Lina

The library is quiet except for the soft scratch of quills and the occasional flutter of pages. Dust motes drift lazily through the shafts of afternoon light, and the scent of old parchment fills the air. I’ve always liked this part of the castle—the stacks stretch high like ancient trees, their shelves filled with secrets no one remembers to read.

Hope and I sit tucked away near the farthest corner, hidden behind rows of forgotten histories. The perfect place to talk without prying ears. She’s hunched over a thick book, her finger tracing the lines, eyes sharp with focus. I’ve seen her wear many faces—Lady Raya, the quiet scholar;...