Page 117 of Wicked Prince of Frost

“Go.” Iseul points down the path toward the library. “I can take care of this on my own. Besides, I know you want to do your own studies.”

Trying to argue with her would be pointless. I pat the slumbering demon at my side as I stand. Bear stirs, blinking their large, round eyes. Sleep vanishes from their expression instantly, and they jump to their feet and hurry to follow.

I wave to Iseul as I step out from the cover of the pavilion beside the water’s edge.

“Try not to strain your eyes too much,” she calls after me.

It feels good to stretch my muscles. I’m not used to studying with such rigid posture.

The old language is a beautiful mix of soft and crisp sounds that take effort to discern at first. What adds an extra challenge is the different sentence structure from what I’m used to. Perhaps if I focus on mastering that first, the rest will be easier to learn.

Bear hides under the edge of my skirt, trotting along withme—as if no one will notice the small, moving bulge at my side. Though I suppose it’s good enough since no one has asked about it.

***

The library is quiet as usual. Scholars will come and go throughout the day, getting what they need and returning it later. No one speaks to or approaches anyone else. It seems the proper library etiquette of allowing others their peace and privacy is the same among the fae as it is in the mortal lands.

All who choose to study here do so in one of the designated spaces. Small open rooms without doors with a single table and a cushion between it and the windowed back wall.

I search the shelves for anything that might have more information about Joon’s family. Trailing my fingers along the spines, I scan the titles carefully, but I have already gone through them all. Several times over.

That torn-out page in Joon’s family records still bothers me. Historical texts are sacred. Written by saint touched scribes who vow to record only verified truths without biases. It’s forbidden to change or destroy the records, regardless of how unflattering some might look. Whether royal, noble, or peasant, rank holds no sway over the scribes.

I move on to another section, picking a book at random, and flip through the pages. Then a few more. These appear to be stories written about nobles and royalty, with language typically used in fiction.

The book at the end is leaning against the others, propping them up. Its gilded lettering along the spine is worn and flaking, making it impossible to read the title. I read the firstpage. It’s a story about a woman courted by a prince she did not love.

I grimace. It sounds like a tragedy. There is enough sorrow in this world without reading about it for enjoyment.

I reshelve the book, but my hand lingers on it as the author’s words linger. In a strange way, it calls to my heart. They painted such a vivid picture, imbued with nearly tangible emotions in only a single page, that I am reluctant to walk away.

Giving in to the strange impulse, I take the book to an empty study area. Within a few sentences, the story has me enthralled.

But she had already fallen in love with the prince’s brother, the king. Not wanting to cause a rift between the two brothers, she rejected them both.

Convinced she was his True Mate, the king secretly sought her out. Their romance bloomed through their clandestine trysts until she became pregnant. By then, they knew neither of them could, nor wanted to, live without the other, so they married.

Heartbroken, the prince left for distant lands.

Months later, the queen gave birth to a young boy. Two years later, they welcomed another son whom they named.

They lived happily for many years, until the day a Shadouk infiltrated the castle.

I remember reading about the Shadouk in a book of lore. A demon cursed creature that devours the soul of a living person in exchange for a dark, twisted power that was never meant to exist. Some say it is purely the stuff of myths, otherssay it is the abomination created by bonding oneself to a demon.

“My Lady, you must come with me. There is no time.”

My head jerks up as I’m startled from my reading by Imugi’s sharp hiss. “What?—”

“There is no time. You must come now,” they repeat. Imugi abruptly turns and glides away, expecting me to follow.

Joon—something’s wrong.

I scramble to my feet and race to follow. Bear quickly catches up, taking their usual place. Rather than taking the inner passages that meander past several other buildings, Imugi passes through the doors to the outside for a straight path.

Flecks of ice pelt down as the wind tugs my hair and clothes, trying to steal the breath from my lungs. I shield my face with my forearm as I run.

The storm had swallowed the beautiful day in the short time I was in the library. Wailing gusts push against me as if trying to keep me from reaching Joon.