CHAPTER 31
OLD PARCHMENT PAPER scented the air as soon as Lenore had shut the library’s door behind her.
Musty smells of aged books drifted through the narrow corridors between the shelves.
It was nothing impressive like the grand library back in Arkhaven, but it had its own quaint charm that encouraged Lenore to step away from the door and head inside.
The bookshelves guided her eyes toward the hidden depths of the library, to corners she couldn’t see—offering seclusion in its forgotten reaches.
She moved slowly, careful to assess whether she was truly alone or not. The wooden planks beneath her feet creaked softly. Particles of dust floated in the dim light of the hanging lanterns. As Lenore brushed her fingers against a few book spines, she felt a light film of dust on her skin.
Looks like this place isn’t visited too often, she noted to herself. Lenore kept going deeper inside until she felt more confident being a good distance away from the windows and doors. It was then she let out a loud sigh and leaned her head against the frame of a bookshelf.
A myriad of topics filled the shelves—hunting, foraging, bestiaries, and werewolf culture, to name a few.
Most of them looked to be written by werewolves themselves—books that would never have found their way into the libraries back home.
Many of the books were crudely bound, their covers dulled with age.
Lenore pulled out a small book that spoke of the inner workings of a werewolf pack before her eyes caught sight of another book.
Of the False Moon: The Lucyn. The pale letters stood out against the dark spine. Lenore’s brows furrowed. This could be the kind of information she needed. She reached out and pulled the book out, turning the cover toward her. There was nothing but the title on the front.
It unnerved Lenore, and she quickly cast a fleeting glance toward the windows before she hurried deeper into the library.
She sat down, tucked away in a hidden corner.
Though the light from the hanging lanterns was considerably dim, it was bright enough to read the ink-scribed text on the yellowed pages.
It made her think of Pip, and what a perfect reading buddy he would be right now.
Her eyes skimmed through the introductory passages, fingers trailing across neatly written words before she paused to read:
The powerful influence of the Lucyn contrasts with their now rare presence, a fact made true only by the werewolf, Ieric.
Although many myths surround his character and elevate him to more than a mighty hero, one detail remains consistent across his lore: his wolven claws, as pure as moonlight, struck down the moon deity Lunantha.
That strike ended her reign and the plaguing spread of the Lucyn.
The Lucyn have long tarnished the werewolf’s image, instilling in the public a fear of permanent transformation into a wild, inhuman beast driven by bloodlust and savagery.
Scattered cases of humans turned werewolves do persist to this day, although with many of them, their fates are unknown—Lenore sucked in a sharp breath.
She didn’t want to imagine herself being dragged away by the Lucyn that turned her, and what possibly could have transpired afterwards.
A chill tingled down her body. She quickly flipped the pages, keen to find the chapter on Lunantha, before she stopped at a poem.
Ieric’s legacy rests on witness accounts, and a record of a poem he had jotted down after the final battle between him and Lunantha.
At Moonspire, where the annual Lunar Ball takes place, one can see a statue of his great visage, and the carved inscription that accompanies it (see Figure 1).
The record of said poem reads as follows:
Of the blessings of the Holiest,
Therein lay the grace to deliver us from the enemy,
A pure light, in pure form
To come forth with helplessness from one’s spirit
On the peaks of Heaven’s storm
I call upon true moonlight’s strand
Woven with Holy truth
A blessing to take down the lies at hand
Lenore read the words a few times, silently mulling over what it could mean in her head.
She looked at the statue of Ieric attached to the page and blinked in surprise.
His appearance looked vaguely similar to Auden’s, uncannily so.
Wondering if it was a trick of the light, she leaned in closer, but still the eternal stone features of Ieric echoed in Auden’s flesh.
One of her eyebrows rose subtly. Was it just coincidence… or were they somehow connected?
Her thumb kept lifting the corner of the page restlessly, letting it fall again and again. After another minute, she continued to flip through the pages until bold words stopped her skimming.
Defensive wards against a lu—
The rest of the page was torn.
“No, no!” She desperately turned the pages, but discovered that the needed pages had been ripped out haphazardly.
The book fell back on its spine as Lenore ran her hands through her bangs, frustrated at the missing pieces.
She had to hope that someone knew something—that they had actual experience with a Lucyn.
Lenore wondered if Edmund did. She could go to him and ask. Azelf came into her mind next, but from what she remembered, she didn’t think he knew much more—and had likely read the same book.
Someone who had faced a Lucyn…
Fia. Her eyes lit up in remembrance of the old woman’s battle scars and personal battles with them. There must be some knowledge she had, something that could protect them from the threat festering within the pack.
Until then, Lenore stood up, scouring the bookshelves for more relevant information. She hated to think this way, but Auden’s condition and the ravens were a perfect distraction to avoid being disturbed while she looked.
Soon several books filled her arms, even if they barely connected to the topic at hand. There was no time to waste. She couldn’t let Auden’s suffering be in vain.
Dust flew up as the books thudded hard against the table. One by one, she opened them, searching through weathered pages and trying her hardest to find anything that would help them against this silent battle.