My "lesson" with Serafina ended as abruptly as it began. After her venomous declaration of war, she gave me a curt nod, her duty fulfilled, and glided out of the room, leaving the scent of her expensive, cloying perfume and the chill of her threat behind. I stood there for a long time, the silence of the suite pressing in on me, my mind racing. A traitor in the court. An enemy in the red dress. My prison was far more dangerous than I had imagined.
An hour later, after checking on a still-exploring Rowan via the suite's comm system, the elevator chimed again. This time, it was Rhyian. He was holding a small, sleek tablet.
"Serafina reported that your first session was... productive," he said, his tone dry. He knew exactly what she was like. "She gave you the political landscape. Now, you get the history." He held out the tablet. "Silas Varen, our archivist, is expecting you in the Grand Library on the 77th floor. This will grant you access."
"You're letting me out?" I asked, surprised.
"You are not a prisoner, Carys. You are under protection," he corrected, though the distinction felt razor-thin. "You have access to any of the secure residential and common floors. The library is one of them. Silas knows you are coming. He will answer your questions."
I took the tablet. It was cool and heavy in my hand.
"And what questions should I be asking him?"
"Whatever questions you wish," he said, his silver eyes meeting mine. "But if I were you, I would start with the history of the Dravos Prophecy."
It was a test. A calculated offering. He was giving me the means to verify his story, confident in what I would find. Or confident that his archivist would only show me what he wanted me to see.
The elevator ride down to the 77th floor was silent and swift. My stomach was in knots. I was walking willingly into another room with another ancient creature, another potential enemy. But Rhyian was right. Knowledge was power, and I was starving for it.
The doors opened, and I forgot to breathe.
This wasn't a library. It was a cathedral dedicated to the written word. Two stories of floor-to-ceiling shelves curved around a vast, circular room. Rolling ladders made of dark, polished wood leaned against the shelves, which were filled with thousands upon thousands of books, from ancient, leather-bound tomes to modern hardcovers. The air smelled of old paper, leather, and beeswax. In the center of the room, a massive, slowly rotating orrery of the solar system, crafted from brass and silver, hung suspended in the air, casting shifting shadows.
Seated at a huge, circular desk directly beneath the orrery was a man who looked as ancient as the books surrounding him. This had to be Silas Varen.
He was thin and wiry, with a deeply lined face and kind, intelligent eyes that were a warm, gentle brown—a stark contrast to the predatory eyes of every other vampire I'd met. He was dressed in a comfortable-looking tweed jacket with worn leather patches on the elbows. He looked more like a university professor than a creature of the night.
He looked up as I approached, a small, welcoming smile touching his lips.
"Ah, you must be Carys Corbin," he said, his voice a soft, dry rustle, like turning pages. "The Sovereign informed me of your visit. Please, come closer. Let me have a look at you."
Warily, I approached the desk. He peered at me over a pair of half-moon spectacles, his gaze analytical but not hostile.
"Remarkable," he murmured, mostly to himself. "Truly remarkable. The histories spoke of such resilience, but to see it in person..." He seemed to catch himself. "Forgive an old man's musings. Rhyian said you had questions. I am at your disposal."
"He said I should ask about the Dravos Prophecy," I stated, getting straight to the point.
Silas's smile faded slightly. He sighed, a weary, ancient sound.
"Of course he did. Straight to the heart of the matter. Very well." He pushed himself up from his chair with a slight groan. "Come. The oral histories are useless. You need to see the primary sources."
He led me to a towering shelf in a dimly lit alcove. He ran a gnarled finger along the spines of several huge, iron-bound books before selecting one. It was massive, bound in what looked like blackened dragon hide, its title etched in silver that seemed to shimmer. He placed it on a nearby reading table with a heavy, definitive thump.
"The Chronicles of the Shrouded Court, Volume Three," he announced. "Covering the years of the Scouring Wars, circa the 11th century. The prophecy was first recorded here, by the Seer who gave it."
He opened the book. The pages were thick as card, made of a material that wasn't paper or vellum. The script was an elegant, angular text I didn't recognize.
"I can't read this," I said.
"Few can," Silas said. "Allow me." He traced the lines of text with his finger, translating as he went. His voice took on a formal, storytelling cadence.
"'And the Seer did say unto Lord Valerius Dravos: Beware the fruit of thy most powerful son, for his line shall beget an heir of impossible power. But the vessel of his creation, if mortal, shall be as a glass holding a storm. Her heart will be shattered by its power, her life the price for his.' "
He looked up at me, his brown eyes full of a quiet sadness.
"It is as Rhyian told you, I presume?"
I nodded, my throat dry. Hearing the words read from a thousand-year-old book was profoundly different from hearing them as an excuse from a former lover. This felt real. This felt like history.
"Is it true?" I whispered. "Has it always come true?"
"History is littered with the graves of the women who tried to prove it wrong," Silas said grimly. "Human, Fae, and even lesser vampire lines. All of them... broken. Rhyian's own mother, Lady Althea, was of a strong bloodline, and still the birth nearly reduced her to dust. Rhyian was raised by his father alone." He sighed again. "Rhyian carries that weight. He saw firsthand what the prophecy can do."
He closed the massive book.
"That is the history. And until you walked through that door with your son, hale and healthy, it was also an undisputed fact. You, child, are a living paradox. An impossibility. And in our world, impossibilities are the most dangerous things of all."
His kind eyes searched my face.
"Rhyian believes he made a mistake seven years ago. A terrible, arrogant mistake. But from where I stand, looking at the long, bloody history recorded in these books... I can understand the choice he made."
His words didn't absolve Rhyian. They didn't heal the wound. But they planted a seed. A tiny, treacherous seed of understanding. For the first time, I saw Rhyian's actions not through the lens of my own pain, but through the weight of a thousand years of history and loss.
"There are other books," Silas said softly, gesturing to the shelves around us. "Books on the Coven. On the laws of the court. On the creatures that walk in the shadows of this city. All the knowledge Rhyian promised you is here." He gave me a small, conspiratorial smile. "And perhaps a few books he doesn't know he has. You are welcome here anytime, Carys. My library is now your library."
It was the first genuine offer of help I'd received since entering this tower. A lifeline.
I had come for answers, and I had found them. But instead of clarity, I was left with a far more complicated, and far more dangerous, truth.