The elevator finally reached the top, and Zephyros stepped out. He pulled a phone from his pocket, the device cold and unfamiliar in his trembling hands.
His fingers hovered over the screen for a moment, hesitating, before he dialed a number. The call connected, and a deep, familiar voice answered.
"Zephyros," Henri began, his voice loud and steady.
"I need you to go to the Grand Bibliotheca," Zephyros said, his tone urgent. "Search for anything and everything about the Central District's birth."
Henri's voice cracked—"Zeph, please—" before the line died.
"You shouldn't," Zephyros snapped. He gripped the phone until the casing groaned. Even Henri thinks I'm mad now. His hands shook as he shoved the phone back into his pocket.
"To the cellar," he said, though the words were more for himself than anyone else. Celeste followed him like a shadow, her presence both comforting and unnerving.
"You're shaking," she said softly, her voice cutting through the silence like a blade. It wasn't a question.
Zephyros didn't respond. He couldn't. The truth of her words lodged itself in his throat, choking him.
He was scared—not just of what he might find, but of what it might mean. The cellar loomed ahead, its entrance a gaping maw of darkness. He hesitated at the threshold, his breath coming in short, shallow bursts.
"What are you afraid of?" Celeste asked, her tone almost gentle. "The truth? Or what you'll have to do once you find it?"
Zephyros turned to her, his eyes wide and haunted. "Both."
They reached a large circular door, its surface etched with intricate patterns that seemed to shift and swirl as they approached.
Zephyros and Celeste placed their hands on it simultaneously, and the door began to spin. It glowed blue, then faded to purple, before each segment slid into the walls beside it, revealing the room beyond.
Architecture is really amazing, Zephyros thought, his mind briefly distracted. I'll draw some concepts when this is over—a flying castle that protrudes into the ground through a... a relationship. Yes, it does. Somehow. He paused, his thoughts shifting.
But what's the point of building something beautiful in a world built on fakes? Maybe I'll tear it all down first. Start from the rubble.
Celeste pulled him into the room, her grip firm.
The library was vast, its shelves towering and filled with books stacked neatly, their spines gleaming in the dim light. The air was heavy, almost suffocating, as if the room itself were alive and watching them.
"From one darkness into another," Zephyros hissed, coughing as the oppressive atmosphere pressed down on him.
Celeste lit a black fire, its flames glowing eerily despite their dark hue. Zephyros nodded—he'd seen that fire before, once when it had engulfed Celeste. That time had been... amazing.
Shadows between the shelves deepened as they walked, as if the books inhaled the light. Zephyros' own breath came back at him—a damp, paper-scented echo.
He moved along the edges of the shelves, his fingers brushing against the spines of the books but not opening any.
They won't write it out plain, he thought. "Heretical religions." He pulled out a brown book, its cover worn and faded, and began to read.
As he flipped through the pages, a memory surfaced—his father, years ago, speaking to a squidi in hushed tones.
"Just say God doesn't allow war if..." his father had muttered. Zephyros had overheard but hadn't paid it much mind at the time. Now, the words echoed in his head, a damning piece of the puzzle.
His phone buzzed, the sound sharp in the silence. His heart raced as he answered. I'll check up on my sister after this, he decided.
"Hello?" Henri's voice was hesitant, almost apologetic. "Last time... ahem... I didn't find anything. I mean, I wouldn't expect any of your high-ranking members to come to our Grand Bibliotheca and give out secret information like that. But... I did see 'Valen.' The brother of the founder of the district. A mystical came to him—"
Zephyros cut the call instantly, his mind reeling. Valen. The name echoed in his thoughts, a lead he could follow. He thought he saw it in a book called Mystical Pact.
"You really should answer Henri," Celeste said, her voice calm but probing. "He's like your older brother, no?"
"Only twelve years older," Zephyros muttered, already dashing through the library, his eyes scanning the shelves for anything related to Valen.
His sense of purpose surged—finally, they had something to start from.
Zephyros found what he was looking for: a stack of old scrolls, their edges frayed and brittle.
He unrolled the first one, his hands trembling as he scanned the faded ink. The words were old, written in a dialect he barely recognized, but the meaning was clear.
"The prophecy of the Chosen One was crafted by the royal scribes in RH 7654, to justify the annexation of the Eastern Territories," he read aloud, his voice shaking. "It was accepted by all immediate family members in an attempt to orchestrate the killing of the lower house leader. The sacrifice of a pure soul was added to the rituals in RH 8222, after the rebellion in the Southern Provinces, to instill fear and obedience, after the action that occurred in Tenebris, justifying death. (Also accepted by immediate family members)."
His breath hitched as he read further, the truth unraveling before his eyes.
To justify their actions—to justify sacrifices. In the truth they still lie. What do they mean, 'supposed,' 'maybe,' 'likely improbable'? We have no clue, but you all knew.
Zephyros' grip loosened on the scroll, his knuckles turning purple. He couldn't breathe. He knew too.
The room seemed to spin, the shadows closing in around him. He could feel the walls pressing against him, the air growing thinner with every breath.
"No," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "No, no, no."
But the truth was undeniable.
