me.
She can tell him I need more time to recover or something.
” My voice is soft, but firm. “I don’t want him to know where I am and try to come looking for me.
I don’t know that he would, but I would rather not risk it.
Also, you can’t use Noctheron’s seal on the letter.
Alira and Torin can’t know where I am either. ”
Dimitri’s brow lifts. “Ah, so we’re your secret now, are we?”
I shrug. “Uh, yeah. Kind of.”
He smirks. “I’ll send the message. Not a bad idea, actually. Buys you more time here. More space to figure things out.”
“Thank you,” I murmur. “For that and for everything else. For saving me. For taking care of me. For not pushing me even when you could have.”
His smirk softens into something gentler. “Well,” he says, voice low and amused, “you’re not the easiest person to take care of, but I suppose it’s been worth it.”
Before I can respond, Ravelle laughs. “Not the easiest? She’s impossible. Remember when she nearly burned down that cottage in the Roxlem mountains when she got sick?”
“Hey! You knocked over those candles, not me.”
“Semantics.” Ravelle waves it off, then leans closer, eyes glinting with mischief. “Though, I’ll bet you give that human boy even more trouble than you give us.”
Heat rushes to my face. “Ravelle, can we not—”
“Not talk about Koen?” she cuts in sweetly, savoring every syllable.
Dimitri huffs a laugh that almost seems forced.
Ravelle gasps, delighted. “Oh, Dima, look…she’s blushing. Stars above, Ren. You can hide from him all you want, but you might want to work on this,” she says as she waves her hand in front of my face, “before you see him again.”
“Goddess help me. Can you both stop ?” I groan, dragging a hand over my face.
“Don’t worry. Dimitri is the same. I’m always catching him making eyes at me.”
“Making eyes at you?” Dimitri repeats dryly.
She smirks, flicking her hair back. “Don’t look so offended, darling. You practically sparkle when I walk into a room.”
He shakes his head, chuckling, and I laugh despite the heat still in my cheeks. I missed this. I missed them.
The guilt hits me hard then, like a sudden crack in the ice beneath my feet, threatening to swallow me whole.
I watch Dimitri smile, the same familiar grin, and my heart twists.
What am I doing? How can I sit here, laughing with them, when I haven’t even begun to forgive him for the part he played in Kallan’s death?
He hasn’t even apologized. Then again, what difference would it make?
A hollow apology wouldn’t bring Kallan back.
The rest of the meal passes in silence. If they notice the change in me, they don’t say anything.
A part of me is grateful for that. That conversation would be too heavy for tonight.
The air between us feels thick, like they are pretending it’s still the way it was before—when none of this was a reality.
The moment we rise from the table, I feel the urge to escape, to breathe air that isn’t thick with unspoken memories. Dimitri and Ravelle linger behind, still talking softly, but their voices fade as I walk the familiar corridor toward the library.
It’s quieter at night. The fire in the nearest brazier burns low, leaving the air smelling faintly of cedar and old parchment. I move another stack of brittle tomes onto the long oak table, careful not to let them tumble.
The oldest records are always the most temperamental.
Some refuse to be read unless coaxed with the right magic.
I mutter a quiet unlocking spell, and the cracked spine opens with a sigh.
Most of the texts were written in a script that predates my kingdom.
Some, I can read. Others need Dimitri’s translations.
Tonight, though, I work alone. I scan another page—more scattered references of the Vorthari, more useless court records from centuries ago. But then, in the margin of a crumbling ledger, I catch a single phrase.
Roxnos’s last covenant, sealed in the depths of Gravenholme.
I pull the book closer, dying to know more.
No maps of that region survived, only sketches of coastlines swallowed by water, a city reduced to broken spires beneath the waves.
In every record, Gravenholme was tied to the same symbol: a four-pointed star or compass split between dark and light—each point featuring a constellation-like design.
Brushing my fingers over the ink, my pulse quickens.
It’s obvious that Gravenholme is the cursed lands where the second trial took place. I just can’t find information on what happened.