Page 15 of Sanctuary and Spices (Tales of the Ardent Veil #1)

JANI

I followed Ronhar through hidden passageways between market stalls, past dimly glowing crystal formations. Each step took us deeper into parts of the station I’d never known existed.

“Watch your step here.” His hand settled on my lower back, steadying me as we navigated a narrow bridge. “The maintenance crew hasn’t fixed this section since the last blackout.”

The press of his palm against my spine sent warmth spreading through me. My lips still tingled from our kiss in the market passage. I touched them absently, remembering the taste of him, the way his markings had burned.

“Left here.” He guided me around a sharp corner. “These passages connect the whole station, if you know where to look.”

“How did you find them all?”

“Old habits.” His markings pulsed softly. “Solace training teaches you to always know your escape routes.”

We emerged into a wider corridor. Ahead, massive doors stretched three stories high, covered in intricate carvings that seemed to shift and dance in the crystal light.

“The Oracis,” I breathed.

Angry voices echoed from inside. I caught fragments of a heated argument:

“—belongs to everyone?—”

“—thousands of years of tradition?—”

“—public access is a modern concept?—”

Ronhar’s markings flared brighter as we approached. He placed himself slightly in front of me, shoulders tense.

The doors opened onto a vast chamber that stole my breath. Crystal formations spiraled up towering columns, casting rainbow light across endless rows of books and artifacts. Floating platforms drifted between levels, carrying scholars absorbed in their research.

In the center of it all, two figures faced off like duelists. Lyrian’s perfect posture radiated controlled fury as he stared down a tall figure with sleek, charcoal-gray fur striped faintly with black. The other man’s amber eyes glinted like fire, vertical pupils narrowing as he jabbed a clawed finger in Lyrian’s direction.

“The station’s history belongs to everyone,” Lyrian said, each word precise and cutting.

The other man—who could only be Malik—growled low in his throat, his angular features sharp with irritation. His tufted ears twitched despite his otherwise composed demeanor. “These archives have survived centuries because we protect them. Public access is a modern concept that?—”

“Excuse me.” I stepped forward, using my best dealing-with-difficult-customers voice. “We’re hoping to find information about historical recipes...”

Both men turned to stare at me. Malik’s amber eyes flicked over me with a predator’s focus, his pupils dilating briefly before contracting. The sharp lines of his face were made even more severe by the scars that cut through the short fur on his cheek and jaw—remnants of a life lived in battle, not books. His lean frame carried the kind of power that seemed ready to spring into action at a moment’s notice, despite his scholar’s air.

“Recipes?” Malik’s voice was a rough rasp, as though he’d spent years barking orders across battlefields.

“Yes.” I smiled politely. “I’m researching traditional crystal-enhanced cooking techniques for the upcoming festival. The Khiul sisters mentioned you might have relevant texts.”

“Cooking techniques?” His tufted ears flicked, giving away his interest despite his scowl.

“Fascinating application of archival knowledge,” Lyrian said, his anger transforming into sudden, scholarly interest. “The historical implications alone...”

“I don’t suppose...” I gestured at the towering shelves. “You could point us in the right direction?”

Malik’s eyes narrowed, his sharp features shadowed by the crystalline light. For a long, tense moment, he said nothing, studying me as though weighing my worth. Finally, he exhaled a low growl and gestured toward a spiral staircase. “Follow me.”

Ronhar’s hand brushed mine as we followed, his markings pulsing brighter at the contact.

“That was well handled,” he murmured.

“Years of practice talking down angry customers.” I caught Lyrian watching us with knowing amusement and felt heat rise in my cheeks.

Malik led us deeper into the stacks, past shelves that seemed to shift and reorganize themselves when I wasn’t looking directly at them. Strange movements flickered in my peripheral vision. The air smelled of ancient paper and crystal dust.

“The historical records are organized by era and subject matter,” Malik explained, his deep voice carrying easily through the quiet space. As we climbed another set of stairs, his clawed hand rested lightly on the rail, but his movements were precise, almost predatory. “Crystal resonance techniques developed differently in various cultures, so you’ll need to cross-reference...”

I tried to focus on his words, but Ronhar’s presence behind me kept pulling my attention. His hands occasionally steadied me on the stairs, each touch burning through my clothes. The hidden passage kiss played on repeat in my mind.

We reached a section filled with old cookbooks and technical manuals. Malik pulled several volumes, muttering about proper handling procedures as his tufted ears twitched in time with some inner rhythm.

“Here.” He thrust a heavy book into my arms. “Early experiments with crystal-enhanced preservation methods. And this one covers preparation techniques from the Third Dynasty.” More books piled up. “The index system is straightforward enough even for modern readers...”

I set the stack on a nearby table, already excited by possibilities for the festival menu. But as I reached for the first volume, Ronhar leaned over my shoulder to translate some ancient script. His chest pressed against my back, his breath warm on my neck. The station’s writing blurred before my eyes.

“This section describes using crystal resonance to enhance natural flavors,” he said softly. His fingers traced the symbols, brushing mine where I held the page. “The harmonics have to align precisely with the ingredient’s own energy patterns...”

I barely heard the words, too aware of his proximity, the heat of him seeping into me.

“Fascinating stuff.” Lyrian’s voice made me jump. He stood at the end of the aisle, examining us with entirely too much understanding. “The archives hold so many secrets, don’t they?”

I stepped away from Ronhar, my cheeks burning. “Do you know much about historical cooking techniques?”

“Some.” His perfect posture never wavered. “Though I suspect your interest runs deeper than mere academic curiosity.”

Before I could respond, Malik’s voice echoed from several rows over: “Found something!”

I turned back to Ronhar, but Lyrian was already striding toward Malik’s voice, leaving us alone in the shadowed aisle.

Crystal light played across ancient bindings as I reached for another promising volume. Ronhar’s hand covered mine on the spine.

“.” His voice was rough as I turned to face him. The shadows softened his features as he leaned closer...

“Over here!” Malik’s voice called again, sharper this time. “There’s an entire section on crystal harmonics in food preparation!”

The space between us crackled with possibility. But Lyrian appeared at the end of the aisle, radiating amusement.

“History has a way of repeating itself,” he said cryptically. “Though sometimes with... interesting variations.”

I pulled away reluctantly, gathering the books we’d found. But all I could think about was Ronhar’s touch, the almost-kiss, the way the archives hummed around us with crystal energy and unspoken possibilities.

Malik began explaining storage systems and checkout procedures with a level of detail that would have been impressive if it weren’t so overwhelming. His amber eyes flicked to the books in my arms, his tone softening slightly. “The station has a way of revealing more than you expect. Just... make sure you’re ready for the answers.”

I blinked at the weight of his words, but before I could ask what he meant, he turned sharply and disappeared into the shadows, his tufted ears flicking once in farewell.