Page 24 of A Kingdom of Destruction

“So the war is his fault.” She took a risk saying it.

Cillian huffed out a chuckle. “The war is the fault of everyone and no one. There are finite resources on this earth. The fae are long-lived enough to understand things must change, territories must be taken and cared for. While the mortals short-sighted enough to be a blight. It’s not your fault.”

Aven held back a scoff. Not her fault—but this was only the beginning. The fae wouldn’t stop with Grimrose, not while so much else lay waiting. And the other kingdoms that had watched her home burn, too proud or too foolish to offer aid? Well, it served them right.

He drew her to the mouth of the stairs, and for the first time Aven realized the view. The main foyer of this palace opened up in a towering three-storied cathedral.

Despite the towering heights, the space was warm, alive. The view of the greenery outside and the odd glassless look to the windows made it seem as though they were in an aviary.

“You and your brother certainly know how to charm a girl. You’re just as skilled at compliments as him.”

They took the stairs carefully, Aven unaccustomed to walking in these kinds of shoes. She immediately missed the tread of her boots and the way the leather gripped the ground. She felt as though she might slip off and tumble along the railing if Cillian weren’t there to hold her with his unbreakable grip.

She wished she’d brought her wand as well. In case the circumstances changed on a dime and she was forced to protect herself.

“I’m merely stating the facts. Now, we don’t have to worry about the destruction. The war has been won, and peace will soon be upon us.”

Aven swallowed over a gasp fast enough to almost choke on her spit. “You call what your father did peaceful? He killed my family.” She caught herself too late and forced boredom into her tone. “I’m not interested in your theories on ruling, either. If I haven’t made myself perfectly clear.”

“You have. But I’ve heard you are interested in runes.” Cillian gestured with his chin to the one on her wrist, barely visible beneath the white gown. “I thought you might like to see the tapestries in our library. They depict some of the oldest runes known to the fae kind. I guarantee there are many you have never seen in your life.”

“Hard pass,” she told him.

Once they made it to the bottom of the stairs, Cillian took a turn down one of many open and airy hallways leading away from the grand nexus of the palace.

“Regardless of your feelings for me, or for my kind, I know this is a tough time for you. You might find some comfort in these runes. I thought you might appreciate them,” Cillian added softly.

His kindness was a joke, that’s for sure. Another ploy to get her to lower her guard and trust him when Aven knew from experience there was no good fae outside of a dead one.

“I’m sorry to tell you, golden boy, but your efforts are wasted on me.” Aven turned her chin up. “You don’t know me, and your attempts to lure me into complacency will fail.”

They walked into the library, and Aven went still. She clenched her chin and cheeks to keep her mouth closed.

“Is that what I’m doing?” Cillian studied her every movement. “Complacency? I thought I was a good host for you.”

He contemplated her before ushering her forward toward a tea set laid out in front of a large oak table, the surface polished and flat and filled with stacks of books. The walls were high and towered over her head. Book spines glittered like coins on each of the rows. Most of them were languages she had never seen before.

Aven glared at him like the expression was a shield.

“Golden boy.” He tried on her insult. “Not the nickname I would have chosen, but if you insist on it then I’ll oblige you.”

He finally dropped her hand and moved to the tea set, pouring out two cups of bright yellow tea and handing one out to her. To prove it hadn’t been poisoned, he took the first sip.

Aven finally took the offered cup for something to do, holding it between her hands as the heat seeped into her skin. Not that she was chilled, but it helped steady her. She finally turned her back on Cillian and walked closer to the nearest wall.In a break between the bookshelves rested a tapestry hung on an ancient-looking curved iron spike. The fabric itself was in pristine condition, and the image woven together in fantastically clear rendering.

The black lines of the rune were sharp and strong. He’d been right, which she hated. She’d never seen the rune before and desperately wanted to ask him what it meant. What it would do if it were inked on skin.

Aven clenched the cup together as her scowl deepened.

“Since you’re content to play tour guide, why don’t you tell me more about this?” She jerked her chin toward the tapestry.

Something about the swirling lines intersected by strong black downward strokes drew her. She couldn’t look away from it.

Cillian stepped up beside her close enough to touch, and Aven took a massive step in the opposite direction. “This one depicts the primitive name for the Darkroot. No one knows exactly what it was, only that it is.”

“You’re not making sense.”

“It’s one of the Sacred Trees, though you already know about those, don’t you? It was named by a mortal; its true name has been lost to us, like much else was lost during the first calamity.”

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