Chapter 7 — The Library's Window
Leo splashed cool water over his face, watching the ripples shimmer in the porcelain basin. The fatigue from the road still clung to him, but the mansion's quiet, almost regal air had begun to settle over his nerves. He took a deep breath, grabbed a towel from the stand, and dried off.
Changing into fresh clothes felt like shedding the dust and weariness of the journey. The fabric of the shirt was softer than anything he'd worn in weeks—tailored cotton with faint silver stitching along the cuffs. It smelled faintly of lavender, and for a moment, he simply sat on the edge of the bed, rolling back onto the pillows, staring at the ornate ceiling with its swirls of carved wood and painted flowers.
His thoughts drifted—about the capital, about the Draxler family, about how tomorrow's exam might change everything. He was still turning those thoughts over when a polite knock came at the door.
"Dinner is ready, sir," a voice said from the other side—measured, precise, the kind of voice trained in a household like this.
Leo swung his legs off the bed and opened the door. The servant—a young man in a spotless black-and-white uniform—gave a small bow.
"Thank you for telling me," Leo replied, returning the gesture awkwardly. The servant's bow was smooth, practiced; Leo's looked more like he'd bent halfway to tie a shoe.
Closing the door behind him, Leo crossed the hall to the next room and rapped his knuckles against the wood. Jack's muffled voice answered first.
"What? Did we fail the exam already?"
"It's dinner," Leo said flatly. "You should eat now before you start complaining in the middle of the night."
Jack opened the door, grinning, with Ralph behind him adjusting his sleeves.
They started toward the dining room together, but halfway down the corridor, Leo slowed.
"I'll come a little later," he said, waving them on. "I'm not that hungry yet. Go ahead without me."
Jack eyed him suspiciously. "You're going to get lost and then blame me, aren't you?"
"Just go," Leo said, rolling his eyes.
Ralph smirked. "Fine, but if you wander into the kitchen, bring dessert."
They headed off, their footsteps fading down the hall. Leo turned in the opposite direction.
The corridor here was wide and dimly lit by tall, flickering lamps. The soft red carpet hushed his steps as he passed a series of framed paintings, each one capturing a different scene—a sweeping field at dawn, a ship at sea in a storm, a hawk frozen mid-dive.
Then he stopped.
A massive framed portrait covered nearly the entire wall, painted with such skill it felt as if the figures might step down from the frame.
At the center stood a man and woman—regal, poised, with a subtle air of command. Mr. Draxler's hair was dark, brushed back from a stern brow, and his tailored coat was adorned with a deep crimson sash. Beside him, Mrs. Draxler radiated elegance, her golden hair pinned high with jewels, her gown shimmering like sunlight on water.
To the left stood Lyra, every bit as striking in paint as she was in person. And to the right...
Leo's gaze caught.
Another young woman—her hair the color of fresh-fallen snow, her eyes a piercing blue even in the painting. Her beauty was different from Lyra's—it wasn't just elegance, but a kind of cool, untouchable grace, like moonlight reflecting off ice.
"Eliza..." Leo murmured under his breath.
It wasn't a surprise that she was beautiful—if she shared the Draxler bloodline, it was practically guaranteed. But still, there was something about her that held his gaze longer than he meant to.
He tore his eyes away and continued walking, though the image lingered in his mind.
The corridor narrowed and ended at a single door. Its polished brass handle gleamed under the soft light.
He pushed it open—and froze.
It was a library.
Not just any library, but the largest he had ever seen. Floor-to-ceiling shelves lined the walls, each stacked with leather-bound volumes in colors from deep burgundy to faded tan. A grand chandelier hung above, its glass prisms scattering light across the room like falling stars.
The air smelled faintly of old paper and polished wood—a scent that made him want to stay.
He took a step inside, hesitating. It didn't feel right to just wander here without permission. With a sigh, he turned back toward the door. Maybe after dinner, he could ask.
That's when the hair on the back of his neck prickled.
Someone was watching him.
The feeling was subtle at first, then sharpened, like the quiet focus of a hawk before it dives. His pulse quickened. He didn't look around—just stepped into the hallway and shut the door, walking faster toward the dining room.
He was not getting into trouble on his first night here.
When he finally entered the dining room, the warm light and scent of roasted herbs washed over him. The room was large but not cavernous, designed to feel inviting despite the marble floors and tall windows draped in velvet. A polished oak table stretched down the center, set with fine china and crystal goblets.
Jack and Ralph were already seated, their eyes sparkling like children at a festival.
"Leo, you're missing out," Jack said with his mouth half full. "They've got meat I can't even name—fancy meat."
Leo took a seat, scanning the spread—roasted pheasant glazed with honey, platters of buttered vegetables, fresh bread still steaming from the oven, and a thick, fragrant soup that smelled like it had simmered for hours.
A moment later, Mira entered with Lyra at her side.
Lyra's gaze swept the table before settling on them. "Did you all walk around?" she asked.
Jack perked up immediately. "Oh, yeah. Your hallway paintings make me feel like I'm being judged for my life choices."
Lyra laughed softly, then continued, "You should. There's much to see. The library upstairs, for example... though I think Eliza is in there right now. Don't mind her if you see her. She's about your age—and she's also taking the exam tomorrow."
Leo's mind clicked. Then she's the one who was watching me.
"Can I read the books from the library?" Leo asked before he could stop himself.
Lyra turned her head toward him, a smile curving her lips. "Of course. Feel free to read whatever you like."
