Elias's fingers trembled as he pried open the library window. The latch gave way with a quiet snick—just as he'd practiced a dozen times with his own bedroom window.
Moonlight spilled across the marble floors inside, illuminating towering shelves of leather-bound tomes. The air smelled of ink and something sharper, like the metallic tang of the palace guards' armor.
Don't think about the guards.
He slipped inside, his worn boots silent against the stone. Somewhere in this labyrinth of knowledge were the answers Master Harkin had refused to teach—the secrets House Solas kept locked away from common hands.
A sound made him freeze.
Footsteps.
Elias ducked behind a shelf just as two guards rounded the corner, their lanterns casting long shadows.
"—another shipment from Veymar intercepted at the border," one muttered. "The king won't tolerate—"
Their voices faded down the corridor. Elias exhaled slowly. Veymar. The frozen continent where they practiced Frost Logic—the discipline that let warriors walk through blizzards bare-chested. Exactly what he needed.
He moved deeper into the library, past shelves marked Agriculture and Genealogy, until he found a wrought-iron door labeled in peeling gold letters:
RESTRICTED
The lock was heavy, but Elias had stolen his father's scribe tools for a reason. He inserted a thin metal pick, twisting until—
Click.
The door creaked open.
Inside, the room was smaller than he'd imagined, with only a single desk and a glass case holding five books. His breath caught.
One for each continent.
The Veymar manual was bound in pale leather, its title embossed in silver:
FROST LOGIC: THE ART OF ENDURANCE
Elias reached for it—
"Did you really think it would be that easy?"
A boy stood in the doorway, backlit by torchlight. Not a guard.
Prince Caelum Solas.
Elias's throat went dry. The prince was taller than he'd looked during the Choosing Ceremony, his golden hair tied back with a black ribbon. The hilt of his sword gleamed.
"I suppose I should thank you," Caelum said, stepping closer. "Father's been looking for an excuse to purge the archives. A commoner burning them down? Perfect."
Elias's back hit the glass case. Think.
His hand closed around the oil lamp on the desk.
"Don't—" Caelum started.
Elias threw it.
Flames erupted across the ancient texts, hungrily licking at the shelves. Caelum shouted for guards as smoke filled the room.
Run.
Elias clutched the Veymar manual to his chest and bolted—straight into a figure in white.
Theron.
His brother's sword was drawn, his face unreadable in the flickering light. For a heartbeat, they stared at each other.
Then Theron grabbed Elias's arm and shoved him toward a side passage.
"Go," he hissed, pressing their childhood knife into Elias's palm. "And never say I helped you."
Behind them, Caelum's voice rose above the chaos: "Find him!"
Elias ran, the stolen manual burning against his skin like a second heart.