SIGRUN
If the fortress’s library had a search bar, I would have typed How to not accidentally trigger natural disasters with your vâgina into it.
Instead, I was perched six feet in the air on a wooden ladder, swallowing mouthfuls of centuries-old dust.
This universe desperately needed to invent Google.
I pulled a massive, iron-bound tome from the top shelf, squinting at the faded silver lettering on the spine. Disinterested, I slammed it back into its slot, nearly losing my balance as the ladder groaned beneath my satin slippers.
Not what I was looking for. Not even close.
Any book that could explain what the hell I was supposed to do with the ticking time bomb of magic inside my marrow would be fantastic, thank you very much. But so far? The selection was a literal horror show.