"NO!" The scream tore from him—a sound not human, but tectonic.
Plaster rained from the ceiling as he clawed at his scalp. Liar. Brother. Butcher. The voices weren't his. Or maybe they'd always been. "They made her a character in their god-damned parable!"
Celeste stepped forward, her expression unreadable. "Zephyros," she said softly, her voice cutting through his rage. "What did you find?"
He turned to her, his eyes wild, his face streaked with tears.
"They've been lying to us. You must've known too! You're also guilty!" he said, his voice shaking with a mixture of anger and despair. "The prophecies, the rituals, the sacrifices—it's all a farce. They've been using us, manipulating us, just to hold onto the royal family, its greed. We were already in power, but they wanted more, more!"
Celeste's gaze hardened, her jaw tightening. Celeste's knife slid into view—the same blade she had used in her other quest. "Truth is a weapon, boy. But it cuts the wielder deepest." Her eyes flicked to Iris' door. "Shall we test its edge together?"
Zephyros stared at her, his chest heaving. For a moment, he said nothing, the weight of her words settling over him like a shroud.
"I don't know..." Zephyros replied, tears falling. "I don't want to..."
Can't I just run with my sister, escape from the family, live a life in another district or maybe another city?
As Zephyros stood there, the black fire flickered ominously, casting jagged shadows that danced like specters on the walls.
His mind reeled, a storm of panic and dread crashing through him.
"My sister!" The words tore from his throat, raw and desperate, as he bolted from the library.
The corridors blurred around him, the opulent tapestries and gilded frames reduced to streaks of color as he ran.
His chest burned, his lungs screaming for air, but he pushed harder. She has to be okay.
She will be okay. She is going to be okay. The thought was a mantra, a prayer, a plea to whatever gods might still be listening.
He reached her door, the polished wood gleaming faintly in the dim light. Without hesitation, he threw it open, the sound of it slamming against the wall startling his sister, who sat by the window, her frail frame silhouetted against the pale moonlight.
"Ze-Zephyros?" she began, her voice soft, trembling. Her eyes widened as she took in his disheveled appearance, the wild look in his eyes.
"Run," Zephyros gasped, doubling over as he struggled to catch his breath. "Let's run. I—I found something. It's bad. Really bad. They're lying to us, all of them. They want to sacrifice you. They want you gone for a lie. It's all a fucking lie!" His voice cracked, the words spilling out in a frantic, broken torrent.
His sister rose slowly, her movements delicate, as if she were made of glass.
She stepped closer, her hand reaching out to touch his face. Her fingers were cold, trembling slightly, but her touch was gentle. "I know," she whispered, her voice barely audible.
Zephyros froze, his breath catching in his throat. "What?" he choked out, his voice barely a whisper.
She coughed, the sound wet and ragged, and pressed a handkerchief to her lips. When she pulled it away, the royal crest was stained with blood.
"I know," she repeated, her eyes glistening with tears. Iris' smile was a cracked mirror.
"Children starved during the early RH8000s," she murmured. "Did you know? I didn't. Not until the ledgers showed me." Her thumb brushed his cheek, cold as a grave spoon. "But if my bones keep the peace… isn't that a noble lie?"
Zephyros stared at her, his heart shattering into a thousand pieces.
"What are you talking about?" he demanded, his voice rising. "You don't want to die. Nobody wants to die. You're sick, but I can carry you. I'll carry you. Please, just don't go. Don't leave me."
The owl's talons drew blood where he gripped it. "You kept it," she laughed wetly. "Even after learning it's hollow?" A splinter pierced his palm as he reached for her—two puppets tangled in strings only death would sever.
"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice breaking. "I'm so sorry, Zephyros."
"No!" he shouted, his voice raw with anguish. "No, you don't get to apologize. You don't get to give up. I won't let them take you. I won't!"
But she only shook her head, her tears falling silently. "You can't stop it," she said softly. "This is how it has to be."
Zephyros sank to his knees, his strength leaving him all at once. The weight of her words, of the truth, crushed him.
"I hate them," he whispered, his voice trembling. "For what they've done, for what they've taken from me." His tears fell freely now, hot and unrelenting, but they did nothing to ease the pain.
He clung to her, his hands gripping her shoulders as if he could anchor her to this world, to him.
But he could feel her slipping away, not just from the sickness, but from the weight of the lies and sacrifices that had defined their family for generations. The cruelty of it all was a poison, seeping into every corner of his life.
She knelt beside him, her arms wrapping around him in a fragile embrace. "I love you, Zephyros," she murmured, her voice barely audible. "No matter what happens, remember that."
He clung to her, his hands gripping her shoulders as if he could anchor her to this world, to him.
But he could feel her slipping away, not just from the sickness, but from the weight of the lies, the sacrifices, the cruelty of their family.
And as the black fire flickered in the distance, casting its eerie glow over them, Zephyros made a silent vow.
I'll tear it all apart, he vowed, his voice trembling with a mix of grief and fury. "Every lie they've told, every life they've destroyed—I'll salt the earth where their temples stood. Let the rats feast on their scriptures."
Iris' sob went unanswered.
Let her hate me, he thought. Better that than love a ghost.