Page 125 of The Edge of Darkness

“Yes. I remember you saying your power felt like chaos. It rang a bell when I was reading it, but I⁠—”

“Which book? This one?” I reached for the small, thin hardcover that was drowning beneath the others.

“That would be the one.”

There was no title on it, only a dirty, linen cover that was probably once ivory but was now a mottled shade of brown, as though it had been handled by hundreds of grubby hands. I opened it to the first page. Still no title, or even an author’s name.

“Where did you find this?” I asked.

“Tucked away in another book, actually. It was in a dusty corner, by the section about Old Magic.”

Nivelle and I exchanged a glance, and she leaned in closer, trying to get a better look at what the pages held.

“This looks more like someone’s personal notebook than a published work. It’s not even edited properly.” I pointed at a line that was scratched through, halfway down the first page.

Maeson scooted forward in her chair. “That’s why I didn’t take it that seriously. I thought that surely someone’s handwritten notes wouldn’t be of that much importance.”

I scanned the page, my attention snagging on the border that was sketched at the bottom.

There were . . . runes, like those I’d seen in Vahrenhall.

The Highland Court was well known for implementing runes as a form of decor on absolutely everything—from buildings, to weapons, to clothing. To this day, they still tied runes into protective spells and wards, something the Ancient Fae learned from the witches who dwelled there for a time. There was a meaning and a purpose to each one.

Dragging my finger over the symbols, I began to think this wasn’t just a coincidence. The witches were the ones who bound the Aether in the first place. They tied the hands of an entity that was never meant to be restrained, and when they brought that curse to this world, innocents suffered for it.

This could very well have been the book the wraith was referencing.

I glanced up at Nivelle. “Are you familiar with the meanings of these runes?” She looked at me like I was stupid, so I held up my hands. “I just had to ask.”

She leaned closer. “These are all symbols for protection over different things: the mind, the body, the spirit. This one here”—she pointed—“means good fortune in war.”

Interesting.

I turned the page, and sure enough, the words “chaos” and “order” jumped right out at me.

The passage spoke of chaos as if it were a god—something to be feared, and revered. Something this world did not know the likes of. It seemed clear that whoever wrote this was familiar with chaos . . . as if this was a personal account of it . . .

I kept reading, hoping I would find a reference to the Aether, but there was nothing about chaos being chained to a physical being. In fact, there was nothing more than a reiteration of the things we’d already figured out.

I flipped the page and continued scanning the contents, only to find . . . spells. They filled every page—spells for protection, for growing food and blessing harvests, for medicinal purposes and healing, even spells for finding lost objects. Page after page, spells and rhymes and riddles were scrawled out, one by one.

“Maeson, how far did you get into this book?”

“Only a couple of pages. Why?”

“Because it seems this is some sort of spellbook.” I lifted a brow at Nivelle.

She frowned. “Don’t look at me like that. Our spells are here”—she pointed to her head—“not in some old book. Like I said, if there was a book, I would know. But as it is, witches don’t keep written records. Our spells are ancient knowledge, passed down from memory.”

“But what if a witch decided to record them? What if this is that book the wraith told us about?” I continued, fanning through the handwritten notes.

Maeson fumbled forward to see. “Strange. I’ve never heard of incantations like these—Oh! Except this one!” She stamped her finger onto the page. “This one’s in the Seidr!” Her brow furrowed. “That’s quite odd. I thought this one was Old Magic, but it looks like it has runes tied to it as well.”

“You found this in the section about Old Magic, right?”

“Yes, but I almost didn’t find it. It was smushed inside of another book at the back of the shelf. Forgotten, perhaps.”

“Or hidden.” Something like this would have been precious to its owner, just like Evander’s journal was. It wouldn’t just end up in a library for all to see. And if it did . . . there was a reason for it.