I returned the leather-bound tome to its rightful place among the countless volumes that lined the towering shelves of the Marquess' library. The hushed sound echoed in the vast chamber, where spiraling staircases wound upward like ivy, connecting the labyrinthine balconies laden with the written word. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass dome above, casting mosaic shadows on the polished mahogany floors below.

“Didn’t find anything?” Eamon’s voice cut through the stillness, dispelling the sense of timelessness that hung between the rows of ancient spines and gilded titles.

I descended the stairs, my gaze lingering on the intricate carvings of mythic beasts and heroes that adorned each banister.

“It’s just stuff I already know,” I replied, frustration tingeing my words.

Eamon gestured broadly to the surrounding expanse of knowledge. 

“Well, I am sure there will be something useful in one of the many books here.”

I nodded, feeling dwarfed by the sheer magnitude of the collection. 

“It’s overwhelming,” I admitted, my green eyes scanning the sea of literature. “I wish I could pinpoint the books I need.”

“Can’t you use magic to help you identify the books with the answers?” Eamon asked, his head tilted in genuine curiosity.

"Aren't you the one always telling me not to use my magic? Now you're encouraging me?"

"I tell you to use magic wisely," Eamon responded with a smirk.

"I don't know exactly what I am looking for though. I will probably have to use a spell." I raised my hands, fingers weaving an intricate dance as I spoke the incantation:

Secrets hidden, truths entwined, reveal the knowledge I must find.

Nothing happened. I looked at Eamon for guidance before trying again.

Let magic’s glow, fair and lean, mark the wisdom yet unseen.

Green light flickered from my fingertips, casting an ethereal glow upon my face. Around us, several spines shimmered with a verdant luster, beckoning.

Eamon winked at my triumph. 

“Well, look at that; there are more than you thought.”

As I stepped towards the nearest glowing book, the heavy doors of the library groaned open. Heart pounding, I abruptly ceased my spell; the emerald radiance vanished, and the books stood innocuous once more.

Lord Abernathy entered, his bow deep and formal, causing a knot of discomfort in my stomach. 

“My lady, I am afraid that his lordship the Marquess cannot meet with you again today for lunch. He sends his apologies.”

I offered a small smile, masking the sting of rejection. 

“Thank you for informing me. I hope he will join me for dinner?”

Abernathy’s expression remained impassive, his eyes giving nothing away. With a final nod, he turned, leaving Eamon and me enveloped by the library's silence.

“Third day he has been unable to see me,” I murmured, turning to Eamon. “You don’t think he’s avoiding me, do you?”

“Oh, he definitely is,” Eamon’s reply came swift and sure. “But you can’t blame him. You show up, a granddaughter he never knew he had, and inform him that his only precious daughter is dead.”

His gaze drifted toward a grand portrait that held court over the library. I followed his eyes to the painted visage of my mother, captured in oils that seemed almost alive. Her bright red hair cascaded over her shoulders clad in velvet, while her eyes, mirroring my own, held a green depth that transcended the canvas.

“This mansion feels like a shrine to her,” Eamon noted, his voice calm.

“Doesn’t it?” My voice was barely audible as I pondered the portrait, the weight of history pressing upon me.

“Don’t you have an uncle too?”

I nodded, the question igniting a curiosity about the man who was not the Marquess' successor.

Why did I, a stranger to this realm, stand to inherit it all?

A sudden clamor from the outside grounds yanked me from contemplating familial ties and succession. I turned to see Eamon at the window, his brow furrowed as he peered through the glass. My heart quickened as I looked as well. The usually calm staff were a flurry of motion, crisscrossing the grounds like scattered leaves in a storm. 

“What is happening?” I asked, pulse throbbing in my ears.

“Must be an unexpected arrival,” Eamon deduced, his eyes tracking the chaos with keen interest. “Fancy a closer look?”

Before I could assent, Eamon had already seized my arm, guiding me with a conspiratorial gleam in his eye. We slipped from the library, our footfalls silent against the plush corridor rugs. Ducking behind a marble pillar near the stair railing, we glimpsed the foyer just as the front doors slammed open.

