The Tower of Illumination loomed over the Khymar Lyceum grounds like a watchful sentinel, its plain and practical grey stone walls twisting eleven stories into the pale morning sky. The first light of day stained the horizon in soft hues of rose and gold, casting long shadows across the courtyard as Amriel crossed the cobbled path toward the library at the tower's base.
She exhaled softly, already knowing exactly where she would find Mara.
The Lyceum ensured the lower levels of the Spire were accessible to all students, and Mara—true to form—practically lived there. If she wasn't in the Archivist's Hall, she was tucked away in some forgotten corner of the library, buried beneath a fortress of books.
The air shifted as Amriel stepped inside. Gone was the crisp coolness of morning; in its place, the warm, hushed atmosphere of the grand library enveloped her. A space untouched by the urgency of the outside world.
The scent of parchment, ink, and aged leather filled her lungs as she wove between towering shelves, their dark wooden frames stretching high toward vaulted ceilings. The only sounds were the faint creak of the floor beneath her steps and the occasional whisper of a turning page. Sunlight spilled through the stained-glass windows, casting shifting mosaics of color onto the stone.
Her fingers skimmed the spines of books as she passed—rows upon rows of knowledge pressed between covers, entire lives recorded in ink. It was a world Mara had long since made her own.
Amriel spotted Mara easily. She was exactly where Amriel knew she would be—curled into the window alcove on the upper floor, a thick tome resting open in her lap.
Amriel slid onto the bench beside her, glancing at the sea of scattered parchment. "Prepping for finals?"
Mara didn't even look up as she turned a page. "Really, Amriel?" She tisked softly. "I thought you knew me better than that. Finals are two weeks away."
"Ah yes," Amriel rolled her eyes and smiled," You must be done already."
"That would be correct." She nodded and tapped the book's spine with an ink-smudged finger. "This one's my reward."
Amriel raised a brow, feigning deep concern. "Mara, reading for fun? I'm concerned. Should I alert someone?"
Mara shot her a dry look, then lifted her chin with mock regality. "I contain multitudes, Riel."
She ran her fingers along the book's worn cover, her expression softening. "It's a fictional retelling of the War of the Blood Prince. Told from the perspective of his general—who also happens to fall in love with the prince's sister."
Amriel tilted her head. "Sounds interesting," she said, her slightly dry tone suggesting otherwise.
Mara caught it immediately and smirked. "It's largely a tactician's perspective. The romance is, I suspect, the most fictional part of it."
"Shame, really," Amriel quipped, smirking. "Would've made for a much better story."
Mara laughed, a soft sound that broke through the hushed sanctity of the library. "I think it's wonderful."
Amriel huffed a quiet chuckle, but something about the moment struck her deeper than she expected. Mara—bathed in morning light, utterly at home in her world of ink and history—made it look easy. Knowing exactly who she was. What she wanted.
Amriel wasn't sure she could say the same.
Mara turned her golden-brown eyes on her, sharp and perceptive. "So," she said, voice light but probing, "what brings you here this early? Just come to grace me with your sparkling wit, or is there something else?"
Amriel hesitated. The truth almost came out right then. The tome. The language. The impossible knowledge unraveling in her mind like a thread she wasn't sure she should pull.
Instead, she stuck to the plan. "I found a book in my mother's old collection." She kept her voice casual. "Pretty interesting so far."
Mara's interest sharpened immediately. Amriel's mother, Nythia, had been known for many things at the Lyceum—scholar, historian, healer. Whatever had caught her attention would undoubtedly intrigue Mara.
"What's it called?" Mara asked, leaning slightly forward.
Amriel exhaled slowly. "Not sure," she admitted. "The cover's too worn to read."
Mara didn't look surprised. If anyone had an ancient, half-decayed book, it would have been Nythia. "Then, what's it about?"
Amriel hesitated. "Pretty sure it's a fantasy."
That earned a slight arch of Mara's brow.
"A fantasy?" she mused. "Strange. I always thought your mother leaned toward philosophy or history. If she needed an escape, I imagined she'd turn to fiction, but fantasy? That seems… uncharacteristic."
Mara's gaze flickered with curiosity, but she shrugged. "Then again, your mother was ever the enigma."
Amriel barely resisted the urge to scoff. Seems I was born to live among enigmas.
She could feel the weight of the tome's presence inside the Lyceum halls. The words she shouldn't have been able to read. The secrets lurking between its pages.
And the questions she wasn't sure she wanted answers to.
The willow branches swayed gently in the afternoon breeze, their long tendrils casting shifting shadows across the soft grass. The pond shimmered under the dappled sunlight, rippling as dragonflies skimmed its surface.
Two weeks had passed since the green eyed stranger had stumbled into her cottage, badly wounded and in need of her help. Two weeks since he vanished without a trace. Two weeks, and his face and voice remained as fresh and clear in her memory as if it had been yesterday.
