Elara didn't move. The silence that fell between her and the masked guard was heavier than any tome in the Archive, pressing the breath from her lungs. She looked from his gloved hand to the silver signet ring, then back to the intense, emerald gaze peering through the mask's eye slits.
"The Crimson Crown is a myth," she said, her voice stronger this time, fueled by defiance. "And the Whisper Line died out with my grandmother."
"Your grandmother was a master of evasion," the guard replied, dismissing her lie with a slow shake of his head. "And the Crown is very real. It is a Fae relic, bound to the heartwood of Veridia. It does not rule; it sustains. But its connection is severed. The magic of the kingdom—the Aether—is thinning. The King is sick, the harvest fails, and the protective wards on the Citadel are dissolving like salt."
He finally picked up the ring from the table. "This ring belonged to the Duke of Alderton. He vanished three days ago. We suspect he was attempting to locate the Crown himself, using corrupted methods. We need a clean path, Elara. We need your sight."
Elara looked down at her hands, still wearing the threadbare gray gloves. Her fear was tempered by the cold, pragmatic truth of her gift. If the Aether was failing, the entire world she knew—the dusty sanctuary of the Archive included—was destined for that dark, final certainty she fought so hard to avoid.
"What if I refuse?"
The guard didn't answer with a threat, which was more terrifying than any blade. He simply placed the silver ring into his belt pouch and said, "Then the kingdom will fall. And you, Assistant Five-Two-Zero, will catalogue the ruins."
He offered her a choice between one kind of terrible future and another. Survival won.
"My bag is by the desk," she conceded stiffly. "A notebook, my pen. Nothing else."
The journey was a blur of calculated movements. He led her out of the Archive's rear exit and into the shadowed alleyways of the lower city. He never touched her, yet his presence was a constant, formidable barrier between her and the outside world. He settled her into a matte black, unmarked carriage—a silent chariot designed for discretion.
Once the iron-shod wheels began to roll, the guard removed his helmet and mask for the first time. He was young, impossibly so for an elite Falcon, perhaps only twenty-five. His jaw was sharp, his lips were thin and set in a line of perpetual disapproval, and his dark brown hair was cut short. He looked more like a deadly sculptor than a soldier.
"I am Kaelen," he said, tucking the mask and helmet beneath the seat. "Captain Kaelen. While you are in my charge, you will obey my direct orders. You will speak only when spoken to. Your role is simple: tell me what you see."
Elara studied the hard planes of his face, the intensity in his emerald eyes now fully exposed. She fought the burning urge to touch the velvet upholstery beside him. What is his end?
"And when this is over, Captain Kaelen?" she asked.
"When the Crown is found, you will be given a sum sufficient to buy a life of quiet anonymity anywhere in the outer provinces," Kaelen promised. "Until then, you are under protection—and under arrest. Do not mistake my necessity for kindness."