The palace at night has its own heartbeat.
I had learned to recognise it: the hushed echo of footsteps on silver-veined stone, the faint scrape of goblets in distant halls, the low, too-soft laughter of courtiers who had not yet tired of their games. It was never quiet, not truly. Only watchful.
Tonight, I listened until the rhythm lulled itself into habit—and then I slipped from my chamber.
The guards did not move. They only glanced once, their eyes gleaming faintly in the cold lantern light. Perhaps they had not been told to stop me. Perhaps they were curious to see if I would return.
The corridors stretched long and pale, lanterns casting shadows like teeth. I followed the memory of where I had seen it before: the door with silver lilies, the brass plate etched with words that had felt colder than any lock.
The Sable Library.
The door yielded beneath my hand with the faintest sigh.
The air inside was different.
Dust, yes, but also something older. The scent of vellum left too long in its bindings, of candlewax melted into stone, of blood spilled not in violence but in ritual.
Shelves towered high, carved of black oak. They ran in endless rows, lined with books bound in leather darkened by centuries. Some were plain, some branded with sigils I could not read, some clasped in silver locks. Ladders leaned against the shelves, iron and wood gleaming faintly.
A single lantern burned on a wide table at the centre. Its flame was low, cold, casting the parchment scattered there into shadowed relief.
I stepped closer, fingertips grazing a spine that hummed faintly beneath my touch. The letters pressed into it shifted when I blinked, forming and reforming into languages I half-recognised, then lost again.
I pulled my hand back quickly.
The table bore scrolls unfurled, their ink shimmering faintly red, as though written in dried blood. I leaned closer. The script was jagged, ancient, but some of the words I recognised:
Consort. Covenant. Flame. Ash.
My throat tightened.
I traced the margin with my fingertip, the parchment brittle, ready to break. My reflection bent faintly in the sheen of the ink. For an instant, I thought I saw not my face but another's: crowned with light, eyes unearthly bright.
I blinked, and it was gone.
Footsteps.
I stilled, heart lurching.
The sound came from beyond the shelves, light and deliberate. Voices followed, low and sharp, words carried just enough for me to catch.
"She unsettles him," a man's voice said. Veynar.
"Which makes her dangerous," answered a woman. Selvara.
"She is mortal. Mortals do not last. But while she lingers, she fractures him."
A pause. The faint scrape of cloth against wood, a hand brushing a spine.
"Perhaps," Selvara murmured, "we do not need her to die. Not yet. We only need her to stumble. The Court will devour the rest."
"And if she does not?"
Her laugh was soft, cold. "Then we will remind her what prey tastes like."
The footsteps faded, swallowed by the vast hush of the shelves.
I pressed my back to the oak, breath shallow, pulse hammering so loudly I feared it would betray me. The bond stirred faintly, answering my fear, my fire, tugging like a chain toward someone not here.
Castiel.
But I did not call for him. Not this time.
I straightened, smoothed my skirts with trembling hands, and forced myself to step back to the table. My eyes scanned the ink again, the words shimmering, shifting.
Flame remembers. Prey forgets. Blood binds.
I closed the scroll with shaking fingers.
If they wanted me to stumble, they would have to push harder.
I left the Sable Library in silence, the shelves watching, the ink whispering, the bond thrumming faintly in my veins.
And I swore to myself I would not break.
Not here.
Not now.
Not for them.