Page 221 of Vasmora

I bow to no king nor give charity to the poor.

Below it, a contraption that reminded me of a brass scroll had been embedded in the wood. “I can’t seem to get the right answer. The rot that devours the heart. The pause of an exhale. Neither king nor pauper immune to it. The obvious response is death. But when I’ve inputted the letters, it won’t unlock.”

Rykaia tilted her head, frowning as she studied it. She waved her hand in the air, shaking her head. “I always hated studying Primyrian.”

“Primyrian?” I glanced toward the scroll and back to her. It was a language Zevander had spoken once, the only one I’d encountered that I couldn’t understand. Back in the mortal lands, the Lyverian priestess had called it a secret language. One spoken by early Aethyrians when they didn’t want the gods to know their thoughts.

She pointed to one of the many oddly-shaped letters that seemed to have been mixed in with those I recognized. “That’s a Primyrian echtéj. I recognize letters, but I don’t speak it, so I’m afraid I can’t help you there. It was my mother’s native tongue. She tried to teach it to me when I was younger, but like all children, I was so resistant.” The smile on her face faded to a somber expression. “I wish I would’ve paid more attention now.”

I tapped my fingers against the table. “Is there a book that might help?”

She twisted around for the bookshelves behind us. “Oh, I’m sure Zevander keeps something here. He speaks it more fluently, of course. Ah, look at that. Front and center.” The chair knocked into my leg with the swiftness that she stood up and nabbed one of the books from the shelf. “Primyrian Lexicon. This should help.” She placed it on the table as gently as if it were a fragile vase. “Careful with that one. It looks like it’s been through hell and back.”

Faded, cracked leather held the remnants of gilding that’d long since chipped away. The spine groaned as I opened it on yellowing parchment, on which words had been hand written in small font.

“You don’t happen to know the word for death in Primyrian?” I asked.

“Afraid not. I saw Zevander in his office on the way here, though. I’m certain he can help.”

Nodding, I flipped through the pages, not recognizing any of the words. “I’ll seek him out for this one.” I wanted to speak with him about Morsana, anyway. I just hadn’t found the right way to broach the topic. Perhaps the puzzle might offer me a way to initiate it.

“Are you coming to training later?”

“Of course.” I flexed my hand and flipped it over for the new glyph carved into my palm. “I learned a new defensive glyph, but I’ve no idea how I managed to summon it.”

Rykaia chuckled. “Most of us spend decades practicing the same glyphs our parents force us to remember, day in and day out. And here, you stumble upon yours. It’s infuriating.”

I lowered my hand and snorted. It was infuriating, the way the glyphs seemed to spring on me–the whistle in my throat, the riding glove I couldn’t remove, a bone whip that seemed to have a mind of its own. “Will you be at training?”

“The only thing compelling me is getting to spar with Allura.”

A smile pulled at my lips. “You do like her, then.”

She shrugged. “She’s nice.”

“Nice?”

Exhaling a long sigh, her eyes dulled as she seemed to lose sight of her surroundings. “Okay, her eyes are mesmerizing. The dimple in her cheek? Adorable. The way she nibbles on her lip when she’s deep in thought is … distracting. And her lips taste like berries.” She frowned. “How is that even possible?”

“You kissed her?” I asked.

“Once.” She traced a finger over the book’s gilded edges. “She says it’ll never happen again, which is perfectly fine. Once was enough. But … I felt something. Something I’ve never felt before.”

“A bond?”

“I don’t know.” Exhaling a sharp breath, she crossed her arms over her chest. “Anyway, it won’t happen again.” She waved her hand, swatting away the conversation. “I’m going to find something to eat. I’m starving. I’ll see you in the training room later?”

“Yes. I’m just going to study this a bit more, then go find your brother.”

She nodded toward the book. “Good luck with that. Learning Primyrian is said to cause madness.”

“Really?”

“Oh, yes. Trust me, I know firsthand.”

I narrowed my eyes. “You made up the madness bit, didn’t you?”

Head tipped, she tapped her finger against her cheek. “Yes, but it doesn’t make it any less factual.”