Tristan sipped his water as he watched Cailu and Ravyn finish off one dark bottle, then a second, then called for another. Cailu’s cheeks were flushed, and, despite his claim of needing a good night’s rest, the dark circles beneath his eyes suggested he’d barely slept. Something was wrong.

Naeemah hadn’t joined them for breakfast, and Kirti had come and gone without a word. Matt left to see Ceres while Keke, Cannoli, and Zahra were elsewhere. Tristan reasoned that he’d give Destiny time with Lara before he went to check on them, which left him in the dining hall with the increasingly intoxicated Ravyn and Cailu.

“What’s the celebration?” Tristan asked, casually gesturing to the newly appeared bottle.

Ravyn shrugged. “I see wine and I drink it. Elf?”

Cailu chuckled, swirling his golden goblet. “The false king is dead, and the queen is restored. I have achieved my goal for unity among men in Nyarlea.” His eyes lingered on the wine, and his voice softened. “There is much to celebrate.”

“You don’t sound very happy about it,” Tristan replied. He kept his tone even, hoping not to spark Cailu’s ire.

“Mm,” Cailu hummed, then looked up at Ravyn. “Now that I think about it. You hid away with the man who came before me, did you not? On San Island?”

The room seemed to drop ten degrees as Ravyn’s furious violet gaze raised to Cailu’s face. Tristan’s shoulders tensed.

“The hell are you getting at?” Ravyn growled.

Cailu shook his head. “I do not ask to ignite your rage or persecute your actions. You paid for it with a surfeit of rehabilitation before joining my Party, as I recall.”

Rehabilitation? Ravyn? Tristan recalled a passage in one of the difficult Nyarlean Law tomes outlining the need and utilization of rehabilitation for men and catgirls who fell in romantic love. It was meant to “cure” them of the emotion.

It was a sensitive enough topic for two people on good terms. From what he’d gathered in Ravyn and Cailu’s interactions, they’d parted on a sour note, to say the least.

Ravyn’s eyes flashed to Tristan before she stole another deep drink of wine. “Then what the fuck is your point, Cailu?”

Setting the goblet on the table, Cailu rested one hand beside it, adjusting uncomfortably against his sling. “You clearly cared for him to an unlawful degree, yet it appears that you harbor similar feelings for Matt.”

“Oh?” That single word from Ravyn’s lips carried a heavier challenge inside it than Cailu’s demands of a duel with Magni.

Tristan felt compressed between them; caught in the crossfire. “Cailu, hang on—”

“How can you stand it? Betraying the memory of the one you cherished most?” Cailu pressed on.

A sharp, strident slap rang against the walls before Tristan could register that Ravyn was on her feet. A pink haze blossomed on Cailu’s face where she’d struck him, and her ears lay flat against her head. Ball Gag flapped erratically around her shoulders, shrieking with surprise.

“Mayhap, I could phrase my questions more adequately—” Cailu began.

“How fucking dare you,” Ravyn snarled, punctuating every word. She snatched the bottle and her goblet from the table. “Don’t you ever talk about Finn again.”

“Ravyn, sincerely, I did not mean—”

“Always a cunt,” Ravyn spat. She spun on her heel, taking the wine with her and vanishing from the dining hall.

“Cailu the cunt! Squawk!” Ball’s cry rippled behind her.

Cailu sighed, kneading the place she’d hit him with his fingertips. He leaned back in his chair and glanced at Tristan with a weak smile. “Well, that was a disaster.”

Tristan blinked, overwhelmed with questions. Where do I even start? “So, I’ll pretend like you weren’t trying to brutally insult Ravyn for a moment. What just happened?”

“It is a cruel irony.” Cailu’s eyes searched the vacant chair where Ravyn had sat only moments before. “Ravyn is likely the one person here who…” His words trailed, dying in the enormous room. He shook his head and drained his goblet. “No matter. It is a fool’s errand to expect anything of her.”

“Cailu, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing. All is well.” Cailu pushed his glass away and looked thoughtfully at Tristan. “You are an avid bibliophile, are you not?”

“Er, yes.” Tristan was more than a little taken aback by the unexpected inquiry. “Why do you ask?”

“What book in this world would hold enough importance to be recommended with a man’s dying breath?”

“Is… this a hypothetical question?” Tristan asked, puzzled.

“No.”

Tristan’s brow furrowed. “What exactly was said?”

“Just before he died, Magni said ‘book.’” Cailu rested his temple against his good fist. “At first, I pushed it aside as the final prayer from a tyrant. However, to ignore any information that could potentially help us in this world is blatant ignorance.”

“Hm.” There were thousands of books in Nyarlea—some more difficult to find than others. To Tristan, all knowledge was important and necessary, especially in a world different from his own. But to recommend a title in his final moments?

As he mentally thumbed through the countless books in his time at Venicia, an idea struck. If he wanted to convey information to a stranger, he would have left it in his sketchbook.

“What if it’s a journal?” Tristan asked.

Cailu raised an eyebrow. “More of his self-serving ideals for Ichi Island?”

“It could be. Or his record books or a sketchbook like I have.”

“It seems that for us to all ponder over this would be a waste of time.” Cailu crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair. “While I help Matt train when he returns, I task you with researching the nature of his final request.”

Tristan flinched. This could take a while. Unless… “Maybe we could ask Eshe? Magni’s previous assistant?”

Cailu shook his head. “I would err on the side of caution and draw your own conclusions first. Let us make Magni’s confidants a final resort.”

