In time, Vhalla peeled back the layers to Prince Aldrik, even though he still avoided anything remotely personal. In fact, she knew more about him from what she read in books than what he told her. But what she did learn in person was not written anywhere. Vhalla learned he favored a strong Western-style tea that was almost as dark as ink. She learned that when his lips parted it meant he was surprised, and when his eyebrows raised it meant he was impressed. She gathered very quickly that he did not like speaking of his family under any circumstances.

It took Vhalla a week to realize that, for the first time, she did not actually want to be in the library.

As the master led her back through the shelves toward the heavily fortified door of the archives, Vhalla caught herself staring longingly at a tapestry upon the same wall—a tapestry she now knew led toward a world of wonder and magic that was hers alone.

The hinges complained loudly as they granted the master and her access. Vhalla followed Mohned into the dim world that was the Imperial Archives. She barely suppressed a cough induced by dust.

The Imperial Archives almost created a library unto themselves. When a book was an old original, rare, or the last copy of its kind, it was moved into the archives for safekeeping. There were five levels to the archives, filled with books and an iron spiral staircase through the middle. Some of the oldest manuscripts and the earliest records for humanity were kept there. Vhalla felt a sense of awe whenever she entered.

Heavy curtains covered every window when no one was present, preventing the light from fading or damaging the manuscripts. Mohned pulled a few of the curtains back, quickly expelling the darkness. Dust caught the beams of light, dancing through the air like tiny fairies.

“There are some Eastern works that are close to falling apart.” He led her around the staircase to the second floor down, opening a few more of the curtains as he went.

“Eastern?” she asked.

“Yes, we don’t have many older works from the East actually.” The master started.

“Because of The Burning Times?” Vhalla asked offhandedly.

Mohned stopped and stared at her, adjusting his spectacles. “That is quite right, Vhalla,” he replied softly. “Haven’t I told you to stop reading books when you should be working? You should be careful where you place your nose, Vhalla,” he added cryptically.

“Master...?” Vhalla asked, confused.

“Ah, here it is.” Mohned carefully pulled a large tome off the shelf with two hands.

Vhalla instantly saw where the leather binding was flaking off and helped him gently ease it down onto the table.

“If you finish this one, the other three in this series will also need attention.” He motioned to the shelf. “Is there anything else you need?”

“No, I remember how to change bindings,” Vhalla said with a shake of her head.

Mohned nodded, and she gave him a small bow as he shuffled back without further word.

Vhalla settled in one of the chairs, carefully starting her work. She wasn’t sure how much time had passed before she heard a set of footsteps lightly treading down the iron stairs. They were too heavy for the ancient master, and it was well before closing.

She ignored the heated flush brought on by the frantic beat of her heart. The prince had said he was likely to be busy today. Vhalla knew he couldn’t steal her away every day, but she was shamefully hopeful.

Vhalla glanced up and saw a man’s boots appear. They were brown, worn, and nothing of quality. Her shoulders slumped.

“Hello!” Sareem whispered.

“Sareem,” she replied, hoping she disguised the disappointment in her voice. “What’re you doing here?”

“I finished a little early and thought I’d come check in on you.” He smiled.

“The master won’t be pleased if he finds you slacking off,” Vhalla argued.

“The master is behind the desk with Roan, transcribing like always.” Sareem shrugged.

Vhalla looked down at her book, tying off one of her stitches. “You should be working,” she muttered softly.

“Come now, Vhalla,” he pulled up a chair and rested his chin in his palms. “It’s not like you’ve never skipped work.” She felt her cheeks flush lightly. “I won’t tell if you don’t.” He winked.

Vhalla rolled her eyes and busied her hands with her work. The apprentice part of her brain reminded her that she had more reason to be with Sareem than Aldrik. She studied him from the corners of her eyes as he settled in a chair across from her. Roan had mentioned him being handsome due to his Western skin combined with Southern hair and eyes. Vhalla actually thought the reverse to be more attractive.

“So,” he began. “I feel like I haven’t had a chance to speak to you all week. You’ve been busy. When I’ve tried to find you, it’s like you disappear.”

Her shoulders made a fractional shrug. There was nothing she could say since Sareem already knew she was a bad liar.

“Anyways, I tried to ask before, but we got interrupted. I suppose, I’ve been trying to get up the nerve again.” He laughed stiffly, running a hand through his hair. Vhalla felt her breathing shallow. “We’ll have time during the festival, time off. Well, I was hoping that—well, we could do something then. Just the two of us?”

Roan had been right. Vhalla cursed the girl, her mother, and the Mother in the heavens above. She opened her mouth, about to outright refuse his advances.

Then again, what prospects did she have? She was eighteen now and had hardly ever been courted. Roan was right again. Sareem came from a good family. Hadn’t everyone always told her that marriage came first and love after? Vhalla shifted in her seat, torn over appropriate and desired responses.

His cerulean eyes looked at her hopefully, and Vhalla reassured herself over again. This was Sareem; she had always enjoyed his company. Nothing would change. Vhalla was about to accept his offer when she hesitated.

“I want to show you something,” she blurted out. His eyebrows raised in surprise as she stood. Vhalla knew she was dodging the question, but she remembered sitting with him on her window seat a lifetime ago asking about sorcerers. She had to know.

Looking for something, anything, Vhalla finally settled on a small thimble of thread she had been using.

“I need you to promise you won’t tell anyone,” she breathed. “Vhalla, I—”

“No one, Sareem. Not the master, none of the other apprentices, not Roan, no one.” Vhalla held her breath.

“Fine, Vhalla, I promise.” He smiled lightly, and she felt a twinge of frustration at how relaxed he was.

“I didn’t have Autumn Fever,” she started.

“I know that,” he pointed out.

“I know you know,” Vhalla sighed, already questioning herself. But she was in too deep. “I was in the Tower.”

“The Tower?” He eased both palms onto the table. Her resolve wavered. “As in, the Tower? The Tower of the Sorcerers?” She dared a nod. Confusion swept across his features. “Why? Did they take you? Did they do something to you?” He was on his feet. “I swear if they touched you—”

“Sit down,” she ordered, and he obeyed. “No, they didn’t hurt me, they were...helping me.” Vhalla made it a point to leave out the minister’s abduction, the prince, and the fall. That would hardly help her case, and she wasn’t about to explain what she had barely come to terms with herself.

“Helping you? Why?” Sareem furrowed his brow.

Closing her eyes she instantly felt her magical senses stretch out, building the room in a sight that was beyond sight. She could feel Sareem there, but he was a gray area. Vhalla couldn’t help but remember the blazing, brilliant, clarity that always surrounded Aldrik, and she suddenly held a whole new appreciation for him as a sorcerer. Vhalla raised her palm, the thimble sitting in the middle of it.