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chose to join the refugees to study this new city further. I look forward to seeing if the revival of Julra will rise from

this new empire.

-"The Tragic History of Julra," by High Scholar Yuret Wend, Year 59 of Ber's First Reign

Ipressed my palms flat against the familiar dark sea-sprayed stone that lined the Clifftombs' solid main gate. Compared to the light brownstone of the Resparian Royal Palace, the Clifftombs was its dark and moody counterpart, a study in blacks and greys as it jutted out over the edge of the Hirania Sea. Even after all these years, the wards managed to stand the test of time, standing just as strong as the day I'd casted them before shutting myself in the castle. While the castle itself still stood proud, the hamlet around it was completely ruined, with little more than some jutting bricks and half-standing walls to even indicate there were houses at one time.

The solid metal door barring entry responded with a low hum as soon as my skin touched it, glowing softly as if welcoming me home.

In a roundabout way, itwaswelcoming me home. After a long, long time of being gone.

The wards' magic reacted strongly to mine, pulsing its blue light for a few beats and shifting to the continuous indigo hue of recognition. Metallic sounds grated from inside the doors, grumbling from a century of disuse before they shuddered violently and cracked open. Even the magic-driven machinations inside the door still worked, another small boon that I wasn't expecting. Bit by bit, the heavy doors creaked open to show the barren courtyard they hid. Vibrant wiranblood bushes once lined the dark stone walkway, neatly trimmedand maintained, but left to their own survival they had grown rampant through the small court, almost entirely blocking the main entry to the palace with their thorny brambles. Like they were trying to guard the castle in their own way.

Maura, who had been standing rather quietly at my side until now, gave a little whinny and pranced with excitement at all the verdant greenery. Wiranblood bushes were a particular favorite of kisterals. I patted the side of her neck fondly. "Alright, go at it. You earned a good dinner."

The stubborn creature threw her head and gave a snort, as if to say, 'I was going to eat, with or without your leave.' Then Maura flicked her tail and trotted over to the nearest bush to munch happily.

Picking through the wild brambles proved more challenging than I anticipated, but eventually I made it to the main doors, half my borrowed pants shredded from the long thorns latching on as I waded through. The gears in this set of doors churned and grated as loudly as the first, squealing their protestation at being forced to work again after a century of disuse. Stepping into the vast entry hall, a full-body shudder rocked through my body as I breathed deep of the air, refreshing and familiar even if it carried the staleness of a tomb. Nothing remained of the tapestries and deep blue banners that carried the Hilj crest, all but dust scattered across the floor after a century rotting away here.

"I'm home." My voice was foreign, the deeper rumble of the man who's body I took over, and it bounced against the bare walls in a haunting echo. For a moment I could almost imagine Father's booming voice call back in greeting. So many memories haunted these halls…

I had meant to go straight to the library, but my feet carried me through the main entry to the wide double doors in the back, ones that matched the front doors perfectly with theirdark grey metal and swirling filigree designs etched into them. They swung inward much easier, likely because they were not as exposed to the harsh elements, and for the first time in a hundred years I stepped into the Julran throne room.

The last time I stood here, it was to clear this room of dead bodies. Bodies that fucking warmonger Ettion Werren had created when he massacred every attendee at their wedding celebration. It had been my last order of business, before locking my own body away in the family crypt below and escaping in another corpse. Part of me had wanted to find his body among the others. I wanted—no, needed—the assurance that he was dead. I spent all this time researching, hunting, trying to find any trace of his whereabouts. If Gennel was truly his offspring, I had to wonder if maybe he was also some sort of shapeshifter and passed that knowledge down his lineage. I guess, in a sick sort of way, I was a shapeshifter as well. We could have danced around each other for years and never known it, as desperate as the other to find and not be found in return.

Emotion the likes I had not felt since the Frigid War rose up, clogging my throat and making my eyes burn with the threat of tears.

"No, nope, not now," I hissed angrily and rubbed my face with both hands. "Keep your shit together, Mor. Just for a bit longer."

The pep talk didn't do much for morale, but it was enough to pull me from the throne room and hurl me down the closest hallway to the right. I couldn't forget what I came here for. I couldn't let myself get swept away now. With the carpets as old and deteriorated as they were, they did little to soften the harsh footfalls from my heavy boots as I stormed down the hall to another set of double doors. These were not quite as elaborately decorated as the others, but still constructed of the same solid metal that guarded every other precious room in the castle. The wards on them were just as strong as the exterior gates, andit took a lot more focus to fight through the grief and growing fatigue to dismiss them.

"Certainly not Highlan Pid's windows, that's for sure."

A cool breeze blew past as I pressed through the doors of the old library. The wards certainly did their job of preserving this space, with not a speck of dust or aging in sight. With every step, each of the layers of protection fell away, leaving behind a shimmering blue powder to cover the floor, desks, and countless rows of shelves bowing with heavy tomes. Time had stopped completely here, leaving the delicate and immensely valuable sources of knowledge untouched by mold or disintegration. I didn't expect the pang of bitter nostalgia to sting quite as much as it did. My chest ached for all the lost history that couldn't make it to this library in time to be saved. All the ancestral tomes kept in the homes of Julran families, knowledge of magic that had been passed down through the generations of talented spellcasters that had been lost to raids outside the Clifftombs' walls. The sense of loss was just as strong now as it was a hundred years ago.

