The silver rune on my palm pulsed faintly in the dim candlelight, a ghostly shimmer against my skin. I traced it absently with my thumb, feeling the unnatural coolness of it, as if the mark itself existed beyond flesh and blood. The air in the library was thick with dust and the scent of old parchment, the silence so heavy it seemed to press against my skin. Shadows flickered along the towering bookshelves, twisting in the candle’s weak glow, and for a moment, I imagined the library itself was breathing, shifting beneath my unsteady gaze.
Aziel’s voice still lingered, a whisper in the marrow of my thoughts.
The Spire does not forgive. The Spire does not forget.
The words wove themselves into the fabric of my memories, threads tightening with each breath I took. The Spire. Its name alone was enough to send a shiver down my spine. A place of judgment, of records that stretched back beyond reckoning. Its halls had seen kings rise and fall, had kept secrets buried beneath centuries of dust and ink. And now, somehow, I was bound to it. The rune on my palm was proof enough. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will away the unease curling inside me. But it was useless. Even in the darkness behind my eyelids, the rune burned in my thoughts, an ember that refused to die.
The room blurred, edges softening like ink dissolving in water. The heavy scent of aged leather and candle wax thickened. The library wavered, shifting, and when I opened my eyes, he was there.
Aziel.
Or the shape of him, at least—shadow-thin, his form rippling like heat over stone. He stood just beyond the reach of the candle’s glow, the darkness clinging to him like a second skin. His voice was urgent, nearly drowned by the hollow ringing in my ears.
“You should not be here, Tia. Not now.”
His presence was both comfort and warning, familiar yet distant, like a half-remembered dream slipping through my fingers. I reached for him, but the space between us stretched impossibly far. My fingers grasped only cold air.
“What is this?” My voice sounded distant, warped as if pulled from another world. “What does it mean?”
His expression was unreadable, but there was something behind his eyes—a weight, a hesitation that made my pulse stutter.
“Not safe,” he said, his voice edged with something I couldn’t quite name. “Not yet. You must leave—”
A sound.
Real, sharp.
Heavy footsteps in the hall.
The trance shattered. The library rushed back in, solid and suffocating. The candle’s flame flickered wildly, as if the air itself had been disturbed. Panic tightened around my ribs as I spun toward the cabinet, my hands moving on instinct. The scroll—carefully wrapped in velvet—slid into place. The key, the treaties—each item returned with frantic precision. My pulse roared in my ears as I shoved the cabinet shut.
The door handle turned.
I barely made it behind the bookcase before the hinges groaned, the heavy door swinging inward. Candlelight stretched long shadows across the stone floor as my father stepped inside. His gaze swept the room, keen and searching.
I pressed my back against the bookcase, barely daring to breathe.
The scent of parchment and ink curled around me, familiar yet suffocating. My heartbeat thundered in my chest, drowning out thought, drowning out everything but the silent prayer in my head—
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look.
He stepped further inside, his boots echoing against the stone. I could see the edge of his cloak from where I hid, the deep crimson of it nearly black in the dim light. He moved with the quiet authority of a man who had spent his life commanding attention without ever raising his voice.
For a moment, I thought he might leave. That he would simply scan the room, find nothing amiss, and turn away.
But then—
A pause.
His head tilted slightly. The faintest shift in his stance.
He knew.
“Come out, Tia.” His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it, a warning wrapped in silk.
My fingers curled into the fabric of my cloak. My mind raced. I could stay hidden, feign ignorance later, claim I had been asleep in my chambers. But my father was not a man easily deceived. If I waited too long, if I let him think I was defying him outright, the consequences would be worse.
Slowly, I stepped out from behind the bookcase, the candlelight catching the edges of my silhouette. I kept my chin high, though my hands trembled at my sides.
His gaze met mine, unreadable, his eyes dark as the ink staining the treaties I had just hidden.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
I swallowed. “I couldn’t sleep.”
A lie, but one close enough to the truth that it didn’t tremble on my tongue.
His gaze flickered to the cabinet. The lock was in place. Nothing looked disturbed. But my father was a man who read between lines, who saw the truths buried beneath words left unsaid.
“The library is not your refuge, Tia.” His voice was quieter now, but it carried weight. “Not at this hour.”
I knew what he meant. The library was for study, for knowledge passed down through generations. It was not meant to be a place of secrets. And yet, that was what it had become for me.
“I just needed to think,” I said. “That’s all.”
He studied me for a long moment, then exhaled, shaking his head.
“You are playing a dangerous game, daughter.”
My throat tightened. “I don’t know what you mean.”
A moth, wings singed, fluttered into the silence and landed on the cabinet’s edge. A small tendril of smoke floats above it. My father’s head tilted, a wolf scenting weakness. For a moment, the room seemed smaller, the bookshelves pressing in, the candlelight too dim. My father was not an unkind man, but neither was he one to overlook disobedience. And I had been disobedient. But more than that, I had been reckless. He stepped closer, and instinctively, I tensed. But instead of chastisement, instead of fury, he merely reached out, his fingers brushing my uncovered palm
The rune.
