Chapter 189 : Chapter 189

It was a large sheet of parchment, roughly two feet square. Its surface was uneven. Some places were frayed, some were cracked, some had been eaten through by insects into tiny holes. Its color was the yellow of something very old, yellowing into brown, browning into black, as though it had been soaked in time for far too long.

It was covered in writing.

The characters were not in the script commonly used by humans, nor in the Empire’s standard writing system. They curved and twisted, like little snakes swimming across the page, or like some kind of vine growing over the parchment. In some places the ink had faded so badly it was almost illegible. In others it had been blurred by water stains. In still others, something had scratched across it.

Iruya’s pupils contracted slightly.

She recognized it at a glance.

Elven script.

It was the writing she had grown up seeing, the ancient script passed down within her clan for generation after generation. Those curving lines, those rounded turns, those symbols that stood for wind, for trees, for life—she would have recognized them with her eyes closed.

But as her gaze moved slowly across the words, her brow gradually furrowed.

Some of the characters she recognized. They were close to the form of Elven script she still used now, only older, more ornate, more complicated.

But some of the characters she did not recognize at all.

They were completely different from the forms she had learned. They had more strokes, more complex structures, as though they had been wrapped layer upon layer by time itself. She stared at one of them for a long while and vaguely guessed it might mean forest, but she could not be sure.

This was Elven script from a very long time ago.

Perhaps thousands of years. Perhaps tens of thousands.

The elves of that age had not written the way they did now.

Some things you recognize and yet do not recognize. It was like looking at your ancestors across the gulf of time—familiar, yet strange.

Iruya’s fingers twitched.

She wanted to reach out and touch those words, to feel the texture of the ink beneath her fingertips, to lean closer and breathe in the scent of age itself.

But she restrained herself.

Instead, she lifted her head and looked at Cecilia.

Cecilia was watching her. There was a trace of a smile in those ice-blue eyes, as if she were saying, See? I did not lie to you.

“This was brought out from that ruin,” Cecilia said. “Copied, of course. The original is a stone tablet, and far too large to move.”

She rolled the parchment back up and sealed it once more in that transparent membrane.

Her movements were light and careful, as though she were handling a true treasure.

Iruya stared at the rolled-up parchment after it had been put away, saying nothing.

But something inside her was shifting.

That ruin really was an elven ruin. Those words really had been left behind by elves. Elves from thousands of years ago, perhaps even tens of thousands.

Cecilia had not lied to her.

At least not about this.

The most frightening thing was not being deceived. It was discovering that the other person was telling the truth—because then you no longer had any reason to refuse.

“The Empire is preparing to organize a large-scale expedition,” Cecilia said, her voice still as gentle as ever. “The finest young talents from every region will be selected to go in. As it happens, I have a few places in hand.”

She paused, set the parchment aside, and looked at Iruya.

“I need someone. Someone who can read those words. Someone who can resonate with the things inside that ruin. Someone who can go where those humans cannot, and find the thing I want. In return, I will grant you shelter in the human world. You will not need to worry about your identity being exposed, nor about making a living. You may do as you wish.”

Iruya stared at her.

Fear was still in those violet eyes. So was caution. But there was something else there now too—something strange and difficult to name.

Temptation.

The hardest thing to resist is not fear, but temptation. Fear makes you want to flee. Temptation makes you want to stay.

“What do you want?” she asked, her voice still rough.

Cecilia smiled.

That smile remained as warm and kind as ever, like she were humoring a child who had asked an adorable question.

“You will know when the time comes.”

She reached out and lightly patted the back of Iruya’s hand.

The gesture was soft and gentle. Her fingers were cool, carrying the faint residual warmth of black tea, and they landed on the back of Iruya’s hand like a feather.

Iruya stiffened for a moment, but did not pull away.

“There is no need to answer at once,” Cecilia said. “You still have time to consider it. I will have someone prepare some clothes for you, and a few daily necessities. Rest here for a few days first and let your wounds heal.”

She rose and straightened her skirt. The deep violet silk flowed in the light like a passing shadow.

“Whenever you have made up your mind, you may tell me.”

She turned and walked toward the door.

Her steps were light and steady, making almost no sound on the floorboards. The dark violet hem of her dress trailed behind her like a flowing river.

When she reached the door, she stopped.

Then she turned back and looked at Iruya.

Those ice-blue eyes glimmered in the shadow by the doorway with a very peculiar light.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

She smiled.

“The look in your eyes just now was very interesting.”

Iruya froze.

“I have seen that sort of expression on many faces,” Cecilia said lightly. “Fear, despair, hatred, self-reproach... all mixed together. But in the end, you forced it back down.”

Her eyes curved slightly.

“There are not many who can do that.”

She pushed the door open. Sunlight pressed in through the crack and cast a long band of brightness across the floor.

She walked into that light, and the door closed softly behind her.

Click.

A very quiet sound.

Iruya sat on the bed, staring at that door without moving.

Sunlight filtered in through the gap in the curtains, falling across her, across the bedsheet clenched in her hands.

She lowered her head and looked at her own hand.

It was still held in the same posture as when Cecilia had patted it, slightly curled, the knuckles faintly pale.

Slowly, she relaxed it.

A few deep wrinkles remained in the bedsheet where she had gripped it, like traces left behind by something.