Page 95 of A Fate in Flames

We reached the base of a spiral staircase, its stone steps worn with age.Smooth depressions marked where countless feet had tread before.My fingers traced the cold iron of the railing as we ascended.

With every step up, something in the atmosphere shifted—an undertone that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

“What is this section?”I asked.The books here were different.Thicker.Older.Some even seemed to move when I wasn’t looking directly at them.

Belshin smiled, running a finger along the spines of the nearest books.Not a speck of dust clung to his skin despite the obvious age of the tomes.

“This,” he said, “is the heart of the library.The place where knowledge was locked away.Where only the bold dare to seek.”

I turned in a slow circle.The towering shelves seemed to bend inward, curving above us like the ribs of some great beast.Unlike the orderly rows below, these books were bound in thick black leather.Some were cracked with age, flakes of binding scattered beneath them like shed skin, while others appeared untouched, their surfaces gleaming with an unnatural sheen.Gold and silver lettering glinted faintly in the dim light, some in languages I did not recognise.Symbols etched into the spines flared faintly, as if breathing.

“This part of the library is dedicated to the art and history of magic,” Belshin said, remaining close by as I scanned the shelves.

I touched one of the books, and a whisper of heat curled around my fingertips, shooting up my arm like lightning.I snatched my hand back, heart pounding.The book was warm, pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own.

Belshin gave a low chuckle that seemed to come from everywhere at once.“Some knowledge does not wish to be disturbed.”

My finger tingled, the sensation spreading through my hand.The warmth was neither pleasant nor painful, but somewhere in between.

“And you… you’ve read these?”

His pale blue eyes caught the light like ice catching fire.“Some, but not all magic was meant to be remembered.”

In the corner of the room, a lone book sat on a shelf, bound in chains so thick they looked more suited to imprisoning a beast than securing pages.The leather cover was cracked from time, but the sigil embossed in its centre was untouched by age.

An ancient star, its core a flickering flame.

It called to me.Pulled something deep within me toward it—a hook buried in my very soul.

My feet moved of their own accord across the floor.Each step both too slow and too fast, like time itself couldn’t decide how quickly to let me approach.

Why was it locked away?

My fingers hovered just above the cover, skin prickling with goosebumps.The air between my hand and the book warped, bending like heat rising from sun-baked stone.

A firm hand wrapped around my elbow, pulling me back

“My apologies,” Belshin said, releasing me.“But this book should not be touched.Especiallyby mortal hands.”

What did he mean by that?

“What is it?”I asked.My curiosity was a sharp blade inside me, cutting through the lingering fog in my mind.

Belshin’s eyes wandered toward the book, then back to me.“It is the book of Black Magic,” he said, voice tight.“It is forbidden from all, but especially mortals.”

Again, with the ‘especially mortals’

It only made me want to know more, an itch beneath my skin demanding to be scratched.What made it so dangerous?

Belshin must have seen the questions forming behind my lips, because he shook his head.

The quick dismissal only piqued my interest further.I wanted to pry—to push, but something in the stiff line of his shoulders warned me not to.I bit back my protest and nodded—an empty gesture because truthfully, I didn’t understand.Not even in the slightest.

There was a small, almost-black table in the centre of the room.Its surface was scarred and rich with age.I dragged one of the carved chairs out and sank into it.

What had this place been beforethe Veil?What had the world looked like when Jinn and mortals walked it side by side?

Belshin took the seat opposite mine.The sweep of his dark blue robes pooled around his legs, the fabric slipping back from his pale forearms as he rested his elbows on the table’s edge.