Page 109

His gaze moves up, and he’s startled to see me, but he doesn’t know this isn’t part of the dream. I crouch beside him and take his chin in a gentle hold before pressing a long kiss against his lips. I taste him—not quite him, but the memory of him—and hum gently.

He pulls back and tilts his head to the side. ‘That kiss felt like it meant something.’

‘It does, my Luca.’ I hold his gaze for a long moment. ‘It means that you are everything to me.’

I feel another small pulse—a melancholy ache because he thinks this is a dream. That even with all the attention I have been paying him, I can’t possibly feel the way he does. I wish for nothing more than to tear this all down. To wake him and pin him to the sheets and show him that every word spoken here between us is the truth.

But I can’t.

I gently pull away until I’m staring down at his prone body, and I resist the urge to touch him as I back away, turn, and then make my way to the portal. Before I do, I place that suppressant herb on my tongue and swallow it down, knowing that it will buy me more time.

Work will be long, but it might be productive.

And the sooner I can find concrete evidence that the council and the royals have been manipulating us for far longer than we’ve been led to believe, the sooner all of this can end.

Reaching for the steaming mug of vyloc tea, I let the brew soothe the back of my throat. The air in the archives is achingly dry. It makes my skin feel like it’s cracking and peeling off of my body, but it’s necessary to preserve our records.

Ancient records were carved into stone. They are kept beneath the surface of Erethar, in long, carved caves, shelved carefully where only the most elite can reach them.

A thousand third-moon cycles after carving our records in stone, the ancient Vyastil began to work with aylani paper. This paper usually keeps, even in the most drastic conditions, but they were rolled so tightly that the insides began to rot.

The humans had a similar problem with their ancient people, only it was worse because Earth is so full of accessible water that it is devastating to ancient records.

Several hundred third-moon cycles ago, the royal family in power had put together an archive team to transfer the scrolls into digital format, but they were overthrown. Their views were not—as the movement called them—Vyastilian enough. They were too open, too lenient on affection and emotion.

They did not last more than three generations before they were unseated. I have often tried to find the two youngest. They were hatchlings when their parents were taken away in chains, but there were no records of what became of them. They simply vanished.

I was a hatchling myself just a decade after they were gone, and the memory of them was still fresh in many Vyastilian minds. I would overhear whispers that they were right, couched in fear that speaking those whispers too loudly would be a life sentence in the mines.

And eventually those whispers died out, and people lost hope.

And when they lost hope, after a while, they forgot it was possible to hope at all.

With a heavy sigh, I roll up the current scroll, feeling somewhat defeated; there was no mention of the Tarek at all. I know this is potentially futile, but this is either a task to drive me insane, something I would not put past Jyrion, or it is a task attempting to destroy what little evidence we have left that things used to be different.

And that when they were different, we were still a thriving people. If that ends up being the truth of my situation, I will have to act quickly and preserve what I find before Jyrion learns about it.

And if I turn up nothing, then I might have to ask Sabik if he’s willing to take the risk and share what his people have saved from our shared history.

That may be asking too much from my friend, though.

Standing up, I stretch my arms high above my head. I can feel a slight twinge on my scars. They’re only ever noticeable in moments like this when my skin feels too tight for my body. I get a single, flashing memory of being on my knees, of the whips raining down on me, of the look on the guard’s face as he was allowed to draw blood from an elite without losing his head.

It steals my breath for a second, and it’s then I realize my mind is vulnerable because I feel a quick little tug in my temple, and then Luca’s presence is there.

You are hurt.

Gripping the edge of my desk, I tip my head down and breathe. His presence is a balm to my frayed nerves, and I want nothing more than to crawl out of this little hole and into his arms.

But I cannot.

I am fine, my Luca. I am sorry for this morning⁠—

Before I can send the full thought, he’s gone. Irritated with me for leaving. When I push further, there’s a wall up, and as much as I want to crash against it until he lets me in, I don’t. He deserves his space after everything I have put him through.

Straightening, I walk to the small door and wrench it open, but the second I turn into the hallway, I nearly collide with a large Vyastil hovering just a few steps from my door. It only takes me a moment to recognize him, of course.

I have known him since he was a hatchling. A small, squirming, upset thing placed into my arms as I was ordered to turn him into a Vyastil worthy of something. And I have been forced to hide my pride in Dhoryn for far too long now.