Why should bare walls bother me? She could fill it with her own art.
I have seen her loom, her hands pulling glorious works from mere thread. She possesses a gift that would have made the master artisans of the Golden Age envious.
But still—no paintings.
Did she not think them worth her time or space?
My jaw tightens as I move through the weaving room. It isn’t why I’m here.
Searching the floor for any trace of bloodstains, I move carefully.
I find nothing. The floors are clean, too clean. If there was a struggle, she—or someone else—had already erased the evidence.
Or maybe the struggle was contained upstairs?
I lift my chin, inhaling deeply. The scent of her home is distinct—it smells like her perfume, the faint trace of something floral and the lingering warmth of woven fabric. But beneath it, barely detectable, is the sharp, metallic tang ofaradhlumblood.
It’s faint, but unmistakable.
My pulse thrums and my tail twitches as I approach the staircase leading to her private quarters. For a moment, I hesitate. This is more intrusive than simply searching for evidence on the main floor. But something compels me forward—a small, barely perceivable touch.
Awareness that my god is urging me on washes over me.
I take the steps slowly, deliberately. The corridor is narrow as it leads into her bedroom. The scent is stronger up here, and the door is slightly ajar.
Pushing it open, I step inside.
Her room is… warm. Cozy in a way I didn’t expect. Woven blankets drape the bed, the frame itself carved from dark stone. Shelves line the walls, filled with fabric, tools, and carefully arranged scrolls.
But what catches my eye first are the bottles of mead on the small wooden table near herbed.
Half-empty.
I walk over, picking one up, rolling the bottle neck between my fingers. Mead is not an unusual drink, but I’ve seldom seen her drink so much. The presence of multiple bottles suggests trouble.
Was she drinking to forget? I could relate to that.
I set the bottle down, exhaling through my nose. Curiosity pushes me onto the scrolls on the side of her bed. All of them clearly came from the royal library, and I wonder if this has to do with her work with the school. When I twist the cap on one, I see the title,“My Tangled Desire.”
I blink.
The script is in an elegant, swirling font as though written by a master scribe. Even more so, it’s written in my people’s language.
Was she really so fluent in enduar? I unroll a bit and begin to read.
“He yanked down the neckline of her dress, one perfectly azure breast spilling out. With her hands bound behind her back, she could do little more than arch her body into his touch. His fingers trailed lower, tracing patterns down her stomach as his lips found purchase against her neck. Her breath hitched, and she let out a small gasp as he?—”
I drop the scroll, a flush spreading up my neck and heat rushing to my groin. I wasn’t a prude—but this?
After scooping up the text, I grab another. I find her marking spot—it’s a metal clip with a ribbon and… the contents are similar.
Hell, I didn’t even know the library stored books like this. Mind churning, I can’t seem to parse this out. Wasn’t the library supposed to be full of annals, maps, diaries of previous sovereigns? Scientific fact?
I hesitate a moment more, then place both back on the nightstand and look to her bed.
Did she read those words before bed? Did they stir a heat in her?
Was it a desire of hers to be bound that she might surrender to another’s touch and care? Is she hungry for an intense passion borne of trust?