How do I feel about Prince Fionn, the Duke of Crissomid, marrying my best friend, my princess, the love of my life?

I’ve never been a particularly jealous sort of person, but I do feel… something. Disappointment that Saoirse is being forced into something she doesn’t want. Anxiety about the changes her marriage will bring and how the Duke will treat her. But mostly a longing, a yearning, to be a true husband to her, like he will be.

To be open and public with our love and way of life. To be a King that would support her decisions and help her rule from a position of power. To wake up to her every morning, just like today. To help her sleep every night.

The thought of this man holding her hand in Assembly, kissing her over dinner, being called son by the King, riding her to completion, fathering her children, tucking them into bed each night, cheering on their son at his first jousting tournament, walking their daughter down the aisle, holding their first grandchild in his arms, retiring to the countryside with her… it all just feels… lonely.

“I—I beg your pardon,” the Duke stutters. “I shouldn’t have asked.”

It is only then that I notice the tiny tears forming in the corners of my eyes and, more astonishingly, Fionn’s furrowed brow, darting eyes, and downturned lip. He can’t quite meet my gaze, and I wonder if my burst of emotion made him uncomfortable. I brush away the dampness and sit up properly.

We sit in awkward silence for a moment, before the lift slows to a halt. The grinding of gears jostles the basket slightly, before the floating box continues down horizontal rails, following the fifteenth floor’s banisters. We travel along the circumference of the enormous hole until we reach the west side, about 90 degrees from our starting position.

I stand up, unlocking the entry gate with a slight burst of magic, before noticing Prince Fionn has not moved from the bench behind me. “Come on,” I urge the dazed man.

He nods mutely, rising to meet me on the fifteenth floor below the surface. Very few visitors come this far down, and the library is simply too large for constant lighting to be practical. Before darkness completely consumes us, I remove the unlit oil lamp hung next to the lift and quickly light it with a burst of divine fire. White flames consume the wick for a moment before they settle into a natural yellow-orange.

The light is small and dim, but I know the way well and once we reach our destination, we won’t need the lamp. As we walk, I resume my role as tour guide, trying to smooth over the uncomfortable situation. “The fifteenth floor houses mostly classic fairy tales and children’s fiction.” The Duke’s eyes grow wide as we pass several shelves with colorful, richly decorated spines of hundreds of books showing. “You will find some of the more incredible historiated initials and illuminated letters on display, but even the shelved collections are masterpieces.”

“Imagine keeping all this knowledge and beauty in darkness,” he whispers, but I’m not sure if he meant to say it out loud.

I chuckle softly. “Believe me, Your Grace, it is not by choice that we keep the books here. The demons would never allow them to be moved. At least not permanently.”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean. Demons are not real. Or if they are, they are locked in Ifreann.”

I stifle another laugh, biting back a remark about Crismondian’s ignorance. “I assure you, shadow demons are very real. Ancient Divine Blessed who built this structure bound several thousands to the library, and they are very possessive, as you will soon see. That is why we do not typically allow Untouched here, but do not worry, Your Grace, I will protect you.”

“You are mocking me,” he retorts cooly.

“Only a little, Your Grace,” I admit with a slight grin.

“You were teasing me before too. Why do you enjoy tormenting me?”

“Maybe I am simply testing you, to see if you are worthy of my best friend,” I deflect.

“And what have you found? Am I worthy?”

We are getting close to our destination now, and as we approach a thick wood door, I spin to face the tall, cool man. “No. Not yet, but I will show you how.” Then I snuff out the lamp with a quick breath in, plunging us into darkness.

“What—?” Fionn begins, but I reach up to the last place I saw his mouth, silencing him with my hand.

“Shh, listen,” I whisper to him.

Slowly, like a gathering storm, a whistling hum fills the silence. Grasping the prince by the wrist, I lead him closer to the source, careful to make as little noise as possible. His pulse thunders beneath my thumb wildly as I ease open the well-oiled door, allowing light and sound to escape into the hall. I guide Prince Fionn by the wrist into the tunnel beyond and can’t help but smirk when I hear him gasp.

The light and sound wink out at his disturbance, plunging us once more into dark silence, before slowly building back up. The scene before us is a masterpiece of engineering and storytelling, but to fresh eyes it must appear like a children’s storybook exploded, clinging to not only the walls, but the very air. A floating tale complete with fantastical pictures and calming music. Of course, I know what is hidden in the darkness that creates this illusion.

Copper sheets form the curving walls of the tunnel while a twisting copper pipe in the center of the path guides a reader through the children’s fable carved directly from the metal. Engraved straight through the sheets, intricate depictions of the story fill both walls, like two enormous murals created from the dead space of cut metal. The story itself is sliced into the guide rod, with the lettering looping around the top half of the circumference before turning to circle back around. In broad daylight the detailed carvings would be impressive, but the true magic lies in the life of the library.

As if a rainbow is caught inside the pipe and inside the walls, light of all different colors shines through the slits, illuminating the words and pictures. The walls look like a child poured paint randomly over a stencil, creating spatially correct depictions of people and landscapes, but with the colors all mixed up. Mountains are orange, skin is purple, and buildings are green. Without any other light, the spiraling words appear to be a spinning rainbow hovering in midair, leading through the tunnel.