Had it not been for the weight of the prophecy taking up so much space and attention, it would have been impossible to ignore. Even so, every so often, and perhaps more often than she was ready to admit, thoughts of him crept in. Like it did now;
"Fha'Lear," The unknown word spoken in his voice rang through her head.
What did it mean? Who, or what, was he? Because, whatever he was, he wasn't human, that much Amriel was certain of.
The picnic blanket scratched against Amriel's legs as she shifted, absentmindedly watching Simon chase his daughters across the meadow. His deep laugh carried on the breeze, punctuated by the twins' delighted shrieks as he caught them, one in each arm, and spun them around.
"Gods," Niamh sighed beside her, propping herself up on one elbow. "I never thought I'd say this, but is there anything sexier than a man who adores his children?"
Amriel smiled, tearing off a piece of her sandwich. "I'll have to take your word for it."
Niamh turned her head, arching a brow. "Perhaps you'll understand one day. But don't rush it."
Amriel let out a soft laugh, shaking her head. "I don't think that's in the cards for me anytime soon."
She meant it. Had you asked her the same question last summer, you would have gotten an entirely different response.
The Amriel of last summer was thinking Nikola, her now ex, would be the father of her children. As she had for the four years previous to that. But now? Now Amriel had no idea where her life was taking her, or how much control she really had over it.
"You're thinking so hard I can practically hear it," Niamh said, nudging Amriel's knee with her own. "What's going on in there?"
"I'm going to the Coven tomorrow," she said finally. "To speak with Kortana."
Niamh sat up abruptly, or as abruptly as a pregnant woman could, all languid relaxation vanishing. "About the book?"
"Yes." Amriel plucked a blade of grass, rolling it between her fingers. "I've exhausted every resource at the Lyceum and Illumination Tower. If anyone might know something about Starlight Witches or a Door to Eternity, it would be the Coven Leader."
Niamh studied her for a long moment, then nodded firmly. "Fine. But I'm coming with you."
Before Amriel could respond, Simon approached, a twin tucked under each arm like squirming parcels. "Where are we going?" he asked, setting the girls down on the blanket where they immediately began rummaging through the picnic basket.
"We," Niamh emphasised, gesturing between herself and Amriel, "Are going to see Kortana at the Coven Tower." Her tone as casual as if they were discussing a trip to the market.
Simon didn't react immediately. Instead, he crouched down, deftly pulling their lunch from the basket and handing out bits of fruit to the girls, who busied themselves with their meal. Then, finally, he looked up, his dark eyes locking onto Amriel's. "About?"
"Just some questions I have about an old book," she said evenly.
Simon's hands stilled for just a fraction of a second before he continued unpacking their meal. "An old book," he repeated, tone unreadable. "Shouldn't you be asking the Archivists about that?"
"They'll be my next stop," Amriel admitted, keeping her voice light. "But Kortana was my mother's friend. She might be more open with me about the subject."
Simon frowned, eyes narrowing slightly. "Why do I feel like I'm not getting the whole story here?"
Niamh sighed, reaching out to run a hand down her husband's forearm, her touch as much reassurance as it was distraction. "My love, do not worry so much," she said smoothly. "It'll just be a quick trip for some quick answers. We'll be back before dinner."
"Today?" Simon's head snapped up, his brow furrowing. "You're doing this today?"
"We are," Niamh confirmed, plucking a piece of cheese from the basket.
Simon's frown deepened. "Perhaps I should join you. Mom would be more than happy to watch the girls until we get back."
Before Niamh could answer, Amriel cut in. "No need, Simon." Her tone was firm, leaving little room for argument. "A visit to Kortana is perfectly safe. I trust her."
"It's not Kortana I'm worried about," Simon said distractedly, gently swiping a bug away from Ava's curious fingers before she could pop it into her mouth. His voice lowered slightly. "The city isn't safe after sunset."
"You walk home at night all the time," Niamh pointed out, arching a brow.
"Yes, I do, Niamh," Simon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "But I'm a big man with a big hammer. That's not exactly the same as two women without any formal training in arms."
Niamh scoffed, offended. "That's not true, and you know it. Amriel has her daggers, and I can shoot a moving rabbit through the eye at a hundred paces."
Simon snorted, lips quirking into a wry smile. "Yes, my love, I don't know what sounds more lethal; a short armed hand to hand combatant," He said, referring to Amriel's smaller stature, "Or an archer in a close-quarters brawl."
Both women shot him a withering look.
Something flickered in his dark eyes – hurt, perhaps, or worry. Then he sighed, shoulders dropping slightly. "At least promise you'll leave the city before sunset."
Niamh leaned over and pressed a kiss to his cheek. "We promise."
Simon sighed again, but a smile tugged at his lips despite himself. "Gods help me," he murmured.
Amriel watched them, the easy way they navigated disagreement, the underlying current of respect even in conflict. They had built something real together – something solid and lasting. Something she could never have, not with the path stretching out before her.
The prophecy's words echoed in her mind: When the last of the Starlight Witches falls, the door to Eternity shall open. Whatever lay ahead, she couldn't risk dragging those she loved into it.