Page 95 of Scars Beneath a Serpent’s Scales

“I told you,” came Desmond’s bragging whisper behind him. He added louder to the woman behind the desk, “I told him.”

Myrella promptly shushed him, but Desmond was already on his way out the door, hollering for the rest of them to follow.

“All right, Alvi,” Roremar teased when they hit the street, curiosity ignited. His blood thrummed at the prospect of a challenge. “If you know so well, where should we seek out information while we wait for the War Master?” He’d be damned if he was stagnant in the meantime.

“She said written records weren’t our only means,” Desmond said, trying to lead him there. Roremar hated when he did this, but he knew Des loved offering him a puzzle he would be desperate to solve.

“If not history, then…” What was precious to Starsearchers beyond that? He answered at the exact same time as Emmeline, “Magic.”

Desmond’s smile was antagonistic. “Or a bit of both.”

Chapter Thirty

Roremar

“Are you thinking the same thing I am?” Emmeline whispered to him as they trudged up the hills of Alvan, the dense greenery coated in pale-pink flowers. The city unspooled around this grove down toward the water, but here, in every direction they turned, the earth looked like it had been painted in a rainstorm of unnatural, rosy petals.

“Which is?” Roremar murmured, eyes tearing apart the trees for one hint of a normal bloom. Even the typically white buds on the cypher trees were tinted pink.

Emmeline placed a hand on his arm, snagging his attention. Roremar stopped walking, the others’ voices drifting as they strolled ahead. Emmeline whispered, “That we shouldn’t be looking for answers from somewhere that resembles a cult?”

“The Storytellers aren’t a cult,” he answered confidently. “They just have a different type of magic than most warriors.”

Born into warrior families and bloodlines, Storytellers had a Goddess-given magic that whispered history and legend for them to relay to the rest of the Gallantian Warriors. It was rare, though more prevalent in Starsearchers than other clans given that the magic had been birthed long ago by the Goddess of Fate and Celestial Movements who also contributed to Valyrie’s and the Fates’ powers.

“Yes, I know that.” Emmeline bit her lip. “But with this particular case—and this unique branch of Storytellers—doesn’t it feel a bit…risky?”

One corner of Roremar’s mouth quirked up, and he waved a hand across his body. “Reckless, remember?”

“I’m serious, Roremar,” Emmeline said, her hand fisting in the thin cotton sleeve of his tunic.

His eyes flashed to her white-knuckled grip, then to her own, the hazels deep with worry. Every line of her body wound tight with it.

You will be her ruin.

“You’re really concerned about this?” he asked.

“Are you not?”

This woman who chased predators in the night—who held a dagger to his throat and met him step for step at every challenge—was afraid. Though he wasn’t sure exactly why she feared the Storytellers so much, it ripped at something within him to hear that vulnerability in her voice.

Gently, he unwound her fingers from his tunic and held them between his own, squeezing a bit of life into them. His own heart pounded as she squeezed back.

“I’m not scared, Emmeline,” he asserted. “I’m worried about what’s happening back on Lyra, but I’m not afraid of going to speak to the Storytellers now.” No matter how much he didn’t trust the Fates, that much was true. They might hold answers to everything twisting him up. He was more desperate for that than he was afraid.

“But these aren’t just any Storytellers,” she whispered. “They are the Narratres Fatorum.” Her words in the ancient, dead language rolled along his bones. “Storytellers of the Fates.”

Was that what worried her? That this group was associated with the stars?

Desmond had explained the unique branch of power hidden on Alvan, welded into the earth by Arenothos himself if legend was to be believed. It was a sector of the Storytellers that thrived on the scholarship and artistry winding throughout the isle.

The Narratres Fatorum were not just Storytellers. They told historical tales about the Fates themselves. No Starsearcher was able to read the Fates or any higher power.

“And if we think the murders are somehow tied to the Fates, then this is exactly where we need to be,” Roremar told her.

He couldn’t quite place her fear. She was confident in so many ways—so damn assured of herself that it drove him crazy—yet this had rattled her. Was it because of the break in at the Academy? Was it Liana?

Emmeline worried her bottom lip again, and Roremar watched, his skin tightening as he waited. Finally, putting him out of his misery, she sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”