Aldric found the library by following a map.
Not a real map—a mental one, pieced together from fragments Marta had mentioned in passing. "Past the great hall, up the stairs, third door on the left. Used to be the lord's study, back when lords studied things. Now it's just books."
He'd been in the keep for a month and hadn't known it existed. That seemed impossible. A room full of books, hidden away, waiting.
He found the door. Pushed it open.
---
The room was small.
Not what he'd expected from a library. No towering shelves, no dusty tomes stretching to the ceiling. Just a few cases against the walls, a table in the center, a window that looked out over the courtyard.
But the books—the books were old. He could tell from across the room. Bindings cracked. Spines faded. The smell of paper and dust and something else. Something that made him want to sit down and not leave.
He walked to the nearest shelf. Ran his fingers along the spines.
Histories. Maps. Chronicles of battles fought centuries before he was born. Names he didn't recognize. Places he'd never heard of.
He pulled one down at random.
---
The book was heavy.
Leather binding, worn soft with age. The pages were thick, the ink faded, the words written in a hand that had been steady once and was now just... old.
He sat at the table. Opened to the first page.
The History of the Northern Marches, from the Founding of the Kingdom to the Present Day.
He didn't know what the Northern Marches were. Didn't know why someone had written a book about them. Didn't know anything about the kingdom beyond the stories soldiers told around campfires.
He started reading.
---
The words were slow.
Old language, formal, the kind of thing scholars wrote when they wanted to sound important. But the meaning was there, underneath. The story of a land that had been fought over for centuries. Of lords who rose and fell. Of battles that decided nothing and everything.
He read about the first duke—some long-dead warrior who'd carved out a piece of the kingdom and called it his own. About the kings who'd tried to take it back. About the compromises that had turned enemies into neighbors.
He read until the light shifted, until the shadows lengthened, until he realized he'd been sitting for hours.
He marked his page. Closed the book.
---
He came back the next day.
And the next.
Each morning, after helping Marta in the kitchen, he climbed the stairs to the library. Sat at the table. Read.
He learned about the four dukes. About how they'd come to power, how they'd held it, how they'd fought and schemed and made alliances that lasted generations.
Duke Valerius of the West—the one they'd be meeting soon. His family had held these lands for two hundred years. They'd fought the Vargr, fought the northern lords, fought anyone who threatened their borders. They'd won more than they'd lost. That's why they were still here.
Duke Marcellus of the North. Cold country, hard people. His family had been there since the kingdom was founded. They'd never been conquered, never been broken, never bent to anyone.
Duke Helena of the East. The richest of them, controlling the trade routes that brought gold and silk and spices from beyond the mountains. Her family had made themselves essential. The kingdom couldn't function without them.
Duke Stefan of the South. The oldest, the closest to the king. His family had been advisors, counselors, the power behind the throne for generations. They knew where the bodies were buried. Probably because they'd buried some of them.
And above them all, King Amos Ironhold.
---
The king.
Aldric found a book about him—a slim volume, tucked in a corner, its cover unmarked. He opened it carefully, the pages crackling.
The Reign of Amos Ironhold, Fourteenth of His Name.
Amos had been on the throne for thirty years. He'd come to power young—twenty, maybe, when his father died. There were rumors about that death, but the book didn't mention them. It just said the king had taken the crown and never let it go.
He'd fought wars. Made peace. Held the kingdom together when it should have fallen apart. The dukes tested him sometimes, but never too hard. They remembered what happened to the last one who tried.
Aldric read about that. About a duke who'd challenged the crown, who'd raised an army, who'd thought he could take what wasn't his.
The book was vague about what happened next. Just said the duke had disappeared, along with his family, his castle, his lands. Gone overnight. No trace left behind.
No one talked about it.
Everyone remembered.
---
He found histories of the Vargr.
Not many—most soldiers didn't write about the things they fought. But there were accounts, fragments, old stories that had been written down by people who wanted to understand what they were facing.
The Vargr had always been there. On the edges. In the mountains. Raiding, killing, disappearing. No one knew where they came from. No one knew why they fought. They just did.
Some accounts said they were soldiers—remnants of a forgotten army, still following orders from commanders long dead. Others said they were something else. Something that had been here before humans, before kingdoms, before anything.
Aldric read until his eyes burned.
---
Marta found him there, one afternoon.
"You've been missing from the kitchen," she said, standing in the doorway. "Three days now."
He looked up. "I've been reading."
"I can see that." She walked to the table, looked at the books spread across it. "History. You're reading history."
"I wanted to understand." He gestured at the books. "The kingdom. The dukes. The things we're fighting."
Marta sat across from him.
"And do you understand?"
He considered the question.
"No," he said. "But I understand more than I did."
She nodded slowly.
"That's what books are for. Not answers. More questions." She stood. "Come down when you're finished. There's bread in the oven. It won't wait forever."
She left.
---
He kept reading.
The days blurred. Each morning, bread with Marta. Each afternoon, the library. Each evening, dinner with the others, quiet conversation, the slow rhythm of healing.
He learned about the wars. The alliances. The betrayals. He learned about the kings who'd come before Amos, the ones who'd been strong and the ones who'd been weak. He learned about the kingdom he'd been fighting for, the one he'd never really understood.
It wasn't what he'd expected.
Not good, not bad. Just... complicated. People making decisions, some wise, some foolish, most just trying to get through the day.
Like him.
---
One evening, Lira found him in the library.
She stood in the doorway, her bow across her back, her eyes taking in the room.
"You've been hiding," she said.
"Reading."
"Same thing." She walked to the table, looked at the books. "History?"
"I wanted to know." He closed the book he was holding. "About the kingdom. About the people we're going to meet."
She sat across from him.
"And?"
He thought about the question.
"The dukes are powerful," he said. "They've been fighting each other for centuries. They only work together when they have to. When something threatens them all."
"Like the Vargr?"
"Like the Vargr." He paused. "Like what we faced."
Lira was quiet.
"You think they'll believe us?"
He shook his head. "I don't know. They believe what they want to believe. What's useful to believe."
She nodded slowly.
"That's what Voren said."
"Voren knows them."
She stood. "Come eat. Grog's walking the walls again. Mirena's with her books. We need to be together, not hiding."
He closed his book. Followed her out.
---
That night, he dreamed of the library.
Not the small room in Renshaw's keep. Something bigger. Shelves stretching to the ceiling, books in languages he didn't recognize, maps that showed places he'd never seen.
In the dream, he was looking for something. A book about the door. About the hunters. About the things that had been following him his whole life.
He never found it.
But he kept looking.
---
He woke before dawn.
The room was gray, the fire low, the keep quiet. He lay still for a moment, thinking about the dream. About the books he'd been reading. About the things he still didn't understand.
He dressed. Walked to the library.
The books were still there. The same histories, the same maps, the same unanswered questions.
He sat at the table. Opened a book. Read.