The Blackwood Annex was the library's forgotten lung—a narrow, high-ceilinged wing where the air smelt of cedar and slow decay. At nine o'clock, the main library closed with the soft thud of doors and the distant jingle of the head librarian's keys. In the annexe, only the eternal dusk of high windows and my single lantern held the dark at bay.
Shelf 14 loomed before me, a monolith of leather-bound trade ledgers and provincial tax records. According to the mysterious note, the answers I needed were here, buried deeper than merchant debts.
Who sent it? The question gnawed at me as I ran my fingers over cracked spines. Friend or foe? Cassian is testing me? Seraphina is leading me into a trap? The blue thread I'd seen earlier was faint here, a shimmer in the corner of my vision, but it didn't feel threatening. It felt… like a guide.
I pulled a heavy volume titled "Trade Dependencies: Northern Marches & Central Provinces, 1415-1420." Dust plumed. As I opened it, a smaller, folio-sized packet slid from between the pages and fluttered to the floor.
Not a book. A private correspondence file, unbound.
My breath caught. The top sheet was a letter of complaint from a border town mayor to the Imperial Treasury. It detailed how "irregular tariff collections" by Vale family retainers were strangling cross-mountain trade. Attached were shipping manifests showing several shipments of "medicinal reagents" owned by Vale Holdings being waved through border checks without inspection—reagents that, according to a scribbled marginal note in a different ink, included moonbell root and shadowcap extract.
Moonbell root and shadowcap extract were both rare and strictly regulated. Both, in certain preparations, were lethally toxic.
The fee wasn't just a paid debt. This was a smuggling route. Seraphina's family wasn't just bribing an apothecary; they were importing the poison's components directly, avoiding official channels.
"Fascinating, isn't it? How much rot a few dusty papers can expose."
The voice, calm and male, came from the end of the aisle. I spun, my heart leaping to my throat, instinctively clutching the papers to my chest.
A young man leaned against the shelf, shrouded in shadow. He stepped into my lantern's circle. He was around twenty, with dark hair a shade too unruly for court fashion and intelligent, weary eyes the colour of storm clouds. He wore the academy uniform, but without the usual aristocratic pretence—the jacket was unbuttoned, and he held a similar ledger under his arm.
Prince Lucian Aurelius. The Second Prince. Cassian's half-brother.
In my past life, I'd known him only by reputation: the "bookish prince", dismissed by the court as a harmless intellectual more interested in economic theory than the throne. I'd never spoken to him. He'd died quietly of a fever two years from now, conveniently removing a minor obstacle from Cassian's path.
"Your Highness," I said, dipping into a curtsy, my mind racing. Was he the mysterious note sender?
"Please, don't." He waved a dismissive hand. "Formality is exhausting, and we're the only two fools in this archive after hours." He nodded at the papers in my hands. "Moonbell and shadowcap. Nasty business. The Vale family has been using that mountain pass as a private purse for years. The Crown turns a blind eye—their support is useful."
He spoke with a casual, cynical knowledge that startled me. This was not a harmless scholar of rumour.
"You sent the note," I stated.
"I observed a fellow hunter in the stacks," he said, a faint smile touching his lips. "You move through ledgers like a knight inspecting a battlefield. Most nobles your age are looking for gossip or gambling debts. You're searching for patterns of corruption. It's… refreshing."
"Why help me?"
"Let's call it academic curiosity." His storm-grey eyes studied me. "Lady Rosalind Thorne, who until recently was best known for her detailed embroidery and her very public admiration for my brother, is now buried in trade law and smuggling manifests. One might wonder what inspired such a dramatic shift in hobbies."
The threat was veiled but clear. I see your change. Explain it.
I chose cautious truth. "I discovered my interests were being… manipulated. I prefer to see the board clearly before I'm made a pawn again."
He gave a slow, approving nod. "A wise policy. Especially in this court." He moved closer, his voice dropping. "You're investigating the Vales because of Seraphina. She's been your shadow for two years, and suddenly you're treating her like a plague carrier. She's also the chief architect of your current reputation as a heartbroken recluse." He tilted his head. "A falling out between close friends is one thing. Financial and botanical research is another. What are you afraid she's going to do, Lady Thorne?"
The directness was a blade. I met his gaze. "I think you already have suspicions, Your Highness. You pointed me to this shelf."
He was silent for a long moment. Then he sighed, the sound weary beyond his years. "My brother's circle is full of beautiful, dangerous people. Seraphina Vale is both. She fancies herself a queen-in-waiting. And Cassian… he enjoys useful tools."
He looked at me, and I saw no malice in his gaze, only a profound, resigned understanding. "He's hosting a tea party next week. You've declined."
"I have."
"A smart move. His gatherings always have… consequences." The way he said 'consequences' made it sound like a euphemism for a hanging. "But refusing him publicly also makes you an object of interest. To him. And to those who serve him."
"Like Seraphina."
"Like Seraphina," he confirmed. He tapped the ledger under his arm. "I'm researching grain subsidy fraud. Dull, worthy work that keeps me out of the succession drama. You, apparently, are researching attempted murder. It's a more hazardous field."
"You believe it's murder?"
"I believe the Vales are importing controlled toxins, and Seraphina is your inseparable friend who is now publicly painting you as emotionally unstable right before a high-profile event you're suddenly avoiding." He shrugged. "I don't need to be a master sleuth. I just need to understand incentives. What's her incentive?"
"To remove a rival," I said softly. "To secure her position."
"And to provide my brother with a convenient scandal to resolve, boosting his reputation as a just ruler," Lucian added, his voice flat. "A two-for-one transaction. Efficient."
Hearing my fears articulated so calmly by a prince was chilling. "Why are you telling me this? You could just watch it happen."
For the first time, a spark of genuine emotion—anger, or perhaps pain—flashed in his grey eyes. "Because I am tired of watching things happen. Because my older brother died of a 'hunting accident' when he became too popular. Because this empire is rotting from the top down, and sometimes, the only way to clean a wound is to expose it." He looked at the papers in my hands. "You have evidence of smuggling, not poisoning. It's not enough."
"I know."
"Be careful. You've changed your behaviour, and sharp people have noticed. My brother is one of them. He collects anomalies." Lucian turned to leave, then paused. "The East Wing is secluded but not private. I'd finish your reading quickly. And, Lady Thorne?"
"Yes?"
"If you need to look at more… sensitive records, the city's public courthouse archives are less watched than the palace ones. The case number for the dismissed tariff complaint against House Vale is 1424-887. The evidence locker might still contain original shipment samples." He gave me a final, measured look. "Good hunting."
He disappeared into the shadows, his footsteps silent.
I stood frozen, the smuggler's manifest crumpling in my grip. Prince Lucian was an ally. A dangerous, unpredictable one, but an ally. He'd just given me the next piece: a direct path to physical evidence.
But he'd also confirmed my deepest fear. Cassian had noticed me. I was now an "anomaly" in his collection.
I hastily reshelved the ledger, tucking the damning correspondence into the folds of my gown. As I extinguished my lantern and slipped into the dark hallway, the blue thread in my vision glowed steadily, now firmly attached to the space where Lucian had stood.
A thread of potential salvation, indeed.
But as I hurried back to my room, a distinct sensation prickled at my neck—the unmistakable sense of surveillance. I glanced up at a second-floor balcony overlooking the library corridor. A figure stood there, backlit by a distant torch.
Golden hair. A poised, watching silhouette.
Cassian.
He wasn't smiling. He was just observing, a scientist noting a curious specimen. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second across the dark space.
Then he turned and was gone.
The red thread around my heart gave a vicious, warning pull