The rain lashes against the palace windows, wind howling through the stone corridors like a wounded animal. King Bruce sits alone in the library, hunched over a grand oak desk, his gloved hands folded beneath his chin. Shadows from the flickering candlelight dance across the deep lines of his face—lines carved by years of battle, duty, and now, loss.

Talia is gone.

No note. No farewell. Just the lingering scent of myrrh on her pillow and the deafening silence of her absence.

Bruce exhales slowly, his gaze shifting over the spines of countless books before him—histories of war, philosophy, the lore of the world’s greatest rulers. Knowledge that once sharpened his mind now feel useless against the one mystery he cannot solve: why she left.

Then, the familiar sound of footsteps—soft, measured.

He doesn’t need to see. He knows who it is.

The librarian moves like a shadow, their presence quiet yet steady. They carry a book in their hands, its worn leather cover betraying years of use. They place it beside him, careful not to let the weight of it disturb the silence.

Bruce exhales through his nose. “You don’t have to keep doing this.” His voice is low, rough with exhaustion.

His gaze flicks toward them—not directly, just enough to catch the faint glow of candlelight on their hands. Ink stains the tips of their fingers. They have been working late.

Bruce leans back in his chair, staring at the shelves stretching high above them. “Do you think she hated this place?” He lets out a humorless chuckle. “She must have. She was never meant to be a queen, not in a palace made of stone. I should have known she’d leave.”

His hand comes to rest on the book they had brought him. He traces the spine absently, then sighs. “I should stop looking for answers in words. She was never one for books.”