But more than anything, I came to uncover the truth for myself. I needed answers, even if what I found would complicate everything I thought I wanted.
If the Solenharts had truly belonged to Dragontail, even once, Elarion would remember. The library held records older than the Court itself, older than the Hall of Mirrors. It was older than the version of the world I’d been raised to believe.
I asked the librarian for historical records of the legion. I didn’t explain why.
She looked up from her inkwork with a faint squint, pausing just long enough to recognize me. But she didn’t ask why I was there. Maybe she felt obligated to comply or simply didn’t care. Without a word of explanation, she set her pen aside and said, “Follow me.”
We walked through corridors and dimly lit stacks. We passed shelves that pulsed with age. The tall windows reflected the full moon. The scent changed, less parchment, more metal and dried herbs. We stopped at an archway, barely visible, behind the last shelf in the west wing.
The librarian, an Emberkeep third year, pressed her fingers to a rune as she stopped at the end of the hall.
The door creaked open.
Inside was a narrow chamber, scrolls stacked like toppling towers. Everything was leaning, disorganized, thick with time. It was a library within the library.
“These go centuries back,” she said, brushing her fingers along one of the shelves. “But no one’s been here in years. It’s practically forgotten, dusty, unindexed.” She gave me a glance, then added, “I’ll leave you to it.”
I nodded in thanks and watched her disappear through the doorway.
Already, I knew one thing for certain: I’d rather spend the night buried in dust than with Shakari and Rowan. They couldn’t last a minute without elbowing each other and laughing as if nothing mattered. Or with Soehl, whose humming and kindness filled our cramped room until I couldn’t breathe. Or with Thalen, hovering in doorways, looking at me like silence could undo the damage.
So I stayed.
I let the quiet wrap around me. The dust settled into my skin like memory. I turned parchment after parchment, unsure what I was searching for—a name, a reference to a Solenhart in Dragontail. Any sign that proved the Siren was right.
Time slipped past. One scroll blurred into the next. Nothing stood out, just brittle parchment and fading ink. I was probably wasting my time. There were too many names, too many years, too many legions. Nothing beyond three hundred years ago survived intact.
At least the scrolls were in alphabetical order. That had been my one small mercy. But after hours of dry, crumbling pages and dead ends, even that felt meaningless.
Boredom settled into my bones. The room felt colder. I blinked, and suddenly it was midnight. The torches had dimmed too low, just flickering pools of amber. My back ached. My fingers were ink-stained and stiff.
I needed sleep for my classes the next day.
With a quiet sigh, I rose, letting the last scroll slump closed. Dust drifted lazily in the torchlight.
I stepped back into the corridor and walked to the entrance, expecting silence. And that’s when I saw it.
A green jacket was casually draped across the chair by the central table.
On the table, almost swallowed by shadow, was a book that caught my eye. I got closer to read its title.
Ashes of the Sun, Tears of the Moon.
I knew this book. I opened it up and read a handwritten note on the first page: “To my …”
I didn’t even make it halfway through the page before a hand snapped the book shut in front of me.
The sound made me flinch.
“They didn’t teach you to stay out of things that aren’t your business, in the Glass Castle,” a deep, rough voice said behind me, low enough to send a shiver down my spine.
I turned too fast.
Lorik Draventh stood close. Too close. His shadow fell over the desk, his gaze steady, unreadable. I instinctively stepped back, but he didn’t move, just tilted his head, studying me like I was the one who’d done something reckless.
“I—sorry,” I stammered, blinking hard. “I didn’t know it was yours.”
My voice sounded small, even to me.