Arlo's question hangs in the air, heavy with suspicion. His sharp blue eyes flick from Lucas to me, then to Roland, assessing each of us. The street around us hums with life, a stark contrast to the tense silence at the library's threshold. May, sensing the change in atmosphere, tucks herself behind my leg, peering out at the old man with wide, curious eyes.
Lucas, ever the charmer, offers a disarming smile. "We're scholars, of a sort. We've heard tales, whispers of a powerful being who survived the great upheaval. A figure from a bygone age. We simply wish to document their story, if it exists. For posterity."
It's a plausible lie, but Arlo doesn't seem to be buying it. He snorts, a dry, rustling sound like turning a brittle page. "Scholars? You look like a troupe of travelling performers, with a couple of hardened sellswords thrown in for good measure." His gaze settles on Roland, then on the scowling Tomas. "Especially him. He looks more likely to burn a book than read one."
