Page 84 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

Sighing, Roremar strode to the desk and fell into the leather chair behind its broad surface. The material was cold, unfit to him. His sword—his father’s sword—was propped against the edge, always within reach.

“I’m almost done here,” he answered, assessing the papers piled before him.

Nico picked up a slip from the edge of the desk. “Mining on Zyon? Is this new?”

Roremar shook his head, organizing the files. “It’s been stalled for about five years, but they want to pick the project back up.”

“What are they searching for?” Nico asked, flipping to a new page.

“Damned if I know,” Roremar groaned. Leaning back against the chair, he propped his chin on his fist. A fire crackled away in the corner hearth, filling the silence as he tried to recall the details. “The original documents are about some new oil that it was believed could coat thread when spinning it to make it more durable. Now it seems to have evolved into flowers and roots found in their mountain ranges that they think can be mulched into dye and enhance whatever objects the threads comprise to benefit readings.”

Nico let out a low whistle. “That’s sort of impressive.”

Roremar grunted. “I guess it is.”

Truly, the projects Deacon Silventa worked on were fascinating, Roremar just didn’t have room to process them.

Their father wasn’t a man who lived quietly. He was industrious, always jumping onto new jobs and hobbies. Roremar always suspected it was partially out of necessity—to provide for their family and dream of a future where they didn’t struggle—but also because he was a restless, exploratory spirit. Someone who sought adventure and thrill.

Their oldest sister had inherited that trait from him. It was why Roremar had pushed her to stay in her position on the continent after their father died rather than snuffing out that vibrant spirit by locking her in this house.

But while Roremar was proud of his father’s work, he couldn’t deny the mess it left after he died.

The dozens of different projects he had a hand in meant, even now, there was constant paperwork. There always would be unless their family simply sold off all ownership. But how would that feel, to dismiss the work the man they lost spent so much time on and was so proud of?

It left Roremar with stacks of business, correspondence, and finances to review every week, but it also guaranteed at least small sums of money were being sent to them monthly from each project. It wasn’t enough, but it was a huge reason he’d been able to keep them afloat all these years, combined with the meager income his mother made.

The other part…

His uncle.

But fuck, if that didn’t slice off a piece of his pride. His stomach soured at the thought.

“Leo would have a field day with it,” Nico commented of their fourteen-year-old brother.

Roremar laughed. “The day he gets his hands on this stuff, we’ll never hear from him again.”

And one day, Leo would. Roremar would happily bring his siblings into the fold if they wanted, but not now. Not when Leo was still a kid. Their bookish, intuitive, clever younger brother deserved to read stories that nurtured his imagination and took his worries elsewhere, not reports that spun them.

No, this was Roremar’s responsibility.

He’d earned it.

Clearing his throat of that ever-present pain, he asked, “You’re packed?”

“Yes, and everything is arranged with mother to hold down the household for a few days. She was able to adjust her work schedule.”

“Good,” Roremar mused. They didn’t know how long they’d be on Alvan. He just had to hope his mother felt okay while they were gone. “It’s only a few hours journey by boat, so if we’re able to find information quickly, we could even be back day after tomorrow.”

“We could,” Nico said, hands tucked into his pockets. “It will be fine, Rore. The most important thing right now is solving this case.”

“You’re right,” Roremar muttered. “I’m heading to Fated Ink soon. Are you coming?”

Hesitation flashed through his brother’s ever-honest blue eyes. “Sure. Will Myrella be there?”

Roremar couldn’t help his laugh. “No, she’s meeting us at the docks tomorrow morning. Said she’d rather sleep in her own bed.” Nico nodded nonchalantly, and Roremar pursed his lips at his reluctance. “You want to talk about it?”

“No,” Nico said instantly.