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The answer is obvious: Leon. He’s the barrier between me and freedom.

If I’m going to get strong enough to beat him, then I need to know as much about his power as he does about mine.

So what if I evened the playing field? I bet there’s all sorts of interesting details about the Claerwyn family in here.

Leon’s over a hundred years old; that’s plenty of time for books to be written about him.

Besides, I’m so sick of people keeping things from me—and it’s always secrets about me, just to make it that bit worse. It will be so satisfying to turn the tables a little.

“Do you have anything on the War of Laurels instead? Particularly, um, the involvement of the Filusian forces?”

The librarian isn’t enthused by my question, but he jabs a long finger toward a spiral staircase in the corner.

“Second floor. Modern History. The bookshelf on the third right.”

Of course, to the fae it would be modern , I think as I climb the steps.

The librarian’s instructions are simple to follow.

It takes me no time at all to locate a shelf of books about Filusia’s role in the Trovian civil war.

I flick through them, pulling out a few that look promising, though they’re mostly dry analyses of the two factions’ military strategies and resources.

I consider skimming through them anyway.

Leon has kept so much from me, I’d like to surprise him once by knowing something about him he’d rather I didn’t.

My hand drops to an alcove below the shelf stuffed full of scrolls. At first, I think they’re just maps, but then I see some are unbound letters and diary pages—firsthand accounts of the war.

I unfold one with a subtitle that makes me freeze.

The Massacre of Mistwell.

I know that name. It’s the name of the town where the war ended. Where something terrible and bloody—something my history books refused to describe in much detail—happened to bring the Ethiran forces to their knees.

Something involving the Ethirans’ champion, Herrydan…and Leon, the Nightmare Prince.

There are lots of wild rumors flying around about Leon and the various places he attacked in the war, but from what I can tell, Mistwell is the source—the reason why his name still strikes fear into people’s hearts in Trova.

The story has devolved into exaggerations and distortions since then.

But this seems to be an actual account. Maybe today, I’ll finally get some answers after all.

Heart thudding, I read on.

The recollection of General Lestrides of the events of April 9th, 3059 RR, as told to Scholar Welsey:

That morning we rose in preparation to finally take the town of Mistwell, which was the last bastion of Ethiran forces and their sympathizers.

Prince Claerwyn had agreed the evening before to make use of his fae magic to destabilize the enemy, and we were told to expect minimal resistance.

As our troops made ready to move out, however, the prince could not be located.

One of his men, Lord Gyrion, suggested he may have already gone ahead to secure Herrydan.

Given the prince’s proven prowess in battle, I did not believe I had cause to fear for his safety.

What I came to realize, however, was that I should have feared for the safety of the Trovians inside Mistwell—my countrymen and women, even if they were misguided in their allegiances.

Upon entering the town from the south, we found not a soul left alive.

In their houses and on their streets, the residents of Mistfell had, one and all, been cut down.

Some by bladed weapons, some by terrial magic of various kinds.

Those we found first were the civilians.

The red tokens they wore showed their allegiance to the Ethirans, but they were no soldiers of Herrydan’s.

We found those poor men in the town square.

The sight was so terrible that I sent my soldiers back to spare them, examining the scene alone.

The bodies were stacked in a heap—more corpses than I’d seen in one place in all my years as a soldier.

As with the civilians, the causes of death varied.

But dead they were, every one. The only ones breathing were myself… and the fae prince.

I saw him standing there. It seemed to me he had risen early to inspect his handiwork.

For this was his work. We had discussed him planting the seed of surrender in our enemies’ minds, but what he’d done had gone far beyond that, to a point I know King Palquir would have never sanctioned.

Indeed, I don’t believe anyone would’ve thought what he did was possible.

He had driven them mad, so that they turned against their own brothers in arms and massacred each other. When I asked the prince what he had done, he replied that he had won us the war and that Palquir would forever owe his gratitude to Filusia.

We located Herrydan’s body among the fallen and transported it back to camp.

That night many of my men refused to sleep, too afraid to close their eyes while Prince Claerwyn was still among them.

For their sake, I asked the prince and his soldiers to transport the proof of the Ethirans’ defeat to the king in Elmere.

Though it would have earned me great honors to deliver the news of our victory to our leader, I did not want my name associated with the atrocities committed at Mistwell.

I stop reading there, too ill to keep going. I could see the scene in my mind’s eye as if I were there, staring at the corpses piled up in front of me, turning to the prince and realizing I was looking at a monster.

I roughly close the scroll and stuff it back in the alcove, fighting my nausea. I don’t take any of the books I’ve picked out with me. I don’t think there’s anything in there that will be more important than what I’ve just learned.

I went looking for information on Leon, and by Ralus, did I get it. The Nightmare Prince—of course they called him that. My great-grandfather’s generals asked him to deliver surrender and peace, but all he gave them was death.

I don’t know what he slipped into those poor humans’ dreams to make them slaughter each other. I don’t want to. I’m reminded I’m lucky to just have been tricked by Leon, to have been lied to and betrayed. He’s capable of much worse.

It’s not like I thought I was dealing with a saint these past couple of months, but the way he’s protected me and taught me blinded me to what I’ve known all my life: Leon Claerwyn is a ruthless killer, maybe even a monster.

Someone who didn’t just cut down soldiers in their swathes during the war but killed innocent civilians just for standing in his way.

I don’t need to go to sleep to be trapped in a nightmare. Because over the last two days I’ve confirmed my suspicions about the reasons for Leon’s betrayal at the border. I remember now who the Nightmare Prince really is. And it’s becoming increasingly clear that monster wants something from me.