Tristan held back a sigh. “All right.” He finished his water and pushed away from the table. “I’ll look around.”

“Oh, and Tristan?”

“Hm?”

“How old are you?”

Tristan shifted uncomfortably. “Eighteen.”

Cailu nodded. “Two summers younger than Heiki would be now,” he said, his features wistful. “But I digress. I shall meet with you later.”

“Oh… kay,” Tristan replied, watching as Cailu exited the dining room, leaving him alone.

There was something very wrong with Cailu.

The citadel had more wings, stairs, and hidden rooms than Tristan could fathom just by looking outside. Most of them were empty beyond a few pieces of furniture or imported decorations. He passed a handful of catgirls in his wanderings, but it seemed like most of the women and kittens they’d seen on their first day in the castle had dispersed to their homes in the First Shell.

He did spy Naeemah through the open slot of one grand room, sitting at a wide polished desk and looking over what he only assumed were Magni’s books of record. It wouldn’t make sense for both of them to pore over the same information. He kept silent and continued on.

At the top of a second-story banister was a grouping of three rooms out of the way with closed doors. He approached the first, knocked, waited, then peaked inside. There were stacked crates and furniture covered in white blankets. Spiderwebs glittered in the sunlight peaking through a high window, and a thick coating of dust flooded the floor.

Doesn’t look like this has been used for a long time. If I’m right about the journal, it won’t be here. He made a mental note to check it out if nothing else turned up and moved on.

Knock, knock, knock.

Tristan waited.

This is silly. No one’s up here.

Just as he pushed on the door, it opened from underneath him. He stumbled forward but quickly caught his balance. A catgirl with deep almond skin and dark hair tied back in a circle of braids at the base of her neck blinked in surprise. Her eyes were a pale yellow—like stars.

“Can I help you?” Her voice was smooth and even.

“Sorry to bother you. Just looking for a—” No, Cailu said a last resort. “A book collection, I guess. Maybe a library?”

Her perfect eyebrows raised, and she stepped back, opening the door wide. “It’s tucked away, but you’ve come to the right place.” Her blue skirts swayed around her ankles, bedecked in golden beads that matched the fastenings of her long-sleeved top. She paused and held a hand up. “You’re not here to… damage them, are you?”

“No! I wouldn’t dream of it.” Tristan shook his head vehemently. “It would feel like killing friends.”

“Then you may pass.” A smile played at the corners of her mouth. “I’m Svarga.”

“Tristan,” he replied, stepping through the threshold. As he peered around the room, he withheld a gasp. Shelves upon shelves of books were stacked neatly together from one end of the room to the other, each with just enough room for a single person to move between. The scents of aged paper and ink wafted through the room like a siren’s call, begging to show Tristan their secrets. He thought his collection on Shi Island was expansive—this room was at least three times that size. “This is amazing. Someone wanted to get rid of it?”

Svarga nodded. “The late king did not care for Nyarlean literature. This was the last safe haven for these stories.” She frowned. “One particularly cold and unprosperous winter, I lost a handful to kindling.”

Tristan’s stomach turned. Just when I think he can’t get any worse. But, if Magni considered the books in Svarga’s wing of the castle disposable, what Tristan sought was likely elsewhere. Your book is in another castle.

“What do you do here, Svarga?” Tristan asked, wandering to the nearest shelf. It wouldn’t hurt to look all the same.

“I was the scribe for many years. King Magni could read and write, of course, but there’s power to be had in dictating to someone beneath your station.” Svarga whisked away to a desk, her footsteps barely disturbing her posture. Like she was floating.

“Were you unhappy with his reign?”

Svarga fingered an impressive sapphire pendant at her throat. “He was generous and kind with those of us in the First Shell. My daughter and I have wanted for nothing.” She sighed. “Even so, I hope the Second and Third Shells receive the same kindness beneath Naeemah’s rule.”

Tristan nodded. “I believe they will.”

Svarga shuffled through a stack of papers, catching his attention. Curiosity got the better of him, and he wandered to her side, glancing over the tower of books framing her workspace. Delicate cursive decorated the loose parchment in long paragraphs and strings of dialogue.

I’ve seen her handwriting somewhere…

“Are you writing a book, Svarga?” Tristan asked, lifting one of the tomes that flanked her current work.

“I’ve written a few,” Svarga said hurriedly, reaching for the book in his hands. “But, Tristan, wait—”

Before she could take it back, Tristan caught the name Josselyn penned in the same elegant writing as the paper on the desk. He favored her with a wry smile as she clamped the cover shut and held it to her chest. A pink tinge hued her cheeks, and she avoided his stare.

“Josselyn’s your pseudonym,” Tristan said.

“Y… Yes.”

“You’re the erotica writer.” He chuckled. “I’ve read your work and know a few other people who have, too.”

Svarga carefully set the book back on the tower. “I know it’s fantasy drivel. I couldn’t let it leave this citadel beneath my own name.” Her blush deepened. “I am certain there are many… inaccuracies. Writers work with what they know.” Her eyes stayed fixed on the papers before her. “That statement says enough, I believe.”

Tristan traced the spines of the leatherbound tomes with his fingertips. Magni was gone, but his scribe was a good place to begin asking around for the elusive ‘journal.’ Easing Svarga’s tension couldn’t hurt.

“I could help.” He flashed Svarga a disarming smile as her gaze locked his. “What would you like to know?”