The bronze doors opened with a groan that seemed older than stone, and the silence of the library rushed out like a held breath. Vaelen footsteps vanished inside, leaving Velza before the sealed gate — not dismissed, but excluded.
✦✦✦
Velza sat in the check-in room, her eyes pulled toward the bronze gate that sealed her off from the library proper. Strange glyphs coiled across its surface, shapes that shifted when she stared too long, as if letters rearranged themselves into words her mind almost understood. Almost.
Then her gaze fell to the diary.
The red leather pulsed faintly in the dim light, black and gold threads winding through its surface like veins under skin. When her hand hovered above it, the air was warmer — the way a stone retains heat long after a fire. She pressed her fingertips to the cover, and the texture was wrong: supple, but uneven, like bark over flesh.
The attendant's voice drifted across the room, soft as a lullaby.
"You may open it, if you wish. Just remember… your master told you otherwise."
Velza's breath hitched, but the pull was too strong. She opened the cover.
The scent that rose wasn't only of ink and old paper — it carried a faint copper tang, sharp and metallic. Lines of blue text curled across the page, intricate and alive, as though still wet, still writing themselves. Sigils burned in faint yellow, dimming and brightening like embers.
At the bottom, each entry carried a name — full and final, written in black.
She froze. She had watched Vaelen write on the very last page. Yet here, impossibly, another page lay open before her, waiting.
The faintest whisper stirred the edge of her hearing.
"…sign…"
She snapped the book shut, heart hammering.
"Did you hear that?" she whispered to the attendant.
The young woman didn't look up from her book. "No. Did you hear something… like 'sign'?"
Velza's eyes widened. "Yes. How do you know if you didn't hear it?"
Finally, the attendant raised her gaze, calm and unreadable. She looked scarcely older than twenty, yet her presence felt seasoned, practiced. Her black-purple curls were tied back into a single tail on the left side, held fast by a violet ornament that gleamed faintly in the lantern-light, strands of black and white pearls swaying with each movement. A streak of pure white hair fell loose across her forehead, softening the sharpness of her violet eyes. A gold-and-purple earring dangled from her right ear, catching the glow as she tilted her head.
"Many people report the same thing," she said, voice quiet but certain. "The library has its mysteries. Best you don't chase them too far. You'll only invite trouble."
Velza frowned. "Why?"
"I just told you," the attendant replied with a small, tilted smile — not mocking, but as though she knew far more than she'd ever admit.
✦✦✦
Vaelen slipped inside, the bronze doors sealing with a deep groan behind him. He let out a long breath, shoulders loosening.
"More alone time," he exhaled, almost to himself.
The library stretched out before him — a citadel of silence. White marble rose into columns carved like frozen waterfalls, each one etched with faint runes that pulsed so dimly they might have been imagined. The ceiling soared higher than any hall he'd ever stood in, swallowed in shadow where chandeliers of crystal and iron hung, scattering fractured light like constellations. Rows upon rows of shelves radiated from a central atrium, towering so tall they seemed to scrape the heavens, ladders fixed with golden rails spiraling upward to meet them.
But this was no ordinary hoard of books. Tomes the size of coffins sat chained in alcoves, their covers alive with shifting script. Scrolls lay sealed in glass tubes, faint trails of ink drifting inside them like smoke. Between shelves, fragments of murals bled across the marble — scenes of battles, kings, and roots of a vast tree, all worn with age until they looked half-erased. The air itself shimmered faintly, carrying the scent of old paper, stone dust, and something stranger: ozone, like the moment before lightning strikes.
High windows lined the northern wall, their panes made of thick crystal veined with gold, filtering the sunlight into pale shafts that fell like watchful eyes. It was there Vaelen drifted, gathering a few massive tomes from the shelves as though he knew exactly which ones would obey his touch. Their bindings groaned, heavy with knowledge.
Carrying them, he walked to a solitary seat beside one of the crystal windows — a vantage point both exposed and private, as if meant only for him. The silence welcomed him like an old companion.
Minutes passed. He rose, retrieved a stack of history tomes, and returned.
A quiet sigh slipped past his lips.
"Nothing as refreshing as the morning breeze," he murmured, flipping a page. Then, drier: "Everything else, of course, is a lie. These history books? Garbage."
He snapped the volume shut with a soft thump and leaned back.
"I hate my own bloodline," he muttered, golden gaze drifting to the glass. His voice shifted, rising just enough to reach ears that weren't supposed to exist.
✦✦✦
"You can speak now. The guard's at the door — she won't hear you."
From behind the window frame, a quiet voice answered:
"Today… we plan to kill your father."
The prince didn't flinch. A faint, bitter smile tugged at his lips.
"How many plans is that now? If you've come with just one more… go back."
A pause. Then, hesitantly:
"No, Your… Sire, we—"
He laughed softly, cutting the figure off.
"Don't bother dressing it up. You don't need to flatter me. I'm not going to have you executed. …You're new, aren't you?"
"Yes," the shadow admitted.
"Ah." Vaelen's tone softened, almost casual. He shut the book completely, resting both hands on its cover. His eyes flicked toward the faint outline at the window.
"Alright then. Continue."
The figure stepped closer, lowering a small vial of glass onto the sill. Liquid glimmered faintly inside — pale and poisonous.
"We've drawn up four plans already," he said. "But this time… we'd like you to carry the fifth yourself."
Vaelen plucked the vial between his fingers, turning it in the morning light.
"…Very well," he said quietly. "Leave it. I know what to do next."
The figure drew a breath, ready to speak, but Vaelen raised a hand — not harsh, but final.
"You've done enough. Go. Return to the others — and tell them…"
Something flickered in his golden eyes, fleeting and almost kind.
"…Tell them I said good work."
The shadow dipped his head and vanished back into the dark.
Vaelen stayed behind, rolling the vial in his palm. The light caught the liquid inside, a gleam that looked far too alive for something meant only to kill. With a faint clink, he set it on the desk.
He hated this library.
He hated these books.
He hated that every word here was written with the blood of innocents.
And yet—
For them — the quiet ones who waited in alleys and basements, the ones who still trusted him, the ones who believed the heir could be more than his cursed father's son — he'd keep playing this wretched game.
The dutiful son.
The charming heir.
The loyal prince.
At least until the tyrant king finally breathed his last.
A faint smirk ghosted across his lips. His eyes, sharp as blades, never softened.
"It's almost amusing," he murmured. "That my first kill will be my father."
A pause, followed by a sigh that weighed twice as heavy.
"And depressing… that it has to be me who dirties his hands."
His fingers closed around the vial again, sliding it into his cloak with the ease of someone who had long since rehearsed treachery.
The faint creak of the bronze doors echoed through the library.
Vaelen's head tilted toward the sound — expression already wiped back into the mask of the perfect son.