Uncomfortable with all the emotions bubbling up in my throat again, I shoved my hands deep into my coat pockets and moved through the stacks by muscle memory. In the very back, nestled beneath the floor-to-ceiling windows of glass stained the palest purple, was the familiar pile of fluffy pillows stacked as haphazardly as when I left last them. To my right was the most painful focal point of the whole room, but with excruciating slowness, I turned my head to look at the giant family portrait of the royal Hilj family. The artist had taken great care to capture all their elegant and sharp features, their pearly pale skin offset by thick blue-black hair and captivating grey eyes. The shadowed folds of their indigo clothes gave them an expensive weight, and the shoulders of all the family members were capped with the traditional silver pauldrons that connectedsmoothly to the snug-fitting Julran collars covering them from shoulders to chins. The protective armor that gleamed around their throats was covered with delicate filigree to denote expert craftsmanship afforded by a high status. A man and a woman stood behind their two adolescent children, identical crowns of twisted silver adorned with sparkling red gems resting across their brows. The young girl—practically a woman in her own right—was an exact copy of her mother, with black waving curls draped across the shoulder tilted slightly toward the viewer's perspective and her swan-like neck emphasized by the armor that wrapped it. She sat in an elegant pose—hands laid daintily over one another on a flat lap with her feet tucked to the side—on a stool hidden beneath the voluminous skirt in high fashion of old Julra. Beside her stood another tall adolescent, a long-fingered hand resting on the girl's shoulder. They had an easy smile that carved twin dimples in their pale cheeks and lit a mischievous fire into those bright blue eyes, the other wrist laid on the hilt of a sword peeking from beneath the deep purple waistcoat on their willowy frame.

I brushed my thumb over the nameplate mounted beneath the portrait, more to feel the cold metal against my skin than to brush away the nonexistent dust. 'The Royal Hilj Family, from left to right: King Vin Hilj, Queen Mila Patroc-Hilj; front: Princess Maura Hilj, Princept Morrette Hilj,' the plate read. My thumb rested on the last name.

“Hello,vilaschs.” Even the Julran word for ‘my dearest’sent a pang of loneliness to my heart as it echoed through the vast library. I remembered Mother calling that out in this very room when I came back from riding with Father, the both of us tracking melting snow throughout the palace despite the maids’ admonishments to find her here. So many wonderful memories, blessedly untarnished, flickered across my mind's eye as I took in the dark study again.

What I had traveled all this way for sat innocuously on a small pedestal, safely held in a crystal case as if it were an exhibit piece meant for the Covenant Library. It was a national treasure in its own right, but its importance had long been lost to history. It took a place of importance right in the middle of the library. Even stepping near it, I could feel powerful magic tease my senses through the thick walls of its case, like the burn of breathing too deeply of frigid air. My left hand curled into a tight fist, and without giving myself too much time to think of the pain punched a hole straight through the side of the crystal case. A brief flash of purple responded to the violent attack on the wards protecting the case. They were never meant to stand this long. Just like everything else in this dilapidated kingdom, they were abandoned and forgotten, holding on by their own indomitable strength. Once the case was broken, a low hum filled the study. Its resonance seemed to settle in my chest like a deep purr. If I could give an emotion to the simple, leather-bound book resting in the shattered glass, it felt like the tome was… happy. Like it had a life of its own.

Drip, drip, drip.

The light patter of liquid hitting the stone floor drew my attention to the hand I’d punched the case with. Uncurling it, I examined the split knuckles, now dripping sluggish, deep-red blood. “Might as well put this to good use.”

I reached back into the broken case, slowly stretching my bloody hand toward the dormant tome resting on a purple cushion. As my hand moved closer, the thrumming power grew stronger until it practically vibrated in my chest. Little droplets of blood dribbled across the cushion, and the tome flared to life with a blast of magic that shattered the rest of the crystal that housed it. Shards flew everywhere, slicing skin on my face and arms from the blow.

An excitement that wasn’t mine lit me up from the inside. The promise of slaking a thirst so deep and ravenous made the thick tome tremble, the Wiran ruby flashing unnaturally as it recognized its owner even in this body. From beneath my feet, a low rumble shook the library floor, subtle at first but quickly growing to match the tome’s voracity until shards of crystal danced across the stone. It was the call of the restless dead, welcoming their last remaining ruler home.

“I know, I know.” The gruff voice of my borrowed body was not as comforting as I’d like. “Let’s go put ourselves back where we belong.”

The massive Wiran ruby—easily the size of a fist—pulsed a bright red again, its rhythm quickening as blood dripped closer to it. On the first droplet to hit the textured leather cover, the ruby drew it in to quench its century-long thirst. This was the main reason Wiran rubies were not ideal pieces for jewelry; their vampiric tendencies made for better magic amplifiers than decorative gems. Just like Wira herself, they took their payment for power in blood. If left unattended, or with someone weak like Nebold, they would eventually dull and lose their magic completely. I had spilled a lot of blood to keep this one satiated long enough for me to come back to it.

A lot of Golathian blood, specifically. Whoever was unlucky enough to have been captured during the Frigid War was left in a large tub with my tome, their throats and wrists slit deep enough to pour out their lifeblood and allow the Wiran ruby to drink up.

A sharp blast shook the study, very different from the rumbling purr beneath the palace, and knocked me from my vacant thoughts. Someone was knocking at the front gate, none too politely. And I had a feeling it wasn’t Beolf and his merry men.