Book 11: Piece of Cake

Misty

Spring.

Crescent Falls has erupted with spring blooms. The weather is soft and fair, which has been great, because this past winter royally sucked. I sigh heavily, tilting my face toward the warm sunlight dusting through the library at my parents’ castle and breathing in the warmth, letting it flow over my skin. 

It’s been six months since the war. The war that hasn’t yet been named, hasn’t yet become text in some new editions of our history books. The wounded memories of my time in Tarsian are still fresh enough to send chills licking up my spine if I think about them too deeply, but lately, there’s been a shift–something tangible. Something I can taste. 

Grief has turned to resignation, and resignation turns to conviction while I rise from one of the tables in the library and slip the books I’ve been studying into my messenger bag. 

I’m going to learn how to read the Book of Whispers because I won’t allow what hap