CHAPTER 12 #2
They lunged again, tackling her. Faelith rolled with the impact, letting the momentum carry her into a controlled fall. She kicked off a shelf, flipping backward. The stranger followed, relentless, their movements heavy and fast.
A book slipped from the shelf.
Faelith caught it midair, preventing it from setting off a nearby ward they fought dangerously close to and alerting the guards outside.
The stranger used the moment to strike.
Their arm slammed into her ribs. Pain flared. Faelith staggered but did not fall. She swept low, aiming for their knee. The stranger blocked with a downward strike that sent vibrations up her arm.
They were strong.
Stronger than any human guard she had fought.
Stronger than most elves.
Faelith darted sideways, weaving between shelves. The stranger followed, boots thudding softly against the tile. She jumped onto a narrow beam, running along it with perfect balance. The stranger kicked the beam and shook it, trying to throw her off.
Faelith dropped, landing behind them again.
Her dagger flashed.
The stranger caught her wrist. Their other hand clamped around her throat. Faelith slammed her knee into their side. They grunted, loosening their grip. She twisted free, slicing across their arm. Blood darkened their sleeve.
The stranger surged forward, tackling her again. They crashed into a shelf. Wood groaned. Scrolls trembled. A stack of books slid dangerously close to the edge.
Faelith shoved off the stranger’s chest, flipping backward. She landed in a crouch, breath sharp, dagger ready.
The stranger charged.
Faelith met them with a fluid sweep, redirecting their momentum. They slammed into a pillar. Dust rained down. Faelith darted forward, aiming for their throat.
The stranger caught her blade between two palms.
Faelith’s eyes widened.
They twisted, wrenching the dagger from her hand. She spun, kicking upward. Her heel struck their jaw. The dagger fell. She caught it before it hit the ground.
The stranger grabbed her cloak and yanked her backward. She stumbled. They pinned her against a large shelf. Books toppled. She caught two, preventing a crash.
The stranger’s hand closed around her wrist again. Their other arm braced against the shelf, trapping her.
Faelith drove her dagger into their shoulder.
An inch deep.
The stranger inhaled sharply. Their grip tightened. They forced her to the ground, pinning her beneath them. Their hand clamped over her mouth, silencing her. Their breath brushed her cheek. Their face hovered inches from hers, shadowed and unreadable.
The shelf beside them teetered.
One more impact would send it crashing down and alert every guard outside.
Faelith’s hood slipped back, exposing portions of her long hair.
The stranger’s eyes flickered, their grip hesitated for a fraction of a second before clamping down again.
Recognition.
Shock.
Something darker, anger?
The only hint she had was that their strength, their stance, even their silence felt dangerously familiar.
Blood from their shoulder warmed her fingers.
Neither of them dared to move.
???
Cian had followed the trail of movement through the Archives with growing irritation.
He had known someone was inside long before he reached the upper floor.
A shadow slipping through the stacks that was cast on the far wall.
A presence that did not belong here. He had come to confirm the suspicion, but the moment he stepped into the aisle, the figure charged at him.
He had not expected this.
The moment he forced the intruder to the ground, pinning them beneath him, the hood slipped back just enough for moonlight to catch their eyes. Sharp. Hazeled. Familiar.
Faelith.
Shock hit him first.
Frustration followed hard behind it.
He had caught her here.
Her dagger was still buried an inch into his shoulder. Warm blood seeped through his shirt. Her breath was quick beneath his hand. She stared up at him, eyes wide, not with fear, but with determination.
They shared a moment suspended between them.
Faelith had no idea who this man was, only that he held her down with his full weight, one hand over her mouth, her dagger still lodged in his shoulder.
She twisted beneath him, trying to break free, her movements fluid and sharp, but he held her easily.
Cian stared into her hazel eyes, a rush of emotions passing through him in a single breath.
Relief that she was not seriously hurt. Frustration that she had put herself into this much danger.
And something quieter tugged at him at seeing her again.
She strained against him, trying to slip out from under his hold. He tightened his grip, not to hurt her, but to keep her still until he figured out what to do with her.
A crash sounded outside.
