Page 107 of Embers of Ruin

Riven looks deeply tired of my shit.

Good.

Now he knows how I feel.

Brother Rivero glances toward the archive doors as if expecting Thorin himself to appear simply because we have wandered near a forbidden subject. He doesn’t. Yet.

“Fragments only,” Brother Rivero says, lowering his voice. “Most copies were damaged or deliberately altered. Some lines contradict others, and prophecy is notoriously unreliable because people tend to edit fate whenever it becomes politically inconvenient.”

“I like that sentence more than I should.”

“Thank you,” he says, smugly.

“Don’t get proud now. Continue, please.”

He turns several pages toward the back of the volume, where older parchment has been stitched into the binding. The writing there is faded, certain words missing entirely where time has eaten through the ink. Brother Rivero traces the lines without touching them.

“When darkness devours the land,” he reads softly, but I cut him off.

“I’ve heard this part, Brother Rivero.”

Brother Rivero continues, voice quieter now. “Yes, I know what scroll Brother Tolum gave you. I think he left out the part where he can translate the Old Language. His innocence hides secrets, Lady Tarethyn. The part he did not mention to you when he mistranslated, purposely, I might add, was:

Marked in silver.

Born beneath the dying sky.

Bearer of life where death has taken root.

I give a Cursebreaker to restore what was taken.

Riven looks toward the doors but I don’t. I can’t. The page blurs for half a second before I force it back into focus.

“That could mean anyone,” I say, but my voice sounds too thin. Too uncertain.

“It says marked in silver.”

“Perhaps there are many silver-haired women running around Solaris.”

“I do hate to inform you that there are not.”

“Perhaps scholars exaggerated.”

“They often do.”

“Perhaps this has nothing to do with me.”

Brother Rivero’s expression is painfully gentle and I immediately despise it.

“Perhaps,” he says softly.

Liar. Everyone in this palace is a terrible liar.

I lean closer to the page, searching for the next line. “What does it say after bearer of life?”

Brother Rivero doesn’t answer so I follow his gaze. The lower half of the page has been torn away. Not damaged. Torn. This was done deliberately so that someone—perhaps nosy and stubborn, like me—wouldn’t find it.

My stomach turns cold. “Who tore it?”