Page 110 of A Kingdom of Shadow and Ash

It kept her occupied.

It kept herawayfrom the insufferable formalities of court life—the stifling dances, the false laughter, the endless tedium ofpoliteness. Bryn endured it for the both of them, suffering through the mindless pleasantries with the other royals. He despised it, but they both knew Wren would only ruin their family’s image with her inability to hold her tongue.

Most people preferredsilentBryn tochatterboxWren.

Kage suddenly snapped his fingers in her face.

‘We need to meet on the second floor,’ he said, his voice devoid of emotion.

They had taken refuge in a narrow alley, hidden from sight, a few streets away from the library.

Wren squinted at him. ‘How do ya know da books are on da second floor?’

‘I don’t.’ Kage shot her a flat look. ‘At the entrance, I’ll ask one of the scribes for a random book, then pretend to sit and read. Last time I was there, I noticed a section on the second floor that didn’t get much attention.’

‘Okay.’ Wren shrugged. ‘I’ll wait for ya.’

Kage didn’t spare her another glance as he strode off, disappearing into the throng of drakonians.

Wren, however, turned in the opposite direction, weaving her way down the street. She had no intention of entering through the front doors.

The Library of Flames was a fortress of knowledge, its structure designed to keep time at bay. An imposing building of ancient stone, its walls were thick, its windows few and narrow, meant to shield the fragile tomes within from the relentless sun.

Wren took a moment to study the stonework, tilting her head as she assessed the best way up. Old stone was always ideal for climbing. The blocks were uneven, thick with age, their edges worn just enough to allow nimble fingers to slip through the cracks.

Rolling her shoulders, she stretched her arms, shaking out the stiffness before reaching for her first hold.

She climbed swiftly, moving like a shadow against the wall. Years of practice had made her quick—childhood afternoons spent scrambling up castle towers, slipping through attic windows, balancing along the edges of rooftops. She had learntearly on that the higher she went, the more secrets she could uncover.

Listening from the rafters. Watching from hidden perches.

Before she had been a thief, she had been aghost, a presence that lingered unseen, gathering whispers like stolen gold. Her first lessons in thievery had been at the expense of her brothers and sisters. They hated it when their belongings mysteriously vanished—though Wren always returned them.

Almostalways.

Within minutes, she had reached the rooftop. It might have taken less time had it not been for the sweltering heat pressing down upon her, drenching her skin in sweat. She had already abandoned most of her layers, keeping only a thin, sleeveless cotton shirt—its fabric rough, the edges jagged where she had cut the sleeves off herself. Her grey trousers had nearly met the same fate until she had begrudgingly remembered that long pants kept her legs from getting sliced open when she climbed.

Her boots, though—those she would never part with. Soft, worn leather, molded to the shape of her feet from years of wear. They had carried her through ice and snow, across mountains and rooftops.

No matter the heat, no matter the discomfort—her boots stayed.

With a final pull, she swung herself over the ledge, crouching low against the rooftop’s warm stone.

The Library of Flames stretched beneath her, filled with secrets waiting to be unraveled.

And Wren Wynter was very good at unraveling things.

She had long grown accustomed to the curious glances cast her way—the puzzled stares, the whispered judgments when strangers realised she wore boy’s clothing.

It had been this way since childhood.

She had never seen the point in gowns, in stiff corsets and delicate shoes meant to tread carefully on polished floors. She had wanted to run. To climb. To race through the snowdrifts with Bryn, wild and unbound. She had tried once—scaling a tree in a dress, only to come tumbling down so hard she’d snapped her wrist. That had been the end of it. From that moment on, she had worn what her brother wore.

It was simpler.

The people in her castle had long since learnt to accept her eccentricities—her endless chatter, the way she never seemed to hold her tongue, the strange, fragmented warnings that would slip from her lips like riddles without answers.

For years, they had called herodd.

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