A commanding figure stormed in—a cascade of dark red hair flowed behind him, and his golden amber eyes flashed with anger. His presence seemed to swallow the space, an aura of regal fury emanating from his broad shoulders draped in a coat of deep crimson velvet trimmed with gold. The cut of his attire spoke of wealth but also practicality; the boots were built more for riding than courtly dances.

“Where is my father?” The timbre of his voice bounced off the marble.

Hawthorne approached, discomfort etched on his face. 

“Lord Kildare, you have returned from your trip so soon. Did you enjoy your time?”

Ignoring the question, Lord Kildare shrugged off his coat, tossing it without looking toward a scurrying maid. He strode past the butler, boots thudding against the wood flooring, heading straight for the stairs where Eamon and I crouched.

“Lord Kildare, the Marquess is in his study,” offered Lord Abernathy, materializing from the shadows.

Lord Kildare paused, irritation wrinkling his brow. 

“Is that sly wench still here? I want to see her—bring her to my father’s study!” His scorn sliced through the air.

Eamon snickered beside me, whispering, “I believe the sly wench is you.” 

His hand muffled his laughter as I rolled my eyes, a spark of annoyance igniting within me.

With the men gone, I tugged Eamon back to the safety of the library, the echo of Lord Kildare’s words lingering like a specter.

“That was your dearest uncle,” Eamon quipped, amusement coloring his tone.

My sigh was heavy with resignation. 

“Had I known the welcome that awaited me, I might’ve spared myself the journey.” I gestured dismissively towards the grand doors.

“Ah, but then you’d forsake your birthright,” Eamon countered.

“Birthright?” I spat the word as if it were bitter on my tongue. 

“How can I claim inheritance in a land that I can barely call home, where they surely forbid the ascent of a foreign-born to nobility?”

Eamon tilted his head, a smirk playing on his lips. 

“No laws in Aurorea deny titles to those born abroad, provided they are citizens. Your mother’s blood grants you citizenship.”

Suspicion clouded my gaze. 

“You’re well-versed in the intricacies of Aurorean law.”

“Indeed.” Eamon strolled over to a towering bookshelf, fingers trailing over leather spines until he selected a tome embossed with intricate silver filigree. “Laws and Lineage: The Governing Principles of Aurorea,” read the title as he handed it to me.

“Believe it or not, I do more than just loaf about.”

I appraised Eamon with newfound respect. 

“You could’ve been anything, you know?” I mused, my green eyes glinting with sincerity.

Eamon shrugged, a modest tilt to his head as he regarded the labyrinthine shelves around us. 

“Perhaps,” he conceded. “But then I wouldn’t be here.”

“Here, in this mess?” My voice carried an undercurrent of disbelief. My gaze swept the ornate bindings and leather covers before settling back on him.

“Yes, here in this mess, with you.” He met my eyes steadily.

A silence settled over us, filled only by the creaks of ancient wood and the rustle of parchment. It was I who broke it, my voice barely above a whisper. 

“Why have you stuck with me, Eamon?”

The question caught him off guard, his sharp inhale audible in the quiet. For a moment, his usual confidence seemed to waver.

"When everything fell apart... when we lost it all, and my father’s name was dragged through the mud..." I struggled to maintain eye contact, my throat tightening with the memories. "Why didn’t you leave to make your way? You’re brilliant, Eamon. You could have made something of yourself."

His smile returned, heartfelt and warm, reaching deep into his azure eyes. 

"Because I promised to always stay by your side, Luciana."

Memories flooded back—a six-year-old girl with wide, trusting eyes shaking hands with an eight-year-old boy, sealing a pact of everlasting companionship. A softness touched my heart, but it vanished as quickly as it came when Eamon’s mischievous grin reappeared.

"Besides," he chuckled, leaning closer to me, "I always suspected you’d do something great. Admittedly, I never pictured you as a Marchioness, but now that you are one..." He winked, "Why labor away when I could simply bask in your eventual glory?"

Laughter bubbled up from my chest, a sound I hadn’t realized I’d been holding back. It echoed through the library, bouncing off the spines of books that had witnessed centuries of solitude. Eamon joined me, his laughter a harmonious counterpart to my own.

