Page 20

20

SERA

O ur conversation yesterday lingers in my mind. I need answers, so I have to go back there. Fortunately, he gave me permission to come here if only for a few hours before I meet him later.

The library doors loom before me, their blackened wood carved with silver veins of ancient runes. An invitation. A trap.

Veylan does not give permission lightly.

This is a test. A calculated allowance, a moment for me to take my place beneath his watchful eye—or prove I cannot be trusted.

The guards do not speak as they open the doors. I step inside, and the silence swallows me whole.

The Grand Library of House Drazharel is not like the libraries I imagined as a child, whispered fantasies of knowledge and candlelight.

This place is built for war.

The towering shelves stretch into shadow, stacked with weapons disguised as words. The parchment here is not inked with history—it is stained with power.

Magic hums in the still air. Books written in dead tongues stare down at me with silent authority.

I let my hands brush along the bindings as I pass. Some pulse faintly, thrumming beneath my fingertips like a heartbeat. Others whisper beneath my touch—a wordless promise, a threat.

The guards keep their distance. They think a library is nothing but walls and books. They are wrong.

Knowledge is its own kind of weapon. And I need one.

I move deeper, weaving through the endless corridors of stone and parchment, slipping past shelves older than I can fathom.

Suddenly, I hear voices.

Low. Measured. Too close.

My pulse trips.

I step back, pressing into the narrow gap between a shelf and a draped tapestry. The space is tight, suffocating, but it conceals me.

The voices grow clearer.

A name cuts through the stillness.

"—Sera."

Hazeran.

I would recognize that voice anywhere. It coils through the shadows like a serpent, controlled and quiet, yet sharp enough to cut.

He is not alone.

I listen. I should not, but I do.

"A prophecy," one of the advisors mutters, his voice hushed but urgent.

"The warnings have existed for centuries, my lord. The sirens—what remains of their blood—should have been wiped out. Yet your son holds a human in his chambers, a human with a voice that can?—"

"Enough."

The word snaps like an arrow, silencing the advisor instantly.

For a moment, there is nothing.

Hazeran speaks again.

His tone is different now—colder. Calculating.

"The Destroyer," he murmurs.

The title shivers down my spine.

"A woman whose voice will unravel men," another voice supplies, cautious. "Who will bring ruin to power with nothing but a song. It is an old myth, but…"

A beat of silence.

The advisor dares to speak the unspoken.

"…what if it is not a myth at all?"

My breath stills.

My fingers tighten against the tapestry, fabric pressing against my skin like a second heartbeat.

The Destroyer.

A voice that lures men to their doom.

A prophecy that whispers of ruin.

Of me.

Hazeran does not answer immediately.

When he does, his voice is quiet, but there is something behind it—something heavy, unreadable.

"A slave is no threat to me."

A dismissal. A denial.

But not a certainty.

His doubt clings to the air.

The tension tightens.

"Should we have her executed?" one of the advisors dares to ask.

Ice threads through my veins.

The silence that follows lasts longer than necessary. Too long.

I press myself deeper into the shadows, feet shifting just slightly.

The smallest movement.

Too small to be noticed.

But not small enough.

One of the advisors stops speaking.

The air shifts.

Footsteps turn. Head tilts.

"Did you hear that?"

Panic floods my body.

A chair scrapes. Fabric rustles. Someone begins moving toward the tapestry.

They are coming.

I have to move.

Now.

I slip away.

One step. Two.

A breath held so tightly my lungs ache.

The guards are still waiting at the entrance. They will see me if I move too quickly.

They will see me if I hesitate.

So I walk.

Not too fast. Not too slow.

As if I belong here.

As if I am not unraveling from the inside.

The advisors are still speaking, their voices drifting as I weave through the towering shelves, each step carrying me closer to the exit.

I do not listen to the rest.

I cannot.

The words have already settled like poison in my gut.

The Destroyer.

The sirens should have been wiped out.

A woman whose voice will unravel men.

I reach the doors.

The guards glance at me but say nothing as they pull them open, revealing the darkened corridors beyond.

I step through.

I keep walking.

But the words do not leave me because they are not just words.

They are a warning.

A part of me believes them.