Page 129 of Whisper of Nightmares

But in order to do that, she’ll first need to crack the seal to his study.

Euphemia throws on a new surcoat, this one maroon like the sky in Helheim, and haphazardly ties her thick hair back so it won’t be in her face while she works.

Then she heads to Dagfinn’s study.

Walking the halls, the manor feels different this morning.

Quieter, perhaps.

Euphemia pauses outside the study, a creeping sensation prickling along the back of her neck. Like she is being watched.

She gives one quick glance to the sconce on the wall.

The flame flickers as any normal flame would.

She turns her attention back on the mechanism, determined not to be deterred.

Observing the progress Cybele made the previous night, Euphemia begins the slow and steady work of turning the rings, watching how each rotation affects the others. She moves one ring. Then the next. Observing. Anticipating.

Until the last piece of metal finally clicks into place.

An image unfolds across the rings.

A cliffside town.

A fleet of ships approaching through the peaceful sea.

A man standing at the helm, proud and triumphant.

Euphemia cannot make out his features, but there is no doubt in her mind that this image is meant to commemorate the moment when the Varinssons overtook Thorfell Crag. Nausea twists the pit of her stomach. She doubts it was as peaceful or glorious as the image makes it seem. Though she has never witnessed conquest herself, rumors of the bloodshed and horror it causes have reached the Saint’s Hearth before.

It is a problem she does not have the answer for right now.

Euphemia unknots her insides and pushes through the door.

Inside, it is exactly as she remembers it, exactly as the dream showed her.

The chamber is cluttered and dark, every corner of the room serving a specific purpose. There are shelves for storing various herbs, salts, rocks, and fluids she cannot decipher. A bookshelf on one side of the room holds dozens of books, and though Euphemia cannot read the letters on the covers, she would guess it’s Dagfinn’s personal collection on illnesses and medicine.

Spying the table across the center of the room, Euphemia enters, closing the door gently behind her.

She breathes in the musty air, something earthy like sage attempting to mask it.

She ducks under suspended herbs that rustle like whispers and she approaches the desk. Now that she’s closer, she sees the singe marks and stains. The stacks of books with loose parchment strewn about. The distillation coils and copper pots.

And among all the clutter, she somehow finds it immediately.

The leatherbound journal he told her about.

Euphemia picks it up with veneration.

Inside might be the answers Kelda has been searching for months now. For a troubling moment, Euphemia considers retrieving her. She might like to be here for this. Might be desperate enough to help her.

But Kelda has already spent months watching her son sleep, clinging to scraps of hope.

What if this attempt proves fruitless?

Euphemia doesn’t want to bring her hopes up just to smash them down again.