The laughter that filled the library vanished as suddenly as it had erupted, swept away by the creak of the door and the harried entrance of Lord Abernathy. His face, usually a mask of composed servitude, was now drawn tight with lines of concern. 

"My lady, the Marquess would like you to join him in his study," he said, his voice quivering urgently.

My heart skipped a beat, and I exchanged a glance with Eamon before following Lord Abernathy out of the library. As we paced down the stairs and through the corridor to the study, I took in the grandeur I hadn’t seen yet. Rich tapestries depicting mythical creatures hung on the stone walls, and armor-clad knights stood silent vigil in niches, their empty gazes following our every step.

"His lordship is with Lord Kildare, his son, and your uncle." Lord Abernathy continued, halting mid-stride as if weighed down by words yet unsaid. He looked almost pained, a man torn between duty and personal conflict. "Please do not take Lord Alaric's words too personally. You must understand that learning of your existence would be rather...shocking."

Before I could reply, we arrived at the two imposing wooden doors, stark in their simplicity compared to the luxury around them. Lord Abernathy’s hands trembled slightly as he pushed them open, announcing with a strained voice, "Lady Luciana is here, your lordships."

Inside the room, the Marquess sat behind a dark mahogany desk, its surface a battlefield of inkwells, scrolls, and wax seals. Despite his impeccable attire, he looked every bit the worn commander after a long siege, exhaustion etched into his features.

Alaric was a storm personified, pacing before an ornate mirror that reflected his scowl and the flush of anger on his cheeks. At my entrance, he spun on his heel, his agitated energy a sharp contrast to his father’s weary stillness.

"Leave us," the Marquess commanded, his voice resonating with authority. 

Lord Abernathy immediately obeyed before turning back and  reaching for Eamon, whose feet seemed rooted to the floor. A sorrowful look passed between Eamon and me before he was dragged out, and the heavy doors clicked shut.

"So you are the bastard that claims to be family," Alaric spat, his words venomous and sharp. 

The Marquess' cane struck the ground with a resounding crack, a punctuation to the tension that vibrated through the chamber. 

"You will not address her with such language, Alaric." His reprimand was a thunderclap, silencing his son.

"Bastards are illegitimate children, but my parents were lawfully married. Or are you insinuating that my mother had me out of wedlock?" 

I corrected him. I had tried to remember Lord Abernathy's advice of not taking Alaric's words personally, but I had opted for violence instead.

Alaric’s gaze pierced me before swiveling back to his father. 

"How are you so easy to accept that she is—"

"Look at her eyes," the Marquess interrupted, pointing a finger towards me.

"That doesn’t prove anything," Alaric growled, defiance lacing his tone. "I do not have the Kildare green eyes nor my children. Are you saying that we are not your blood?"

The Marquess sighed, the weight of his years pressing down upon him. 

"You know perfectly well the rules of succession for this family; you accepted them at your coming-of-age ceremony."

"Edith is pregnant; this time, the child could have—" Alaric's hopeful declaration hung in the air, snatched away by the Marquess’ swift interjection.

"Even if that were the case, she is still the eldest;  she would still be the successor." The Marquess’ voice carried a finality that brooked no argument.

Yet, Alaric's desperation clawed its way out, his words stumbling over themselves. 

"There must be another way to prove with certainty if she is a Kildare. Other than her eyes, she doesn’t even look like us."

He was right. 

Though my eyes were the signature Kildare green seen in all the portraits of past Marquess', everything else about me—from my high cheekbones, the rich umber hue of my hair, and the warm bronze of my skin—told the story of my father’s heritage, of lands distant and customs foreign to the aristocratic lineage of the Kildares.

Alaric pressed on, his gaze sharp and searching, "The king possesses an artifact, the Sanguine Chalice, said to reveal the blood ties of those who place their blood in it. We can use it to ascertain her claim."

The Marquess regarded his son, his grey eyebrows knitting together as he considered the proposition, while I felt the breath catch in my throat.

The Sanguine Chalice— an object I had only read of in forgotten magical tomes.

"Very well," the Marquess conceded, the words slicing through the tension like a blade. "We shall seek the king’s indulgence and put the matter to rest."