Shadows Beneath the Crown

CHAPTER 14 : THE NAME IN THE SILENCE

I didn’t want to go back.

Not to the whispers. Not to the weight of Orion’s words still clinging to me like a second skin.

So I wandered.

Let my footsteps carry me someplace quieter. Safer.

Someplace I could pretend I didn’t feel anything at all.

The library greeted me with that familiar hush—cool and dim, like time moved differently here. The scent of old paper and candle wax calmed the thrum in my chest, just a little. Enough to pretend I was fine.

I text Lira to meet me in the liblary.

But the truth was, I didn’t want to be found.

I let my feet move on their own, past the front desk and down the narrower aisles, where the lanterns flickered softer and the shelves leaned in a little closer—like they held secrets too heavy for daylight.

I didn’t stop until I reached the back.

The farthest corner. The place we weren’t really supposed to go.

I paused at the boundary—marked by a velvet rope and a small brass plaque that read:

ARCHIVAL SECTION. Authorized Access Only.

I knew what this area was.

Professors came here. Scholars. Students with special permission.

But not me.

Still… something tugged at me. A faint itch under my skin. Like a whisper just out of earshot, saying look.

I hesitated.

Then ducked under the rope.

The silence deepened.

This part of the library felt colder. Still, somehow—like even the dust hadn’t dared to settle too loudly. The shelves were taller, the books thicker. Bound in leather, etched with strange symbols, some locked shut with iron clasps.

I shouldn’t be here.

And yet…

My eyes skimmed the rows, slowly. One book caught my attention—not because it was big or bright. But because it felt... still. Like it was holding its breath, waiting.

It sat slightly off-center, tucked between volumes too tall for it. Dark green leather, edges worn. No title on the spine. Just a symbol on the front:

A crown. Cracked down the middle.

I stared at it.

The longer I looked, the less it felt like a choice.

My hand lifted. Hovered. Then touched it.

A shiver ran through me.

The moment my fingers brushed the cover, the air around me seemed to shift—thicker, older. I wasn’t sure if it was real or just in my head, but the silence pressed closer. Like the whole room was listening.

I drew a breath.

And opened it.

The pages were stiff with age, but the ink was clear—faded to brown, but elegant, curling across the parchment in looping script.

Varentia.

That was the first word. Centered. Crowned with gold leaf that caught the lantern light.

I blinked.

Then read again.

VARENTIA.

Its a name of a neighboring kingdom.

The parchment felt fragile under my fingers.

Every page looked older than time itself, stained with age, edges fraying like they’d been turned by generations of hands before mine. I wasn’t sure why I kept reading. I just... couldn’t stop.

The words pulled me in, soft and strange:

“Varentia, once known as the Kingdom of Light, stood untouched for centuries.

Its towers reached the sky, crowned with silver.

Its people spoke in riddles and remembered in dreams.

And at its heart—its blood—the royal line.”

I leaned closer.

The script curled on the page like it was breathing.

“The Varentia royal family were more than rulers. They were Keepers of Memory—each monarch tied to the land through blood and sacrifice. The throne did not pass by inheritance, but by bond. Those who remembered most vividly... ruled.”

What did that mean?

Remembered most vividly?

A part of me wanted to laugh. Another part—deeper, quieter—felt cold.

Like the book knew something I didn’t. Like it was waiting for me to catch up.

I turned another page.

There—lined in faded ink—was a list.

Names.

A lineage.

Each one followed by short, chilling descriptions.

Liriycus Varentia – the first King. Brought the bloodstone.

Seren Varentia – the Dreaming Queen. Her reign was silence.

Elias Varentia – the Mirror King. Buried without reflection.

Amara Varentia –

I stopped.

The moment my eyes landed on the name, something in my chest gave a strange little jolt.

Amara Varentia.

There was no picture. No description.

Just the name, centered in the middle of the page.

Like the ink had run out. Or the writer simply... stopped.

I stared at it.

Longer than I should’ve.

My eyes kept going back to it, over and over. Like there was something I was supposed to remember. Or something I had already forgotten.

Amara.

There was something familiar about it. Not the name itself, but the way it sat on the page.

Like a pause. A breath held.

I didn't realize how long I'd been staring until the lantern above flickered. Once. Then again.

Time had passed.

Too much of it.

I blinked, heart lurching.

Lira.

She was supposed to meet me.

I fumbled for my pocket watch. The minute hand had crept far past the time she said she'd come.

A sharp sting of embarrassment settled in my chest. Maybe she forgot. Or maybe she just... changed her mind.

