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He’d spent days in this library. Weeks. Months and years, if he added up all the time before Veyka and Arran had left. And it had all lead nowhere.

Whoever had stolen the texts about the rifts decades ago had been thorough. Every book that referenced them explicitly, whether it be in title, chapter heading, or index, was gone.

But it was a big library.

There had to be things they’d missed.

He’d found some of them early on—the text of the Void and Ethereal Prophecies, the locations of the less well-known rifts.

But he’d been stalled there for weeks.

They didn’t have weeks.

Yes, you do.

There was no telling how long it would take Veyka and her companions to find Avalon, get the information they needed, and get back to Baylaur.

Weeks at the very least. Likely months. Maybe as long as a year.

Avalon didn’t appear on any maps that Parys had been able to find. As if those too had been purged. By the same elemental who’d removed the information about the rifts?

He’d made a list of terms to search for—things that could tangentially reference the rifts or the void or the prophecy. Prophecies. For if the Void Prophecy was true, then surely the Ethereal one was as well even though Veyka hadn’t shown any aptitude for reading minds.

Portal. Nexus. Veil. Destiny. Echo. Fate. Chasm. Mirage.On and on and on.

Parys massaged his temples.

His wine bottle was empty. Probably why he had a headache.

He’d eschewed the table and chairs and sat right down on the floor in the center of the room. He thought better with books all around him. And he had… a lot. Well over a hundred, stacked to various heights.

He’d made it through perhaps a quarter of them. Every single one so far had been useless.

The list was useless.

No wine left—but some water still in the jug.

He sighed loudly—no one left in the library to disturb.

He chugged what was left of the water, then slumped.

Back, back, back. Until he was lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling.

He ought to go to bed. Or go find Guinevere and pick a fight. That might cheer him up. Somehow, he guessed that she was awake. It wasn’t quite the same as Veyka—with her, he’d practically had an extra sense. He’d be drawn to her rooms, they’d fuck and eat, and take the edge off the pain. Like his misery had been drawn to hers.

With Guinevere, it wasn’t misery that had him sitting up and deciding he’d go find her—he didn’t even know where her quarters were. Maybe down near the ones the Brutal Prince had been given on his arrival.

The librarians would have a fit in the morning when they found this room, but he’d deal with that. The older one had a soft spot for cake.

A swipe of his hand, and his warm wind closed the door softly behind him.

Cake.

Maybe he’d stop by the kitchens for a slice before he went in search of Guinevere…

He grabbed the goldstone wall to catch himself, to keep from pitching forward down the steep stairs. His warm wind hadn’t just closed the door. It had picked up a voice, carried it to him without meaning to.

A female voice.