The heavy oak door of the secret library groaned on its hinges before thudding shut, the sound swallowed by a sudden, profound silence. The world outside vanished. The air inside rushed to meet me, thick with the brittle vanilla of aging paper and the rich, earthy scent of old leather. It was the smell of forgotten things.

I held out my hand, palm up, and summoned my mana. A nascent globe of pink light bloomed in my palm, cool against my skin. It pulsed softly, throwing the spines of countless books into sharp relief and sending long, distorted shadows dancing across the floorboards.

From the corner of my eye, I saw Cassius’s silhouette, still and watchful as ever. I moved to the central desk, my boots echoing in the vastness. My fingers, acting on memory alone, found the worn leather pouch. The flint and steel felt cold in my hand. A sharp strike, a shower of sparks, and a single flame sprang to life on the wick of the main candle, painting the room in hues of gold and amber. One by one, I lit the sconces that lined the curved walls, the growing light a physical weight pushing back the oppressive dark.

The flicker of the flames conjured a ghost. I could almost feel the phantom weight of my head on my mother’s lap in the very chair I now stood beside. Her laughter seemed to echo in the stillness, a soft murmur of ancient tales read from these same books. A breath hitched in my throat. I balled my fists, my knuckles white, anchoring myself to the present. “We need to find books on the elves,” I said, my voice cutting through the quiet, louder than I intended.

My gaze swept the circular chamber, a silo of knowledge soaring to a vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. A single metal ladder, hooked to a rail, promised passage to the highest shelves. “Let’s start looking,” I murmured, the familiar thrill of the hunt a welcome balm on the raw ache of memory.

As I traced the gilded spine of a thick volume, Cassius’s voice, low and steady, broke the silence. “You were saying. About the Crescent Moon Guild.”

My hand stilled. The name hung in the air, a stain in the sacred quiet. “It’s my father and Blair,” I said, my voice dropping to a near whisper. I forced my fingers to move again, trailing numbly over the worn leather. “They traffic in people, Cassius. They find those with unique abilities, people who can’t defend themselves, and they sell them to the highest bidder.”

“Vile,” he breathed, his own search forgotten. His eyes were on my face, intense and unwavering.

“Their stage is the Crescent Moon Theater—a place of artifice and beauty masking a rot that runs to the core. The auctions are their grand performances.” I slid a heavy tome from its place, its weight a poor anchor in the swirling darkness of my thoughts, and shoved it back. “But an assassin… that’s not their way. It’s not Blair’s, at least. She’s a creature of thunder and lightning, Cassius, not shadow and whispers. If she wanted me dead, I’d have seen the killing blow coming.”

Cassius turned his thoughtful gaze toward the shadowed ceiling. “What kind of power are we talking about? What does she command?”

A chill that had nothing to do with the library’s ancient stones traced a path down my spine. “She doesn’t wield dark magic. She is dark magic. It comes to her as easily as breathing.”

A quiet understanding settled between us then, broken only by the soft, dry rustle of turning pages. For a long while, that was the only sound.

“Thalia.”

Cassius’s voice sliced through the calm. I turned. His stillness was a magnet, drawing my attention. He stood before a shelf, holding a heavy, dark-green volume as if it were a fragile relic. He carried it to the central desk and laid it gently in the pool of candlelight. The Lost Kingdom of Aelindoria. The title seemed to hum with promise, but Cassius’s gaze was fixed on the book’s edge. His fingers traced the gilded trim of the cover, and then I saw it: the corner of a cream-colored envelope, hidden between the pages.

With care he opened the book. He didn’t read the letter, but slid it from a sanctuary it must have occupied for years. He held it out to me.

“It’s for you,” he said softly.

My breath caught. There, on the front, was my name. Thalia. Written in that elegant, forward-slanting script that was as familiar to me as my own reflection. A punch to the gut. A memory of a hand guiding my own as I learned to write. My mother’s.

“I’ll… keep looking,” Cassius said, his voice gentle. He didn’t need to be told. He gave me a single, understanding nod before turning back to the shelves, his quiet retreat a fortress built around my sudden, fragile privacy.

“Thank you,” I whispered to his back, my voice thick. My thumb trembled as it traced the loops of my name. The wax seal crumbled under my touch.

My Dearest Thalia,

If you are reading this, then my time with you has passed. Before anything else, know that my love for you is a boundless thing. You were always, and will always be, more than enough.

The path ahead of you will not be easy, but you will not walk it alone. The ones who stand with you now—they are your family. Trust them. Read this book, my love. Read it carefully. And never, ever forget the stories I told you. They are more important than you know.

Love Always,

 Mom

A single, traitorous tear escaped and splashed onto the parchment, blurring the ink of her name. I wiped it away fiercely as a sob clawed its way up my throat. I miss you so much. Her face swam in my memory—that kind smile, the eyes that held galaxies of knowing. She was always telling me stories. Which one? Which story held the key?

With trembling hands, I folded the letter. The silence of the library felt immense, amplifying the ragged sound of my own breath. The moment I set the letter on the desk, Cassius moved. His footsteps were soft on the old stone as he returned. He said nothing of the tear tracks on my face, only inclined his head toward the book.

“Let’s head back,” he said, his voice a calm. “We can start with this.”

His simple, practical words were a lifeline. You’re not alone. When you’re ready, I’m with you.

I tucked the letter carefully back inside the book’s pages, clutching it to my chest as we walked through the torch-lit corridors. The shared silence was more comforting than any words could be. At my door, my hand had just brushed the cool metal knob when he spoke.

“It’s late,” he murmured. “Rest. We can face the book—and everything else—tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I managed. “Goodnight, Cassius.”

“Goodnight, Thalia.”

I closed the door and leaned against the solid wood. I set the book on my desk and changed, the soft fabric of my nightgown a small comfort. Moonlight silvered my room. After lighting a single candle, I couldn’t resist.

Curled on my bed, I read my mother’s words again. Each word was both a balm and a fresh wound. Finally, I set the letter aside and blew out the flame, plunging the room into shades of silver and black.

I stared at the shadowed ceiling. What story? The question echoed in the hollows of my chest. My childhood was a library of her tales—of star-crossed fae, forgotten magic, and brave queens. Which thread was I meant to pull? I slid under the blankets, craving their grounding weight. How much of this did you see coming, Mother?

I closed my eyes, summoning her image from the mists of memory until her smile was clear in my mind. I held that image, a shield against the encroaching dark, and let the tide of exhaustion pull me under into a restless sea of whispered stories.