Page 73 of Of Shadow and Moon

Her face sags a little, hurt dancing across her features before solidifying into defiance. “She doesn't need my charity, Nazriel. She’s stronger than either of us can imagine. But she does deserve a friend, and gods help me, I'm going to be one for her, even if you won't.”

Her words render me momentarily speechless, the fire in her voice more than I'm prepared to face. I don't know what to say, how to bridge the widening chasm between us. I feel like I'm losing her, losing us, and I don't know how to stop it.

“I don't trust her,” I admit finally, my voice low and raw.

“And maybe that's your problem,” Nasarea replies, her voice soft now, though the fire within her eyes hasn't dulled. “You don't trust her because you're scared of what she makes you feel.”

The words hang between us, undeniable. I look away, hands clenching and flexing at my sides. The truth is, she's right. Selestina terrifies me, not because of what she's hiding, but because of what she's doing to me. I love the way she challenges me. How she makes me feel. Running into her, arguing with her, is always the highlight of my day. What I look forward to.

Nasarea steps back, her face unreadable now. “You don't have to trust her,” she says quietly. “But maybe you should start asking yourself why she gets under your skin so much.”

And with that, she turns and walks away, leaving me alone in the courtyard, the chill of the air refusing to douse the fire burning in my chest. I stare after her, my head a muddled mess, but all I can see is Selestina's face, as if she is some ghost I am unable to shake from my mind.

Chapter 42

Selestina

It’s been a week since the attack, and the faces of my attackers remain a frustrating void in my memory, even with Nasarea’s help.

Her ability to comb through my memories has become less painful with each attempt, though the lingering sensation of her magic leaves me raw.

Still, we’ve found nothing. No faces, no names. Only flashes of movement, vague outlines on the edges of my mind, and the constant sting of my defeat.

The bruises are fading now, pale smudges against my skin now in muted greens and yellow. It no longer hurts to move, though the echo of pain still lingers if I stretch too far or twist too suddenly.

I'm healing, sped up by Nasarea, but the pace feels agonizingly slow?my body mending while my mind remains stuck in a cycle of unanswered questions.

Alexander's silence unsettles me the most. I haven't heard a word from him, no orders, no summons, nothing to show he was the least bit interested in this information I overheard. That alone raises my suspicions. Alexander isnot the sort to allow something important to slip through his fingers, and by the way he insisted he knew what the kings spoke of, one would gather he was desperate for an answer.

His silence feels strategic and I wonder whether he knows something I don't.

The thought sends a chill down my spine. Did he know the kings were meeting? Did he know what they were planning? Is he as clueless as I am, or is he simply waiting for me to stumble onto something useful before revealing his hand? My gut tells me it's the latter.

Alexander never operates without a plan, and if he's not pressing me for answers, it's because he's already several steps ahead.

If he's withholding information, then so will I. If he's playing his games, I'll play my own. I don't need his commands to figure this out. The cryptic words of the kings about a prophecy keep ringing in my head, refusing to let me rest. Whatever they hide, whatever power they are afraid of, I will find out myself.

We are officially two weeks away from Día de Muertos. A two day holiday where we grieve those who we have lost to the Land of the Dead. It’s also the holiday where for two days straight, Tonalli’s sun doesn’t make an appearance and instead we celebrate in complete darkness with our twin moons.

Dust is swimming in the sunbeams of the library, coming through the high arched windows. Parchment and leather add a soothing perfume to the air.

I sit at one of the long oak tables, its surface worn smooth from centuries of restless scholars. Stacks of books surround me, their spines cracked and titles barely legible. The table feels like a battlefield, and I, the lonewarrior, sifting through the wreckage of forgotten knowledge. I run my fingers over the yellowed pages, reading and rereading passages as I try to piece together something resembling the truth.

The books I’m pulling look as though they haven’t been touched in ages.

I trace the words on one particular page, the ink faded but still legible. A shiver runs down my spine, and I pull my cloak tighter around me despite the library's warmth. The descriptions are haunting, speaking of powers beyond my wildest imagination. Raising the dead. Tearing souls from bodies. It’s darker than anything I’ve ever encountered, darker than shadow magic, colder than elemental ice.

It’s the magic of death,

The words allude to a prophecy, though every source seems to dance around its specifics. The harbinger born of life and death. The one to unite or destroy.

Who is it about? Why are kings deeply involved in it? The pieces don’t fit, no matter how much I read.

I sigh, pushing a hand through my hair. The poetry in some of the texts is beautiful, but it leaves me cold, unsettled. One verse lingers in my mind, refusing to let go:

“Life drained by breath,

Death raised by touch,

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