Chapter 4

The Chapel in Olnfield, the Kingdom of Wuthia, 1126

Solomon Laenas (Jared Faerson)

The chapel’s library was a quiet, stone-cooled place, lit only by the glow of tall beeswax candles. Their light pooled on shelves of oak, spilling across ranks of leather-bound tomes, each stamped with the sigil of the Holy Church. Dust hung in the air like fine incense smoke, disturbed only when I brushed my fingers across the spines. I moved carefully, as though each book might be a trap.

Priest Emerick shuffled behind me, his soft steps echoing against the stone floor. “You said you seek histories, young man?” His voice carried the warmth of a hearth, though I could not tell if that warmth came from kindness or practiced duty.

“Yes,” I answered quickly, feigning casual interest. “Histories. I have always had ... an appetite for old civilizations. The older, the better.” My tongue felt heavy with the lie. Well, half of a lie. It was true I was set on ancient civilization, but on one civilization in particular—the civilization that the Holy Church had wiped out all those years ago.

The priest hummed thoughtfully, the sound of parchment rustling as he pulled out a tome bound in cracked leather. “Here we have a chronicle of the northern crusades ... here, the migrations of the riverfolk...” He set them down upon the reading table one by one, each thud sounding like a tolling bell. My eyes skimmed the titles, but none were what I sought.

The book I longed for would not be placed in the open. It would hide, perhaps forgotten, perhaps guarded by silence and fear. Yet I had to find it. Somewhere in these walls was the memory of the Lustillean race the Church had scoured from the world. My race. My blood.

“I should warn you,” Emerick said gently, adjusting the sleeves of his robe. His eyes, pale and sharp as frost, caught the lamplight. “Certain records are sealed. Dangerous writings, the bishops would call them. Whispers of heresy. You will not find such things here.”

I forced a thin smile, though my stomach knotted. “Of course. I only wish to study what is ... proper.”

But even as I spoke, my gaze lingered on a high shelf behind the priest, where the dust was heavier, untouched for years. A place where one might shove a book too troublesome to burn outright. My blood sang with a strange pull toward it.

And yet—if he noticed me searching too intently, if he guessed what I sought, would he carry word to the Church? My siblings and I would be ashes by dawn.

So, I lowered my head in polite gratitude and let the priest guide me further into the shadows of the chapel library. All the while, my eyes betrayed me, darting back to that shelf, to the place where the truth of who we are might still be waiting.

The priest’s lantern swayed as he moved deeper into the rows, casting thin bars of light that stretched and broke across the bindings. Dust motes stirred in the air, glinting like faint stars, then vanished when I stepped too close.

“Like I said before,” Priest Emerick’s voice started. “Not many young folks value the history that much. I’m still surprised to have someone like yourself here.”

“People can surprise you,” I said, knowing the full weight of my words.

Priest Emerick’s voice droned low, naming saints, councils, and wars, each volume he pointed to another brick in the wall the Church had built around the world. His words slid over me, but I listened only for what he did not say—for the spaces between his pauses, the gaps where something older might have been excised.

At last, he set down a codex bound in dark calfskin, its clasp long rusted shut. “This one,” he said with a faint smile, “contains accounts of the early kingdoms. Their myths are ... quaint. Not always in harmony with the Holy Seven’s truth, but harmless enough for curious eyes.”

My hand hovered over the cover. Harmless enough. The phrase caught me like a snare. Were these myths truly harmless, or had someone centuries ago decided they were too obscure to burn, too twisted to fit within the polished chronicles? My pulse beat in my throat as I brushed away a film of dust.

“Forgive me,” I murmured, careful to keep my voice steady. “I am fond of forgotten things. The stories no one remembers.”

His gaze lingered on me a moment too long, the lantern flame reflecting in his pale eyes. Then he gave a slow nod. “Forgotten things have their place,” he said softly. “But some things are forgotten for a reason.”

The silence after his words pressed against my ears, heavy as a stone door. I dared not look up to that high shelf again, not while his eyes lingered. Instead, I bowed my head and drew the book closer, feigning gratitude. My fingertips tingled against the cold metal clasp, as if something within the pages stirred faintly, waiting.

Priest Emerick turned, raising his lantern to lead me further down the nave of shelves. I followed, though my thoughts remained fixed on that untouched corner above us, where dust lay undisturbed.

The knowledge I sought was here. I could feel it—veiled, patient, hidden behind centuries of silence. And I would find it, though I must walk as quietly as a shadow beneath the Church’s gaze.