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With renewed determination, she picked up the book.

Upon reaching her room, Anthea took a seat at her small wooden table, and began to read.

She learned about the seemingly idyllic Cattleya court: The author painted a vivid picture of extensive fields rippling with wheat and grains, groves of fruit trees heavy with ripe harvest, and trellises of grapevines ready for winemaking. As she read, a sense of realization dawned upon her; King Icarion was the one controlling these resources. The alcohol, the food, the grains—his domain.

As she read further, her initial interest began to wane, replaced by a simmering frustration. The author seemed to assume a common knowledge she did not possess, skipping over critical context as if it were trivial. Flipping through the pages, her confusion grew with each new line. The author described the Golden City as the capital of the Amber court—the heart of trade in Isluma. She ran her fingers through her hair, her mind whirling as she counted on her fingers, trying to list all the courts she could remember: Crimson, Obsidian, Nephrite, Cattleya, Azure, Iron . . . but no Amber—she had not heard of this one before.

Chewing on her lower lip, her eyebrows furrowed as she tried to recall where she had heard of the Golden City before. Then it struck her—during the party, Althor had mentioned his mother’s preference for staying in the Golden City. But that meant—the Obsidian court must control the Golden City.

But where was the Amber court? Why hadn’t it been mentioned in any of the maps or books she had come across so far? Had it vanished? Was it conquered? Or was there another explanation altogether?

A sense of urgency welled up within her, causing her fingers to drum impatiently on the wooden surface of the table. Anthea began to rapidly flip through the book's pages, desperately searching for a clue that might shed some light on the mystery. The sound of pages rustling filled the room, each turn amplifying her frustration as she found no map, no visual aid to guide her understanding.

In hopes of gaining some perspective, Anthea flipped to the front of the book, her eyes landing on a date—4562. She assumed the book was written then. But she didn’t know the current date in Isluma. She had no idea. Bitter regret curled in her stomach as she remembered the book about the servant’s duties. Regret at not noting the date then. If she had, she could simply add a couple of thousand years or so to that date. It would’ve given her some semblance of a timeline to refer to, some hint as to whether this book was even relevant to the present time.

Anthea missed the simplicity of her phone—the effortless access to information, the constant awareness of date and time. Things she had taken for granted in her old life, things she never thought she would miss this much. Treia had been the one who enjoyed burrowing into dusty old tomes, while she preferred search engines, typing her questions and receiving answers immediately.

Her fingers traced the edge of the wooden table. She felt stupid, ignorant.

Snarling, she hurled the book across the room. It cut through the air, pages flapping wildly, before it collided with the wall. The action brought her no satisfaction, no relief. Instead, she was left staring at the quiet chaos, the weight of her ignorance pressing heavily on her.

14

She was back at the library, walking its aisles, surrounded by countless white shelves filled with books of varying ages and topics, each a potential key to unraveling the puzzle of Isluma’s calendar. After she had thrown that book across her room, her mind had focused on one crystal clear thought—she needed to pinpoint the current year. Anthea had claimed a round table on the second level of the library, hidden by a row of bookshelves. Around her, books she had taken from the shelves towered in piles, ancient tomes resting alongside more modern looking manuscripts.

With each date she found, she felt like she was being plunged further into a maze of confusion. One of the books, which seemed newer to her touch and sight, noted a date as the 208th year of the Glover period.

Anthea stared at the words—What did that even mean?

The trade book had marked the date as 4562, but it had also mentioned the Amber court. A court that, according to her limited knowledge, was no longer on any maps.

An antiquated volume caught her eye as she walked the aisles once more, its spine weathered, its pages yellowed. It bore the scent of centuries. Her fingers traced the coarse pages, her eyes darting left and right, hunting for a date—none. Anthea gritted her teeth. She put the book on her table and went to find more.

Hours bled into each other as she flipped through the books, the sunlight streaming in from the tall windows of the library shifting in intensity and direction.

By the end of the day, her table resembled an island amid a sea of haphazardly arranged texts. Anthea felt like she’d fought a battle, albeit one with no clear end or victory. But she couldn’t give up. The answer was there, somewhere amid the dusty pages and faded ink.

She reached for another book.

So engrossed in her research—she didn’t notice a tall figure striding toward her until she was practically at her elbow.

The elf who stood before her was stern and regal, her features sharp and ageless, her eyes icy gray, silver hair pulled back into a severe knot, accentuating the austere expression on her face. Her robes, the color of fresh parchment, whispered of authority.

Anthea felt a jolt of realization—the librarian.

The librarian’s gaze scanned the scattered array of books, a visible furrow marring her otherwise perfect brow. Her eyes darted from the books to her and then back to the books, clearly trying to find a pattern or a theme. But there was none, not really. Anthea had chosen the books at random, guided only by her desperate search for a date. There were texts probably in various languages—subjects ranged from historical records to agricultural practices to the metaphysics of magic.

“I hope you are planning to return these to their proper places.” The librarian’s icy gaze was unblinking, her tone leaving no room for arguments.

Anthea glanced around at the countless piles at her table, her heart sinking. She knew she should have been more careful, should have paid more attention to where each book had come from. But in her eagerness to find answers, she hadn’t. Now, she had no idea where most of them belonged. A blush crept up her cheeks. “Prince Endreth has given me a task,” she began, trying to explain. “I . . . I’m trying to find the right books, but it’s been difficult . . .”

The librarian just gave her a long, penetrating look, making Anthea shift uncomfortably in her seat.

“I-I don’t remember where I got all these,” she bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry.”

“Very well,” the elf said, her voice tight with restrained impatience. “Place them back in their respective language sections then.” Her instructions were simple, her tone dismissive, as if the task should be effortless.

Anthea’s cheeks flushed a deeper shade of pink. She felt like a schoolgirl again. “I, uh . . .” Her eyes darted to the labyrinth of shelves around her. “The thing is, I can read, but some of the letters, I . . .” she trailed off, her voice dropping to an embarrassed whisper. She couldn’t reveal that her mind seemed to automatically translate the text into English. Risking a glance at the librarian, she immediately regretted it?—