Hope

The air down here always smells faintly of dust and iron ink.

Ancient, like the stones themselves remember every whisper, every secret traded between their shelves. My fingertips trail along the spines of the oldest books, feeling the rough texture of cracked leather. No Lady Elira. No Rhys. Just Lina and me.

A rare moment of quiet and minimal surveillance.

The girl seems less slippery than the others, my wolf notes.

I've been thinking about that too. Something tells me she doesn't want to report back on us.

“Are you sure we’re allowed down here?” she asks softly. Her voice echoes off the arched ceiling like a bird that...