In one stride, he closed the distance, his hand snapping out to seize my wrist. The rune flared, its light bleeding silver through my fingers. His breath hitched. For a heartbeat, fear. True, raw fear flashed across his face. It vanished just as quickly, replaced by a fury that turned his voice to venom.
He knew.
And that terrified me more than anything else.
he He hissed.
“I will not ask again, Tia,” he said, his voice lower now, almost quiet.
The question sat heavy between us. The answer burned on my tongue, but I swallowed it down.
Instead, I said nothing.
“You think silence will protect you?” His voice was quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “You think ignorance will shield you from the consequences of what has been done?”
I tried to pull back, but his hold tightened. I felt the weight of his words press against my chest, a silent command demanding an answer. My father had never been a man given to outbursts, but this was something different. His voice was low, but it carried the sharp edge of a blade pressed to skin.
“I will not ask again, Tia,” he said, his voice lower now, almost quiet.
The question sat heavy between us. The answer burned on my tongue, but I swallowed it down.
Instead, I said nothing.
His eyes darkened. The silence stretched, a taut, breathless moment before his hand closed around my wrist—firm, unyielding. Not painful, not yet. But there was no mistaking the power in his grip, the cold authority in his stare.
“You think silence will protect you?” His voice was quieter now, but more dangerous for it. “You think ignorance will shield you from the consequences of what has been done?”
I wrenched free. “No one. What did you do?" My words spat out of me and into his face. My whole body hot with nerves and fury. This is all his fault after all, If what Aziel said was true.
His eyes darkened, his expression sharpening into something cold and cruel. Then, with the slow precision of a blade being unsheathed, he leaned in, voice a near-whisper, but laced with venom.
“You are always so ungrateful,” he murmured. “I have given you everything—protection, status, my name—and yet, you still find ways to shame me. Do you think yourself so clever, sneaking about like a common thief? Do you think you can keep secrets from me?”
I flinched, but he wasn’t finished.
“You are reckless. Weak. And now you’ve tangled yourself in something you do not understand.” He gestured sharply toward the rune, his lip curling. “Did you think there wouldn’t be consequences?”
Silence. My breath shuddered in my chest. The backhand came without warning. Pain lit my cheekbone, bright and starry. Blood bloomed metallic on my tongue. His signet ring had split my lip. Not the first time, I thought numbly. But always before, there’d been excuses—a lesson, a correction, for your own good. Now, the violence was naked, hungry.
“You are mine,” he said, voice smooth again, as though the violence had steadied him. “Every breath you take, every shadow you hide in—mine. Did you think that his whispered warnings could protect you? That the Spire’s mark would make you special?”
“You are a ledger to me, Tia. A ledger of debts owed.”
He dragged me toward the cabinet, my boots scraping against stone. With his free hand, he flung it open, sending treaties clattering to the floor. The velvet-wrapped scroll rolled into the dust, and he stepped on it, grinding the fabric beneath his heel.
“This?” He kicked the scroll toward me, his lip curled. “Child’s scribbles. The Spire doesn’t care about your little rebellions. It cares about blood. My blood. And you’ve poisoned it.”
He seized my jaw, forcing me to meet his eyes—eyes I’d once thought warm, before I learned they were only mirrors, reflecting whatever served him best.
“You will fix this,” he said, soft now, almost tender. “You will kneel before the Council tomorrow and confess you stole this mark. That you were seduced by that traitor’s lies. And when they ask who helped you…” His thumb smeared the blood from my lip, painting a wet streak across my chin. “You will give them Azielian’s name.”
Revulsion coiled in my gut. “Never.”
The second strike knocked me to my knees. The world tilted, shelves blurring into a prison of shadows. He loomed above me, his cloak a wave of crimson.
“You will,” he said, “or I will carve that rune from your flesh myself and feed it to the pigs in the stables.” He crouched, gripping my hair to wrench my head back. “Do you think I won’t? Do you think your mother thought I wouldn’t?”
The words froze me. Mother. Her absence had always been a locked room in this house, a room he’d forbidden me to enter. The air vanished from my lungs. The confession slithered into me, venomous, tearing open wounds I didn’t know I had. She had died in child birth.
“Liar,” I whispered.
He released me, standing abruptly. “You’ll learn the truth soon enough. The Spire’s archives are thorough.” He straightened his sleeves, the fabric pristine, untouched. As he turned to leave, he paused, glancing at the singed moth trembling on the cabinet’s edge. With a flick of his finger, he crushed it, wings crumbling to ash.
“Oh, and Tia?” He didn’t look back. “If you try to run, I’ll have that boy you like, Atlas was it? His head will be on a pike before dawn. His screams might even mask yours.”
And with that, he strode to the door, leaving me alone in the flickering candlelight, my pulse hammering in my ears.
Alone, I clutched the rune, its light now feverish. Left alone in the flickering candlelight, my pulse hammering in my ears. Tears rush to my eyes before I even think about trying to stop them. I blink them back, but I can''t force my limbs from the cold wooden floor. One of my boots came off during his outrage. He wanted me out of the library, so I have to leave. I can''t bear witness to my father''s rage again. I grab what I can manage and take off down the stairs to my chambers. I slowly latch the door as to not disturb the peace left behind me. That’s all I seem to do - disturb things.