Serena stepped into a vast library chamber with a domed ceiling painted like the night sky.
Opposite the entrance, a massive white-marble fireplace anchored the room, towering multiple stories.
"You found it," Hyran said, greeting her at the door. His lips twitched as he watched her expression.
"This is beautiful," she said, her voice full of awe.
He inclined his head. "Fire makes legends. Libraries make empires."
"Thank you for showing me," she said with a warm smile.
"Can you read?" Hyran blurted out the question he had been wondering, without any tact whatsoever.
Serena glanced at him, lips twitching. "Yes."
Hyran held up both hands. "Hey, it's a fair question. Are you fluent in more than one language?"
"Yes," Serena answered, her lips still twitching.
The amusement on her face was not missed.
Serena followed him up a few floors to a table scattered with books and scrolls, his cloak draped over a nearby chair.
He threw a book at her without any care, and she caught it out of reflex.
"Show me."
He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, clearly thinking she was full of shit.
She opened the book, then glanced back up at him, intrigued. "You have texts written in High Morbian."
She began to read fluently in High Morbian, unfazed. He listened for less than thirty seconds before cutting in.
"Translate."
Serena didn't look up.
"All magic diminishes with time. No enchantment endures without a sustaining source. All lasting works require an anchor."
He took the book from her and tossed another.
"Translate."
She nodded, recognizing the language as Aetherian, and began to read, translating with ease.
"Portals are not creators of power, but conductors thereof. They serve as thresholds through which energy is drawn, and without such passages, the greater works cannot be maintained."
He tossed her another book, and she recognized the language immediately as Sylvarae.
"Where no conduit exists, even the strongest spell collapses under its own weight."
He cut her off and tossed her another book. She grinned and looked back at him. "Old Elventh is a dead language. How old is this?"
"Translate," Hyran said, almost impatient.
She began to read fluently, without any pause.
"The Elvin error is rigidity. The Fae error is excess. Elvin workings derive from structured resonance. Fae magic, by contrast, manifests from emotion before intent."
He snatched it out of her hands and replaced it with another book written in Cinder-speak lexicon.
She opened it and looked up at him again. This, too, was a dead language, but his expression made her smile fade immediately.
She began to read.
"Aether Fabrication is the art of translating magical potential into physical construct. Fae fabrication excels in immediacy and adaptive expression."
He took the book from her hands, replacing it with another in the same motion. She recognized the language immediately as Vellumic, still spoken today but only in mage-heavy continents.
"Mage practice recognizes five primary disciplines: portals, object manipulation, fabrication, healing, and divination."
He grabbed the book from her hands and replaced it with another written in High Orosic.
Her face fell, but not for the reason Hyran thought. This continent and language stirred unwanted memories. She schooled her expression and began reading, not looking at him.
"Magical coloration is not inherent, but reflective of the caster's essence. Magic fueled by soul sacrifice absorbs rather than reflects, and thus manifests as black."
He cut her off, taking the book from her hand.
"How does one who speaks seven tongues, eight if we count the common gutter language, end up in chains?" He tilted his head. "That is not an academic question. That is an economic one."
Serena's face flushed, slightly flustered by the compliment. She hadn't meant to show off or draw attention.
"That is very kind of you, Hyran," she said quietly.
He did not answer for a moment.
When he finally spoke again, his tone had cooled.
"The only possible answer is ignorance. No one knew." His eyes sharpened. "Because if anyone in Viremont had known, questions would be asked. Is that a fair conclusion?"
Her throat worked. She did not like how calm he sounded, or the direction of the conversation.
She met his gaze. "Fair."
"You fell from nobility," Hyran continued, as if she had confirmed nothing new. "Not gently."
He paused, watching her face blanch.
"You are fiercely protective," he added quietly. "And if the wrong people knew who you were, they would follow the trail straight to Elara. So you are silent."
Her eyes snapped up to his, wide and sharp with alarm.
Hyran raised a hand.
"You are terrible at lying," he said, not unkindly. "So please do not insult me. I will not press."
His gaze flicked to her neck, where a faint rash had begun to climb. Stress-induced. Predictable. He noted it like a scholar noting weather.
A reminder, he thought, that brilliance did not preclude fragility.
His hand hovered over a final scroll. This one was different. Older. The vellum was darkened with age and ward-smoke.
He glanced at her again, calculating. There was no rational reason she should be able to read it.
Then he tossed it.
"Humor me."
She opened it, then glanced at him. "This overlaps with Glac—" She caught herself, uncertainty flickering, and looked back down. If he knew the language it overlapped with, he would know exactly where she was from.
She focused instead on the text in her hands. Immediately, her eyes lit, then her hair and skin followed.
Serena inhaled once and slipped into something not quite herself. The words came without effort, older than thought; she was vaguely aware of what was happening, but not in control.
Chairs scraped back.
Mage-librarians stepped from every shadowed corner, at least fifty of them, all wearing the same stunned expression.
"She speaks Draken-Vorah?"
"That tongue is sealed."
"Forbidden to outsiders."
"Who is she?"
Hyran did not move. His gaze locked on Serena, intrigue sharpening into something dangerous.
His mouth curved faintly.
"Well," he murmured, "this just became interesting."