Dinner passed with light conversation and the clink of silverware. When they were done, they all headed toward their rooms.
"I'm full," Jack groaned, stretching. "I need to sleep before I explode."
"I'm thinking of going to the library," Leo said, hoping one of them might join him.
Ralph shook his head. "Too tired. You go play scholar on your own."
They reached their rooms, and Leo was left standing alone in the hallway.
He made his way back to the library, the sound of his footsteps echoing faintly. Inside, the chandelier's light had been turned lower, bathing the shelves in a soft golden glow.
He drifted between rows, running his fingers over book spines, searching for histories of the empire, of the wider world.
That's when he saw her.
Seated on the window veranda, framed by the silver glow of the moon, was the girl from the portrait.
Eliza.
Her white hair spilled over her shoulders like silk, catching the light in pale threads. Her eyes—blue as cut sapphires—were fixed on the open book in her lap. The moonlight seemed to cling to her, outlining the curve of her cheek, the delicate shape of her hands.
Leo's breath caught. For a moment, he forgot to move.
Realizing he was staring, he tore his gaze away, pretending to study a nearby shelf.
But then her voice came—cool and clear.
"What are you looking for?"
Leo froze, then turned halfway toward her, words catching in his throat. "I... I'm not looking at you."
Her lips curved into the faintest smirk. "I meant—what books are you looking for?"
Heat crept into his face. "Oh. Uh... the history of the empire and the world."
Her expression softened into mild curiosity. "You'll find that in the eastern shelves. Second row from the back."
He nodded quickly, muttering a thanks, but his heart was still thudding in his ears.
Leo moved toward the eastern shelves, his footsteps quiet against the thick rug. His hand brushed the spines of the books as he walked, their gilded titles catching the dim light.
Every movement felt strangely amplified, as if the silence between them weighed more than the air itself. He could sense her still there on the window seat—her gaze following him, even though he didn't dare to check.
The histories were easy enough to find, a row of heavy tomes bound in dark leather. He slid one free and turned it over in his hands, pretending to read the title while his thoughts tangled into knots.
She's... different. Not just beautiful. It's like she's carved from something colder than the rest of the world. But her voice...
He glanced at her. She hadn't moved much—still holding her book, one leg tucked beneath her, moonlight painting her hair in silver. But now her head was tilted slightly, as though she were measuring him the way a jeweler examines a flawed gem.
"Do you always stare at people before speaking?" she asked without looking up from her page.
Leo's ears burned. "No. I wasn't—"
"You were," she said simply, turning another page.
There was no cruelty in her tone, no sharp edge—just a quiet certainty that left him with nothing to argue.
He set the book under his arm and walked a little closer to the window. "I didn't mean to stare. I... thought I'd seen you earlier. In the hallway."
This time she did look at him. Her eyes, up close, were even more startling—a pale, crystalline blue, as if they'd been sculpted from ice but could still catch fire in the right light.
"You probably did," she said. "You looked lost."
"I wasn't lost," Leo replied, though the denial came too quickly.
Her lips twitched in the faintest hint of amusement. "Then what were you doing?"
"Looking around."
She closed her book slowly, resting it on her lap. "Most guests don't look at the library first."
"I like books," he said, then immediately wished he'd sounded less like a schoolboy.
That small, almost-smile deepened. "Then you'll like this one." She lifted the volume from her lap and held it out. "It's not history. It's... closer to folklore. But the kind that used to shape empires."
Leo hesitated before stepping forward to take it. Their fingers didn't touch—she handed it to him with a deliberate precision, as if she had decided even accidental contact would be too much.
He looked at the title. The Songs of the First Dawn.
"I've never heard of it."
"Not many have," Eliza said, leaning back into the cushion. "Some things aren't taught anymore. Not in schools. Not even in the academy."
"Then how do you know about it?"
Her eyes held his again, and for a moment the room seemed to shrink around them. "Because I ask the right questions."
It wasn't a boast—it was simply true.
Leo set the book gently on the side table. "Are you... Ready for the exam tomorrow?"
"I've been ready for months," she said, though not with arrogance. It was more like she was stating the weather. "What about you?"
He gave a short, awkward laugh. "I think so. I've studied. But there's always that... 'what if'."
Her gaze softened—just barely. "If you've prepared, the only 'what if' worth asking is how far you want to go after you pass."
The chandelier's dim light caught in her hair when she turned back toward the window. Outside, the gardens stretched into shadows, with faint lanterns marking the pathways.
Leo's grip on the borrowed book tightened. Something about her presence pulled at him—half challenge, half invitation. He couldn't tell yet if she wanted him to stay or leave.
He took a slow breath. "Maybe I'll start with this one," he said, nodding to the book.
"You should," she replied, opening her volume again. "But don't read too fast. Some things are meant to be learned slowly."
He paused, still holding the book. "...You're Eliza, right?"
Her head tilted slightly, a faint smile curling her lips. "And you're Leo."
"Right," he said, almost under his breath. "Just... wanted to make sure."
"That makes two of us," she murmured, her gaze flicking back to her page.
He glanced once more at her profile in the moonlight, then stepped back toward the shelves. The scent of paper and ink felt sharper now, as though the entire library had shifted to match her mood.
When he finally left, the hallway seemed colder than before. But in his hands, The Songs of the First Dawn felt warm—like it carried something more than old words.
Somewhere behind him, he could almost hear the quiet turning of a page.