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“Who spread the propaganda?” Isak asked, turning to look at the guard, reading his expressions. Fury was first, then hatred,both quickly hidden behind sadness. Isak didn’t think the sadness was a mask, it was too genuine to be faked, but he was certainly hiding a lot behind it.

“Fae rulers, presumably,” Rush replied. “Most chronicles of that time were destroyed.” He glanced at the librarian. “But not this one.”

“No,” Tynenn agreed, a weight to his eyes, too. “I wonder if there are more records of them. But the Wolven Lord was never beastkind; he was always a saint. Some say he was the first saint and the power corrupted him, so the other saints were created to save the Saintlands from his darkness.”

“That’s a lie,” Rush snapped, canines bared. “Like I said, propaganda.”

Isak, who knew the Wolven Lord had been resurrected within Azrail, said nothing. But what was true? Had the saint once been a mortal king, or had he always been a saint? Had he been wicked and cruel, like the stories told, or had the stories been tampered with?

Any time you want to weigh in would be great,he quipped to Viskae, who was still in a state of bliss over finding her precious book.

Both is true as far as I know. He was a man who could change to a wolf at will, and then he became a saint with the rest of us.

So not thefirstsaint, then. Maybe Rush was right. Someone had obviously hated him enough to strike his name out of every book, break his face off every statue, burn his figure off every tapestry. Why? Because he had more power than them and they were jealous? Because they were threatened?

Isak turned to the next page, though the pair of solid silver shoes warranted less of a discussion. He moved on, speeding past jewellery and dinnerware and parasols and ornate ear tipsand so many vases he decided those old royals had hoarding problems. And then—

Anzhelika grabbed him when she saw the next page, digging her fingernails into his arm. “Holy shit.” Her voice spiked, loud and high. “Holy fucking shit! It’sreal.”

Isak stared at the sketch on the page and wasn’t sure how to breathe. He’d started to think he was on a fool’s errand but there it was, a drawing of the very box his commanders had described. Carved on all sides with a solid gold top half-propped on the base to show darkness inside.

Isak bent over the book, devouring the words on the page, his heart sprinting. It was only when Anzhelika asked Tynenn, “What language is this written in anyway?” that Isak realised he didn’t even know these symbols yet he knew exactly what each one meant.

Because I know what they mean,Viskae breathed.This says the box held the broken remnants of a legendary sword. Isak. That sword was forged by the Sentry, before he was even a saint. I can’t remember most of my life, but I remember the sword’s name, and I remember being afraid of it.

“Sintrylla,” Isak read aloud, his heart driving itself against his ribs. This was it. Not the box—but the sword inside.

“What did you say?” Rush demanded, muscling Harth away from Isak so he could grab his shoulders. Isak winced at the rough grip, using the head of his walking stick to push one of those big hands off his shoulder. “What did you just say?”

“What’s wrong?” Harth demanded, straightening like they were under attack, gold eyes blazing as he glared at Isak, then the book, then the library beyond.

“Sintrylla,” Isak snarled, shoving the guard away, his shoulders pulsing where he’d grabbed him. “That’s what’s inside the box.”

“Uh,” Anzhelika said, stepping up beside him, a dagger in her hand pointed casually at the guard. “How can you read that?”

“I’m a man of many talents,” Isak joked, but he didn’t have the proper levity to put behind his joke and it fell flat. “This is what can save my mate and brother. The box, and the sword inside it.”

“Never,” Rush snarled, snapping sharp teeth at Isak and sending his heart into his throat. What the fuck was happening? “It canneverbe repaired.”

“Well, that’s not quite true,” Tynenn murmured, leaning towards the book and reading the description beneath the sketch. “It says here that though it’s shattered, the fragments can be reforged using saintslight. The power is so rare it’s basically a myth, of course, but it is possible the old bloodlines still carry drops of it. Legend has it when the saints were alive, it could be created by pooling the power of three or more saints. Binding it into something new, into light itself, into purepower.”

Isak glanced at Anzhelika, but most of his attention was on Viskae when she whispered,He’s right. I remember now. The Star-Heart possessed the most saintslight of all of us, the purest and most powerful, but three of us could create a drop of our own if we used enough magic.

So that’s how we repair it,Isak said decisively.We find this box and take it to Maia and Jaro. The three of us can forge it anew, and we’ll use it to kill the dark ones.

He waited for Viskae to scoff, to shoot down his plan, but excitement thrummed through him instead when she said,This sword can kill a saint. It could work.

No wonder the dark saints wanted it; they could use it to kill their enemies. To kill Jaro, Maia, Azrail. To kill them all.

And all hope for a free world will die with them,Viskae said, her joy fading.

But they had a plan. No—better than a plan. A weapon. Not a mystery box with unknown power inside. Aweapon.A sword that could be used to gut and stab and slash. Isak was feeling a lot better about his chances.

He just had to find the box. And then find where the dark saints had taken their captives.

Shit, that was daunting.

“What are you doing, man?” Harth demanded, his loud voice a shock in the hushed archives. Isak jerked around to face him, alarm cutting through his chest, making his breathing light and choppy. He reacted automatically, reaching for a sword he hadn’t carried since his army days.