And then there is the music emanating from the central copper pipe like the longest flute ever created. The whistling tune shifts with the changing shapes of the engraved calligraphy as the reader walks deeper into the tunnel, following the story. Sometimes the tune is deep and haunting, other times bright and bell-like. But the sound isn’t created by wind rushing through the pipe. The air this deep under the castle is dead.

No, all this color and music is the manifestation—the body—of a creature of light and air.

“What is it?” His Grace asks, causing the creature to transform again, hiding, as if afraid.

“The story is called Aonghas’ Journey,” I explain, “But Ciaran only lets the quiet visitors read it. Maybe to teach children how to behave?”

“Ciaran?” the Prince scoffs incredulously at the diminutive nickname.

“Well, that’s what Sersh and I call him anyways. Not sure if shadow demons have names, but I think it suits him. Now hush so we can read.”

I can’t see Fionn’s face in the darkness, but he doesn’t say another word as the slowly pulsing lights and crystal clear tones build. I motion for him to follow me, and our steps are muffled by the unnaturally soft ground as we meander down the tunnel. Although I know this story by heart, I enjoy moving slowly in order to give Fionn time to read and absorb each section of the pipe and walls.

In the dim light, I can’t gauge his reactions, but I don’t mind giving him a bit of privacy. Reading Aonghas’ Journey for the first time was a deeply personal experience for me, one which I wouldn’t want someone else studying me during.

The simple fable follows the journey of a boy whose heart was stolen. He goes on a quest to, at first, find the thief and restore his heart, but along the way he is convinced by the townsfolk that his heart is most likely sullied by the unscrupulous thief, and he should seek out a replacement instead. So the boy asks the sea, earth, and sky to craft him a new heart.

The sea gives him a heart of sand and, although it works well at first, he begins to notice his food tasting like dust, his vision becoming hazy, and his ears too full of dirt to hear. As the heart deteriorates, his senses dim and life loses all pleasure. In the end he returns to the sea to wash away the sandy heart.

Next he goes to the earth, who gives him a heart of gold. The golden heart is strong and everyone seems very impressed with the shine of it. But soon the boy realizes the gold is cold and heavy to bear. Eventually the boy decides to sell the heart before turning to the third element for help.

He asks the sky to give him a heart which will be light and make him happy. The sky thinks for a long time and eventually fashions a heart made out of stars for the boy. At first the boy is elated. The heart is exactly what he was looking for, bright and beautiful, but as it shines brighter and brighter, it becomes the only thing he can focus on. He becomes blinded to all else and the fire consumes anything that gets too close. Other people take notice of his star-made heart and begin to covet it too, and fearing they might steal his new heart, the boy buries it in the earth for safe-keeping while he sleeps. But when he returns the next day, he cannot find where he hid the heart.

At last, the boy realizes there is no replacement for his true heart and he determines to find his real one. Eventually, he captures the thief who stole his heart, but it turns out to be a childhood friend who claims he gave it to him of his own free will and has been keeping it safe. The final scene on the copper walls depicts the two friends kissing as the boy’s heart is returned to him.

Throughout the entire walk, Fionn says nothing, and even when we reach the end, he does not comment on the scandalous image shown in a “children’s story”. We exit the back door at the opposite end of the tunnel, and I relight our lamp quickly.

Fionn isn’t looking at me, but straight ahead, his brows are knitted together. “Why did you show that to me?” he asks as I guide him back to the edge of the chasm.

“Because I think it is beautiful and hoped you would like it,” I answer honestly. When he doesn’t immediately respond, I dare to ask, “How did it make you feel?”

“Confused.”

I don’t show him any more controversial pieces for the rest of the tour and he won’t elaborate anymore on what he thinks of the children’s fable with the two male lovers. Instead we stick to the edges of the chasm, browsing books that are more popular and kept closer to the light. We even sit in one of the plush reading nooks overlooking the drop, but I never let Fionn stray too far, even with the flare tucked into his pocket.

However, my concern that he might try to split from me is unwarranted as he never leaves my sight. I think the darkness of the library’s depths unnerves Fionn, even if he won’t admit it. It’s probably just his Untouched survival instincts telling him to get away from all the demons in this place. As a Divine Blessed I don’t feel the unnerving oppression of their presence, but I’ve heard it can cause significant anxiety and even panic attacks or hallucinations.

A good infuser can light flares strong enough to dispel the psychological effects of the library, but my connection to Aed is pretty weak. I almost feel bad for Fionn that his first experience in the Royal Library is marred by my shotty skills. Oh well, I’m sure we will be back at some point with Saoirse who can light a proper flare. I’d like to see that smile again; the one plastered to his awestruck face when we first entered.

After several hours, we both select a few items to check out, and make our way back to the surface. Once we’ve cleared the lower levels, the Prince’s features relax like a sponge in water. He looks much happier as he clutches his books tightly to his chest, occasionally sneaking a peak at their contents with an almost child-like gleam in his blue eyes.

Just before I drop the Duke off at his room to prepare for the feast tonight, he surprises me by asking softly, almost to himself, “How many people do you think have seen that room you took me to? Aonghas’ Journey?”

“I’m not sure, Your Grace,” I reply, falling back into formal speech due to my discomfort. “Princess Saoirse and I only found it by chance as teenagers.”

“Teenagers? But that story is meant for children.”

I’m too shocked by the Duke’s response to speak.

“Advisor Ailin, I think I will take you up on that offer of introduction to the library’s project manager. As well as any members of the Branch of Children in attendance tonight.”