Page 42 of Tower of Ash and Darkness
As I flip through the delicate parchment, a familiar title stops me cold: Long Lost Bloodline of the Laygwyen Forest.
My pulse quickens as I close the book gently and make my way back to the table I’ve chosen for the evening. I glance at the cover again, my lips curving into a faint, wry smile. It’s a bedtime story meant to lull children to sleep, not something one would expect to hold any profound truth. Yet here I am, treating it like a sacred relic,as though its pages might whisper answers to questions that have haunted me for days.
The book feels oddly comforting in my hands, its heft familiar, its spine worn from years of handling. I remember it from my childhood, though I couldn’t say when or how it came into my life. The tales inside speak of witches and vampires, of cursed unions and magical forests, all wrapped in the kind of poetic tragedy that only old stories seem to carry. I shouldn’t take it seriously—not now, not after everything I’ve learned—but there’s something about having it that feels significant, even if only to me.
I return my focus to the path ahead—only to freeze in place.
Casper lingers by my desk, his silhouette nearly indistinguishable from the shadows that crowd the library. He tilts his head, studying the stack of books as though they might reveal something more than worn pages and ink. His gloved fingers lightly brush the edge of one, the touch unexpectedly gentle for a man carved from shadow and restraint.
“Are you following me again,vampire?” I ask, raising a brow.
“Casper,” he corrects smoothly.
“Hmm,” I hum, deliberately nonchalant.
His smirk deepens, the flicker of amusement in his gaze sending an unspoken challenge across the divide. He hasn’t changed—still dressed head-to-toe in black, the cloak draped over his shoulders drinking in the faint light, rendering him an extension of the shadows themselves.
The dim light catches in his eyes, vivid against the darkness that cloaks him. They sweep over me unhurried, carrying an intensity that is both unnerving and thrilling. My breath hitches as a small, playful smile tugs at his lips, softening the edges of his face and revealing the faint dimple I know all too well.
“How did you get in here?” My question comes out more curious than accusing.
He tilts his head slightly, that maddening smirk never quite leaving his lips.
“Am I not allowed in here, Princess?”
My brows draw together, the book heavy in my hands, and I glance down at the worn leather spine before lifting my eyes to meet his once more.
“I rarely see vampires in this library,” I say, my tone even but cool. “Books aren’t something your kind tends to covet—not when time no longer holds power over you.”
I shift my weight, step closer, and slip the book behind my back, as if it’s a secret I refuse to share. He follows the movement with interest, a smile spreading across his lips, revealing a sliver of elongated teeth.
“I’ve been here many times, Princess”
My breath stills. My brows pull in tighter as I study him—really study him.
No vampire walks these halls freely unless my father permits it. Only those closest to the throne are granted that kind of liberty. And I would have rememberedhim.
“I’ve never seen you here before,” I murmur, not accusing—just quietly shaken by the certainty in his voice.
He hums in response, the sound deep and strangely indulgent.
“I haven’t been back in this castle for many years,” he admits, and there’s a touch of something in his admission—regret or restraint, I can’t tell.
My curiosity stirs, rising in my throat. There are questions I want to ask, but before I can form them, his voice cuts through the quiet.
“What are you hiding back there, Princess?”
Heat flares up my neck. My fingers tighten around the worn leather of the spine behind me. I tilt my head, letting a slow smile unfurl.
“None of your concern.”
He huffs a laugh under his breath, low and smooth. Then his gaze drops to the desk beside us.
I follow the motion too late.
There, spread carelessly across the wood, are the other volumes I’d left behind. pages cluttered with rough sketches of daggers in various stages of forging, notes on tempering silver, and symbolsinked by steady hands. A quiet confession laid bare in paper and ink.
His smile deepens, slow and cutting.He knows.
