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It seemed fitting that I was returning to my homeland in a body that had survived so much trauma at the hands of greedy men and took her payment in blood.

Chapter Eighteen

Irin

I learned of a treasure the likes no one in the City could fathom hidden in the Clifftombs. Sinna was hesitant to speak

of it at first, but I assured her the palace was so heavily warded there was no way to break in. She spoke of a tome

that was believed to be gifted by Wira herself to the Princept. Its cover is textured black leather of some unknown

beast, covered with runes unlike anything written by man. And in the center of the cover, a massive red gem is

embedded, faceted in a way to absorb all the light that hits it. It is called the Tome of Wira, and the only person

known to wield it with any amount of success was Princept Morrette.

-"The Tragic History of Julra," by High Scholar Yuret Wend, Year 39 of Ber's First Reign

Books and scrolls sprawled across the vast surface of the large table, laying out all my research documents on Julra and its royalty. Over five hundred years of genealogy and historical families were spread out before me, courtesy of an urgent request to the City of Scholars, and only one family remained mostly unknown in my vast amount of resources. From what I could gather, the Hiljs had once been royal advisors to the Werren royal family of Golath. Something had caused them to lead a rebellion against the ruler at the time, King Nonel, and broke away to form the country of Julra. I couldn't speculate the reason. So much history had been lost, unrecoverable after the Frigid War, leaving too many holes in my understanding of who Morrette Hilj was.

Judging from the tragic outcome of the engagement ball, it seemed like Golath used this marriage as an opportunity to take all of Julra over, along with its ports and trade relationships. Flipping through some other old maps showed Golath used to be a single large country, until the Hilj family created Julra and took its seaward borders. Judging from the state of Golath now—a desolate, frigid wasteland where Respar sent its most vile prisoners to die—it was evident why the country would have be desperate to gain back that access to the sea. I'm sure it was aslap in the face to the Werren royal family, having that much land taken from under their feet.

Between this one dedicated tome from a historian that once lived in the City of Scholars—and even his knowledge was mainly from word of mouth from Julran refugees—and the few scrolls the Resparian royal family documented, the Frigid War was a mystery in itself, with no document definitive in precisely how it started. High Scholar Yuret Wend, the man who dedicated his life to studying their history, had noted the country was well advanced in magic practices. So much so that it is generally believed Julran refugees brought the majority of knowledge regarding magic to Resparian tribes, and that was how this country's magical practices and guild system were created.

So how did such an influential person like Princept Morrette seemingly disappear from history's eyes? And how did such a seemingly powerful country fall in one war?

A heavy knock at the door of my private study startled me, arms flailing and papers scattering across the broad desk as I cursed harshly. "One moment!" I called out and hurried to set my stacks back to rights.

Beolf's gruff voice answered. "No rush. I just wanted to debrief you for patrol reports."

“And?” I tried to keep the urgency from my voice, but I felt my hand wrap around something slim without looking at it. I needed something to hold on to, something to keep my anxious fingers busy.

Beolf sighed, rolling his thick neck as if working out some stiffness. He meandered over to the liquor bar and pulled two glasses from its shelf, along with the decanter of goldtine, to fill them. I watched, wary, as he brought both glasses over and took the seat across from my desk, hovering one cup over the cluttered surface until he could find a clear patch of wood to set it. Then he leaned back and took a hearty drink.

“Haron is gone, Irin. She’s not within a half day’s ride north or east. I suspect she rode through the night. She’s got to be past Covenant Crossing at this point.”

I stared at him, unblinking. It could have been seconds or hours, I couldn’t tell. But Beolf began to fidget uncomfortably after a while, taking another sip of goldtine as if to calm his nerves. “Irin, I know that look, don’t even—”

“Send a scouting party.”

He tried to repress a groan, but it came out anyway. “Come now, you can’t think to intercept her after this long—”

“Isn’t she riding by herself?”

A fiery, frenetic energy began to buzz in my chest. Unthinking, I lifted what was clutched in a death grip and turned to stab it into the desktop by my untouched glass. It rattled as if nervous. Breathing heavily, I opened my grip one finger at a time to reveal a letter opener embedded in the wood.

“We need to find her, Beolf! We need—” Breaths came in wheezing gasps, and a numb hand slammed onto my chest to twist in the loose nightshirt that covered it. My head began to spin, and my vision blurred, turning everything in the study into a smudged mess of color.

The chair across from me clattered against the stone floor from the force of Beolf leaping from it as he hurried around the desk. The cool touch of his hand around the back of my neck was a balm to my feverish skin, and he bent to kneel low enough to look up at my face. I hadn’t even realized my chin had dropped to my chest, so caught up in the violent whirlwind of emotions that threatened to tear me to pieces. Like everything that had happened, the last month finally came crashing down on my head, and the stifling terror of losing Haron was going to smother me.

“Irin!” Beolf’s gentle shake, his hand a reassuring grip against the back of my neck, pulled me from my downward spiral. Ithadn’t happened in a long time—not since we were adolescents—that he had to pull me from one of those frenzied panic attacks. “I’m here. You’re fine. Everything will be fine.”

Desperation made me reach out with both hands to cling onto whatever I could, latching onto his tunic and trying to steady the panting breaths that did little to actually give air to my lungs. He kept his hand where it was and murmured the same comforting words over and over, even though I was sure he knew I wasn’t listening. But I held onto him and focused on the smooth cadence of his voice until I could finally steady myself.

“Beo… I’m,” I struggled to get the words out. Even so, he waited for me to speak, eyes soft and understanding. “I’m sorry. I just—”

A wry smile twisted his lips, though most of it was covered by the scruff of his full black beard. “I know. Despite her being a pain in my ass, I have seen how much you care for her. She’s…” Beolf stalled, then chuckled. “Haron’s the kind of woman I think you need, Irin. And she’s the kind of ally any ruler would want in their pocket. I’m not privy to all the dark history she seems to have, but I have the same feeling as when I first met you as kids.”