I closed the book softly.

Stood there for a moment, uncertain.

Then placed it back exactly where I found it—though it felt wrong to leave it behind. Like I was closing something that had just begun to open.

My fingers hovered over the spine.

Amara Varentia.

The name clung to me.

Even as I slipped out of the archive section. Even as I crossed the hushed library floor.

Even as I quietly exiting the liblary, pretending I hadn’t just seen something that would change everything.

But as I stepped out of the liblary, I nearly collided with someone.

I froze.

My heart did a sharp, sick twist in my chest.

Orion.

He was leaning against the opposite wall like he’d been waiting. Like he knew exactly where I’d be. His arms were crossed, posture deceptively casual, but his eyes locked onto mine with a quiet intensity that made it impossible to breathe.

He just watched me, like I was a puzzle he couldn’t stop trying to solve.

"Still avoiding me," he said, voice low, even.

I tried to step around him.

He moved smoothly to block me, not aggressive—just... deliberate.

"I have my reasons," I muttered.

"Is it because of what I said?"

I didn’t answer.

"Belle." He tilted his head slightly. "I meant it."

My jaw clenched.

I didn’t want to hear this. Not again. Not now. Not when my mind was already unraveling from the I read and the strange woman's name and everything else I didn’t understand.

"You don’t even know me," I snapped, harsher than I meant.

"I know enough."

I scoffed. "You’ve known me for a month."

He didn’t flinch. Just held my gaze, steady and maddening.

"A month’s enough to know when something’s real."

I felt the ground shift under me. Not literally—but it might as well have. Because he said it so calmly, so confidently, like he believed it.

Like I should believe it too.

I hated that my chest ached.

I hated that my throat tightened.

And most of all, I hated him—for saying the things I wanted to hear when I’d already made the decision not to.

I forced the words out. "Well, it isn’t to me."

It was a lie.

I stepped around him this time, forcing my legs to move even though everything inside me screamed to stay still. To turn back. To say something—anything—before I drowned in the silence between us.

But I didn’t.

I walked.

Orion didn’t follow immediately. I heard his sigh, soft but sharp, like it cut through his teeth.

But then—of course—his footsteps echoed behind mine. Unhurried. Taunting.

“Where are you going?” he called.

“Work.”

“Ah. Of course.” He fell into step beside me, just a half-step too close. “Back to scrubbing dishes. A thrilling escape.”

I glared at him without slowing. “Some of us have actual responsibilities.”

“And some of us just enjoy bothering you.”

I huffed. “Well, congratulations. You’re doing a fantastic job.”

He smirked. “You think so? I was starting to worry you’d gone numb.”

I stopped at the kitchen doors and turned sharply to face him. “Why are you still here?”

He didn’t even pretend to be insulted. “Because I’m invested in your character development.”

“Orion.”

“What?”

I shot him a glare, but he just smiled—calm, maddening, too smug for his own good.

I shoved open the kitchen doors and marched inside.

The moment I tied on my apron, it was like flipping a switch. The smells of baking bread and tomato sauce hit me in the face. Dishes clanked in the background. Sinks hissed. Voices rose and fell.

My place.

My peace.

I ducked behind the prep counter, washing my hands like I wasn’t internally combusting.

Then I felt it.

A soft thump beside me.

A folded piece of paper.

I looked up. Orion stood across the counter, already backing away like he’d never been there at all.

“What is this?” I asked warily, picking it up.

He just winked. “Fuel. For someone who skips meals like it’s a sport.”

I slowly unfolded the paper.

And froze.

Inside was a list. Not a note. Not an apology. A list.

Neat, angular handwriting. Probably his.

stationary from Fauchon

Godiva dark truffles

Matcha nama chocolate (from that Kyoto shop, I think?)

Caramel mille-feuille

The cookies you always stare at in the display case but never buy

At the bottom, scribbled like an afterthought:

“Pick one. I’ll bring it tomorrow.”

I stared at the paper.

Then at him.

Then back at the paper.

My fists crumpled the edge before I could stop them.

“What is this supposed to be?” I hissed.

“A bribe,” he said casually. “Or a peace offering. Depends on how dramatic you’re feeling.”

I wanted to throw it at him.

I wanted to scream.

Instead, I shoved it into my pocket and muttered, “You’re insane.”

But I didn’t throw it away.

I didn’t even look at the trash can.

I just stood there, furious, flustered, and fighting the stupid smile that tried to creep onto my face.

Damn him.