Page 42 of Daughter of Shadows and Ash

"I remind you of a raven?" he asked, brows furrowing.

"No," I said, shaking my head. "You remind me of my horse, Raven. You have similar mannerisms." The words tumbled out before I could stop them.

"You're saying I act like a horse?" His voice held a dangerous edge.

I winced, scrambling to salvage the situation. "Please forget I said anything, you do not act like a horse. He acts like you."

After a few quiet steps, Magnus's voice cut through the silence. "Wait, is this the demon horse the city stable has been talking about?"

"He's not a demon," I protested, heat rising to my cheeks. "He's just selective about his company."

His eyes narrowed to dangerous slits, "One of my men almost came back with a few less fingers after he was called to help wrangle the bastard."

"Well, he shouldn't have touched him without permission," I said with a defiant lift of my chin. "Like I said, he's very particular. Davian and I have no issue approaching him."

He shook his head, muttering something that sounded like a prayer for patience. Pride swelled in my chest as I smiled, pleased that Raven kept his wild spirit. Domestication be damned, he was born for battlefields and glory, for making grown men tremble in their boots.

"I'll add you to his list of approved attendees," I teased, enjoying the way his face paled slightly.

"I choose life," he said dryly, though the corner of his mouth twitched.

The library doorscreaked as Luella and I slipped inside, seeking refuge from the earlier drama of the queen's tea. Books stretched endlessly from floor to ceiling, their weathered spines glinting with gold and forgotten promises. The scent of aged paper and ink wrapped around us like a familiar embrace. I felta familiar pang in my chest, remembering the cozy bookshop nestled in the heart of the capital.

"I spend most of my free time here," Luella confessed, running her fingers along the shelves. "The other handmaidens think I'm odd."

"Then we can be odd together." I followed her deeper into the stacks. Books had been my sanctuary since childhood, though my grandmother's collection paled in comparison to this. A familiar ache bloomed in my chest as memories of countless nights spent curled up with her books washed over me, each one a treasured escape from the weight of simply existing.

Luella pulled out a massive tome bound in midnight blue leather. "This one's my favorite - Ancient Prophecies and Portents." She set it on a nearby table, dust motes dancing in the sunbeams streaming through tall windows.

"The stories of the lost gods always intrigued me, I like to think I would've been one of their acolytes in another life." She looked down at the heavy tome with a distant smile, one I knew well. I understood that dreamy expression. How many times had I lost myself in imagined lives, in countless adventures waiting to unfold?

As she flipped through yellowed pages, I caught glimpses of intricate illustrations - constellations, mythical creatures, and elaborate symbols. She stopped at a page marked with a silk ribbon.

"This prophecy has been discussed more lately," she said, pointing to flowing script.

"Several claim it foretells the victor between realms." The ancient words danced before my eyes like living things, an ethereal glow seeming to pulse beneath the ink as candlelight caught each carefully penned letter.

When shadows lengthen and stars align, the weaver of fate will tie the strings.

Powers once separated shall intertwine, unleashing power to shatter the world's very bones.

The harbinger of flame and fate will save us all, a beacon in the darkness a blade of all. Those who dare to wield this power will rise, crowned in formidable glory.

In the forge of blazing fate and destiny's weave, a power beyond reckoning will awaken and cleave. For the merging of might that dances just beyond, a siren's call of glory and bonds unbound.

My breath caught as I read the prophetic text a second time. The words resonated in my bones like a forgotten melody. But that was absurd. Prophecies were nothing more than the wine-soaked ramblings of long-dead mystics... weren't they?

"What do you make of it?" Luella asked.

I forced a casual shrug, grateful she couldn't see my trembling hands. "Just another prophet trying their hand at poetry. Though I'll give them credit for their dramatic flair."

Luella's laughter danced between the shelves, a warm ring in the dust-filled air. The scent of aged leather bindings mingled with the musty sweetness of forgotten pages, while golden afternoon light caught the dancing motes like falling stars.

"The king believes you're the key to ending this war. That's why he wants Prince Oryn to marry you. He sees something in you, a power that could finally bring our people peace."

I let her words settle in the space between us.

"I'm no one special," I said, the lie burning my tongue. "I don't have any power that could end a war."

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