I worry about Tavi. Az claims she’s traveling the world like she always wanted, free to roam about now that her brother is king and can provide for her.

I find her sudden interest in traveling unlikely, considering the world is on the brink of war.

Tavi’s disappearance isn’t the only thing concerning me, though. Each night Az goes without sleep—stimulated by the magical elixir from his healer—his poise seems to slip.

Though there’s part of me that hopes his exhaustion will cause him to mis-step, the other part of me worries about who will be caught in the cross fire when he finally does.

The library looks abandoned, like no one has used it since Az’s coup.

The thought threatens to make me sad, but it seems like a silly thing to waste my sadness on, when I can just be happy that no one thought to touch my books.

I’m not allowed by myself in the library. One of Az’s guards stands at attention near the entrance, but that’s fine by me. I overheard Az’s instructions to him. I’m to be given the entire day to spend here, and I’m rather confident in my ability to entertain myself until the guard is lulled to sleep by boredom.

That, and the fact that I throw a few extra logs on the fireplace, causing the flames to swell jovially, thickening the air with a sickly, blanketing heat.

Granted, I’m rather uncomfortable after about an hour and find myself tugging at my collar just so I can breathe a little easier. That’s no matter. The guard is faring much worse, what with all the armor piled atop him.

Beads of sweat glisten on his forehead as he stands watching me.

I’m careful to remain still as I read. No flopping about or anything that might threaten to keep the guard alert.

If he were a good guard, he could force himself awake through even the dullest, most sweltering of activities. At least, that’s what Az would say.

But even guards have to sleep, and even the fae can’t escape boredom.

It takes five hours and a rather heavy lunch supplied fortuitously by the kitchen staff, but eventually the guard nods off, and I sneak over to the fireplace.

My fingers caress the stone surface, tracing the strange markings written in an ancient language.

Ah, so here we are again. They’ve yet to replace the vase you broke, says my magic.

Indeed, the mantel sits empty, and if I pressed my bare feet into the rug below, I’m fairly sure shards of ceramic would prick me and alert me to their presence.

Together, my magic and my voice meld, reading the script in the ancient language.

A quick breeze quenches the fire in the hearth as the back wall of the fireplace disappears into the shadows.

It’s dark in the chamber. I’ll have to find the discarded lamp somewhere on the floor if I want to see much of anything. Then again, I suppose it’s not all that important that I be able to see the chamber, only that I remove some of its contents.

I shuffle around the chamber on my hands and knees, not wishing to trip and awaken the guard in the library. But when my hands touch the ground, and I reach my way to the shelves lining the edge of the room, I find nothing but dust lining the shelves.

Thinking I must have organized the scrolls on another shelf before I left, and that the turmoil of the past few months evicted it from my memory, I scale to the other side, running my hands across those shelves as well.

Empty.

A light flickers to life behind me, dread swelling in my belly.

I turn to find Az, half his face obscured in the shadows.

Even the shadows can’t mask the dark circles underneath his eyes, the symptom of countless sleepless nights.

“I had them removed before you arrived,” he says. “You aren’t the only one who can read the ancient language. I had one of the scholars open the passageway. Sent a message ahead of us before we arrived in Naenden.”

Removed. Az had the scrolls removed, anticipating I would try to use them against him.

I have the sudden urge to dig my fingernails into my skin.

Frustration threatens to boil me alive, but I won’t succumb to it. Won’t let Az get the best of me.

Another hope spurs within me. One I’ve been contemplating over the past several weeks. Opening the Rip was a substantial event, one that shook the earth itself. When I held the Fabric between my fingertips, I wondered if perhaps I could trace its path all across Alondria.

Before, I could draw power from the scrolls in the library, as they harnessed magic from the Rip through which they’d traveled.

But what if there exists more of a connection than we thought? What if, when the Rip opened, the force that caused the earth to tremble had ricocheted down the Fabric, tearing again at its weakest point?

It’s a frivolous hope, but I feel for a Rip, listen for its gentle hum. A sliver of power I could draw from. Anything at all.

“Asha, dear,” Az says, approaching me. I can’t help but notice that he holds the lantern up to the side of my face that remains whole. “You really are beautiful,” he whispers, now that the ugly side of me is obscured by the shadows.

I remember the feel of the mask plastered to my face during the coronation. That wasn’t the last time I’ve been forced to wear it. Occasionally, he brings it to me on the nights he visits me in my quarters.

He claims it reminds him of a simpler time.

“I wish there were a way to steal you back. It’s like he has his claws in you, and the harder I pull, the more at risk I am of shattering the splinter. Leaving a piece on the inside I can’t hope to find, not without clawing it out. Taking muscle and flesh with it.”

My magic hisses. Is that supposed to be a threat?

I myself am unsure. I’m beginning to wonder if sometimes Az just enjoys the sound of his own voice.

“What did you do with the scrolls?” I can’t help but ask, even as my posture slumps.

I’m so tired. So, so very tired.

But keeping Az talking gives me more time to feel for the Rip I’m desperately hoping exists in this room. My fingers flex at my sides, as if trying to cling to the Fabric itself.

Nothing. I feel nothing.

Annoyance flickers in Az’s sage-green eyes. “I burned them.”

I stiffen. “What? Why?”

“Because of moments like this. Moments when the magic Kiran has over you became too overwhelming for you to resist. That’s why you were down here, wasn’t it? To draw power from the ancient scrolls, much like you would from the Rip? To use it to conjure some illusion with which to trick me into handing the kingdom back to Kiran? No, we can’t risk that, can we?”

No. No, I suppose we can’t.

“I was thinking, Asha,” he says, bringing his hand to my unmarred cheek and whispering, “how would you feel about seeing a healer? I’ve found someone who specializes in your condition, and they believe they can help.”

I stiffen. I know I’ve been depressed lately, and while I’d love to have a healer treat me, I’m suspicious of what drugs Az might command his healers to give me. Potions that would make me more compliant? The idea makes me want to hurl.