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Whoever thought the gods were on our side is a fool. The gods only have one side.

And it is theirs.

Tabitha Wysteria

Wren followed Kage Blackburn through the winding streets of Spark, her words flowing endlessly like a river after the thaw.

She spoke of everything and nothing, filling the silence between them with effortless chatter.

Kage, for his part, neither responded nor spared her a glance.

It did not bother her. She was used to it.

People often stopped listening at some point.

The city of Spark, sprawled beneath the castle in a crescent embrace around the bay, was known for its fish—the scent of salt and brine clinging to the air, mingling with the smokier notes of charred wood and sizzling oil from the market stalls.

The buildings, small but sturdy, were carved from brown stone, their red-tiled roofs sloping under the weight of time and weather.

The closer one ventured to the water, the poorer the streets became, the homes shrinking into tightly packed dwellings where laundry hung like banners between narrow alleyways.

But higher up, where the city leaned towards the mountain, a few grand manors peeked through the trees—wealthy drakonian estates untouched by the hunger of the lower districts.

At the very edge of the city, just before the land sloped into the mist-laden hills, loomed the Library of Flames.

Wren had spotted it the first day she arrived—a towering monument of stone, its presence commanding, ancient.

She had walked the streets that day with Bryn at her side, their great wolves padding beside them like shadows, drawing fearful glances from the drakonians.

The people of Spark had been swift to retreat, slamming doors and pulling curtains tight.

Drakonians did not like wolves.

Wren missed hers.

They had been locked away in the dungeons—too large, too wild, too unsettling for the delicate sensibilities of the castle’s guests.

Wren had argued, insisting they were gentle creatures to those who treated them kindly, but it had made no difference.

So each day, she visited them, slipping into the underground chambers to feed them, to take them on long walks along the secluded cliffs.

Her smaller wolves had been granted some leniency, allowed to stay in her chambers so long as they were not left to roam.

It kept her occupied.

It kept her away from the insufferable formalities of court life—the stifling dances, the false laughter, the endless tedium of politeness .

Bryn endured it for the both of them, suffering through the mindless pleasantries with the other royals.

He despised it, but they both knew Wren would only ruin their family’s image with her inability to hold her tongue.

Most people preferred silent Bryn to chatterbox Wren .

Kage suddenly snapped his fingers in her face.

‘We need to meet on the second floor,’ he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

They had taken refuge in a narrow alley, hidden from sight, a few streets away from the library.

Wren squinted at him. ‘How do ya know da books are on da second floor?’

‘I don’t.’ Kage shot her a flat look. ‘At the entrance, I’ll ask one of the scribes for a random book, then pretend to sit and read. Last time I was there, I noticed a section on the second floor that didn’t get much attention.’

‘Okay.’ Wren shrugged. ‘I’ll wait for ya.’

Kage didn’t spare her another glance as he strode off, disappearing into the throng of drakonians.

Wren, however, turned in the opposite direction, weaving her way down the street. She had no intention of entering through the front doors.

The Library of Flames was a fortress of knowledge, its structure designed to keep time at bay. An imposing building of ancient stone, its walls were thick, its windows few and narrow, meant to shield the fragile tomes within from the relentless sun.

Wren took a moment to study the stonework, tilting her head as she assessed the best way up. Old stone was always ideal for climbing. The blocks were uneven, thick with age, their edges worn just enough to allow nimble fingers to slip through the cracks.

Rolling her shoulders, she stretched her arms, shaking out the stiffness before reaching for her first hold.

She climbed swiftly, moving like a shadow against the wall.

Years of practice had made her quick—childhood afternoons spent scrambling up castle towers, slipping through attic windows, balancing along the edges of rooftops.

She had learnt early on that the higher she went, the more secrets she could uncover.

Listening from the rafters. Watching from hidden perches.

Before she had been a thief, she had been a ghost , a presence that lingered unseen, gathering whispers like stolen gold. Her first lessons in thievery had been at the expense of her brothers and sisters. They hated it when their belongings mysteriously vanished—though Wren always returned them.

Almost always.

Within minutes, she had reached the rooftop.

It might have taken less time had it not been for the sweltering heat pressing down upon her, drenching her skin in sweat.