Boots thundered up the main stone stairs.
Moonlight spilled through the open door as Ashendir and her men entered the Archives, dragging the unconscious patrol inside. Stealth was gone after the commotion they had made. The elven guards had taken out the humans to prevent an alarm.
The added light cut across the room, illuminating Cian’s face.
Faelith’s breath caught.
She finally saw him clearly.
And realized it had been him the entire time.
Cian sighed in defeat, the tension in his shoulders loosening as the truth settled between them.
He shifted his weight, lifting her carefully from the floor until she stood on her feet again.
His hand rose to his chest, fingers closing around the hilt of her dagger.
He drew it out with a slow, controlled motion, blood already darkening the fabric of his shirt.
Faelith stood before him, breath sharp, eyes fixed on the blood spreading across his shoulder.
Cian felt the weight of the moment settle in his chest. After everything that had happened between them, he had wondered if he would ever see her again—let alone like this. As far as reunions go, this was not ideal.
Ashendir and her men hovered behind her, tense. Their eyes sharp for any movement that might give them away. Ashendir was the first to speak up. “We need to leave. Now.”
He was right. The patrol could wake up any moment. More guards would come. If they were caught now, there would be no escape—capture at best, a swift execution at worst. The truth they had risked everything for would be lost. The Archives were compromised.
Faelith’s gaze flicked from Cian’s wound to the open door.
She didn’t hesitate at all. She grabbed Cian’s uninjured arm.
“You are coming with us.”
He didn’t argue. He hadn’t the chance. Her hold was steady and firm, and the insistence in her voice left no room for refusal.
They moved quickly through the stacks, Ashendir leading, Faelith close behind, and Cian following every step. The other two had quickly rushed ahead to scout.
Ashendir urged them forward after peering out the door to make sure the coast was clear.
Faelith tugged at Cian’s arm, guiding him out of the Archives.
Cian felt the tension in her touch. She moved quickly, fluid and silent, while he moved with heavier steps, refusing to show how much the wound itched with each movement.
They slipped down a stairwell, through a quiet corridor, and into the residential wing. Ashendir’s men scattered ahead, signaling that the path was clear.
Faelith did not release him until they reached her chambers. Only then did she turn, her eyes sharp and assessing.
“You’re hurt,” she said.
“It’s what happens when you’ve been stabbed,” Cian replied with a mirthful grin.
Faelith ignored him and stepped closer, a frown deepening her features as she stared at the wound on his shoulder. She reached out, brushing the torn fabric with careful fingers. The touch was light, but Cian felt it all the same as he stood there.
He couldn’t help but be reminded of that night at the waterfall, where their roles were reversed. A stinging pain in his palm brought him back; he had absently curled his hand into a fist, his nails biting into his flesh to stop himself from remembering too much.
“I swear, if you say it’s just a scratch, I will hit you.”
Cian looked down and held her eyes with sincerity. “I have had worse.”
She did not argue. She simply moved past him, pulling a bandage cloth from a drawer and setting it on the table. Her movements were controlled, but he saw the tension in her shoulders, the way she kept glancing at the wound as if measuring its depth.
“Sit,” she said.
Cian stayed standing.
Faelith looked up at him again, this time with a quiet force as she pulled him towards a chair. “Sit.”
He lowered himself into it. She stepped to the side of him, fingers brushing the torn fabric aside as she fully inspected the wound. Her breath caught when she saw how deep the blade had gone.
“I did this,” she said softly.
“You did not know it was me.”
“That does not change the fact I was the one who did it.”
Her voice was steady, but her hands were careful as she pressed the cloth to his shoulder. Cian inhaled sharply. She paused, watching him, then continued with gentler pressure.
After a moment, she spoke again. “Why were you in the Archives?”
Cian looked over at his wound and the slender hand that held the bandage. “I went to investigate rumors about Lady Vaelcourt.”
Faelith’s hands stilled. “Rumors?”
“About her death,” Cian said. “About her days at court and who she spoke to before she died.”
Faelith stepped around to face him fully, the bandage still pressed to his shoulder. “You think she was murdered?”
“I know she was."