She had already abandoned most of her layers, keeping only a thin, sleeveless cotton shirt—its fabric rough, the edges jagged where she had cut the sleeves off herself.

Her grey trousers had nearly met the same fate until she had begrudgingly remembered that long pants kept her legs from getting sliced open when she climbed.

Her boots, though—those she would never part with. Soft, worn leather, molded to the shape of her feet from years of wear. They had carried her through ice and snow, across mountains and rooftops.

No matter the heat, no matter the discomfort—her boots stayed.

With a final pull, she swung herself over the ledge, crouching low against the rooftop’s warm stone.

The Library of Flames stretched beneath her, filled with secrets waiting to be unraveled.

And Wren Wynter was very good at unraveling things.

She had long grown accustomed to the curious glances cast her way—the puzzled stares, the whispered judgments when strangers realised she wore boy’s clothing.

It had been this way since childhood .

She had never seen the point in gowns, in stiff corsets and delicate shoes meant to tread carefully on polished floors.

She had wanted to run. To climb. To race through the snowdrifts with Bryn, wild and unbound.

She had tried once—scaling a tree in a dress, only to come tumbling down so hard she’d snapped her wrist. That had been the end of it.

From that moment on, she had worn what her brother wore.

It was simpler.

The people in her castle had long since learnt to accept her eccentricities—her endless chatter, the way she never seemed to hold her tongue, the strange, fragmented warnings that would slip from her lips like riddles without answers.

For years, they had called her odd .

Then, they had called her blessed .

The day they discovered she was a Seer, everything had changed.

The Kingdom of Ice, like the Kingdom of Darkness, was devout, its people deeply tied to the gods they revered. Seers were rare. Sacred. Untouchable. They were the messengers of divine whispers, the few who could glimpse the threads of fate woven into the world.

Wren, however, found no solace in their reverence.

Being placed upon a pedestal was just another kind of cage.

She shook the thought from her mind as she found what she had been searching for—a hidden latch, nearly lost against the ancient stonework of the library’s roof. With a firm tug, it creaked open, revealing a square cut into the darkness. A ladder descended into the void below.

A welcome escape from the suffocating heat.

With swift, practiced movements, she slipped down the rungs, landing upon a wooden platform suspended high above the second floor. Thick metal cables held it aloft, stretching like taut spider’s silk through the cavernous space.

A second ladder led downward. Wren climbed with ease, slipping into the dimly lit expanse of the second floor. She pressed herself into the shadows, ears straining for any sign of Kage’s arrival.

But instead of footsteps, she found something else.

Something watching .

‘Oh, hello.’ A crow of smoke perched upon the edge of a towering bookshelf, its obsidian eyes glinting in the low light. It was Kage’s shadow creature.

The bird tilted its head, considering her, then swooped down, landing at her feet.

Before she could react, it pecked her sharply on the leg.

Wren yelped, flailing her hands at the ghostly thing.

‘ Stop it !’ she whispered fiercely. The crow only flapped its wings, hopping down the dim corridor, pausing to glance back at her expectantly.

When she hesitated—distracted by the rows of tomes or the silence that stretched around her—it pecked her again.

‘Yer bird is a bully,’ she hissed when she finally found Kage in one of the aisles, scanning the shelves with disinterest.

The crow perched smugly upon his shoulder.

Kage barely spared her a glance. ‘I doubt that.’

‘It bit me.’

One dark brow arched in silent amusement. ‘Surely not hard enough.’

‘Hey, that’s not nice.’ Wren scowled. ‘Yer as mean as each other.’

Kage ignored her entirely, methodically pulling tomes from the shelves, flipping through them with quiet precision. ‘These,’ he muttered, shoving a stack of books into her arms. Wren nearly staggered under the weight.

‘Ya neva said ya needed so many,’ she grumbled. ‘I can’t carry them all!’

Kage exhaled in irritation, reaching to take a few back—but then, he froze.

His head tilted slightly. Listening .

Wren felt it too—the faint shift in the air, the near-imperceptible creak of the floor beneath another weight.

She met his eyes.

‘Someone’s coming,’ she murmured.

Kage didn’t hesitate. ‘Run.’

Wren did not need to be told twice.