Marlevianne half floated, half walked across the chamber threshold, grazing her transparent hand across the wall. "Rauvuren were warriors," she began, "brave and strong, made up of ten separate clans with Korva Clan, the fliers, as their ruler. Lady Korvrelie en Vauphnen and her husband reigned. They were your parents."

Wescherlie wiped her tears. "I really am a Lady?"

"Time and again, they defended against various threats," Marlevianne continued. "Dangers would not subside. Still, they refused to leave the land in which they were born. Soon, the nestlers, Yava Clan, became the only clan beside Korva. Rauvuren lived in Poppintum for many decades."

Cypur knew Rauvuren lived in the Fourth Ring with the evil Kathula, but not before that. This was hidden history. Perhaps, something that Sorcerers were not proud of. Especially back then when racial pride was an all-time high. Wescherlie released his hand and touched the wall of the chamber, lifting her gaze to where her parents remains sat. Marlevianne's soft voice echoed around them.

"It was a secret war, but Korva found out beforehand and helped Yava Clan escape, holding us back. I was there to support my husband, an Arch. Only the fliers were left. They knew they were going to die but knew they were stronger than Yava to hold us back. It was a Rauvuren Massacre."

She went on to say that Yava would later be found in a place now known as Rauvuren Trude, or Rauvuren Yava. They were truly the last of Rauvuren as the massacre left no survivors.

"Except for one." She pointed to Wescherlie. "The Little Lady of Korva, Wescherlie Kor Vauphnen."

Wescherlie's voice trembled when she spoke. "Who killed my parents?" she said each word carefully as if afraid to ask. When he reached for her hand, she pulled away. "You do know?"

A key rolled to their feet. "It is an old key to the Library of Eternals and Deaths, but I'm sure it'll still work. The name of all those involved in the massacre would be listed with the names of the Rauvuren they killed. These may look like graves with the skulls as the only remnants of Korva," Marlevianne gestured, "but they are trophies."

With a gasp, Wescherlie lunged, but Cypur held her back. "You damned wench!" she shrieked, struggling against his hold. He pinned her arms behind her back. "I'll kill you all the way!"

Marlevianne gave a small smile. "Not mine. The Archs who were involved. My husband already killed me. He knew I saw who took you from the arms of your mother. I refused to tell him for the slim chance you could be mine." Even in half death, her eyes turned black in aesthetic possession.

"Who took her?" Cypur demanded as Wescherlie collapsed to the ground in heap of sobs.

"Danisilus rí Charmteller took her. Did he kill your parents then?" Marlevianne curled her lip in a snarl and her body was more transparent. She was beginning to fade and die all the way. "You'll find his name in the library and the names of Rauvuren Korva he killed."

His heart pounded. Charmteller was the one Daero warned him about. The Arch involved in the Faud experiment using Cypur as his victim. Now he had returned to the Fourth Ring somehow. But Daero didn't say anything about a Rauvuren massacre. If Marlevianne was telling the truth, not just Cypur, but Wescherlie would also be in danger. An aesthetically possessive Arch was not the level of magick Cypur could deal with.

Wescherlie would be in danger. The best course of action would be to force her to stay with Daero for a couple weeks after confirming the facts at the library. Cypur would sort out this business with Charmteller. Maybe fight him in aesthetic debate. Sorcerers often dueled that way instead of a physical fight. He'd watched enough shows to know how it was done.

But what if that wasn't enough?

"She's gone? Forever?"

Wescherlie's scurrying footsteps brought him back to the present. Marlevianne had faded before he knew it. All traces of her magick were gone.

"Cypur, no offense, but I hate Sorcerers." Wescherlie gave a faint smile and kicked the wall. "Damn, I really do."

He sighed, shaking his head. He wished he couldn't agree with her, but time and again, his own race let him down. "I do, too. Even half-dead ones are awful." What was he expecting? A kind old Leovra Sorcerer giving them wisdom and advice? Showering them with smiles and telling them everything would be alright?

Now that is a fantasy. He gave a wry smile.

The lights in the chamber, one by one nicked out. Cypur called a light spell and guided them back down the narrow passageway and to the spiraling stairs. Wescherlie called down the hall in a mournful tone, words he didn't understand but the sadness held heavy in the air. At last, they emerged from the ground and the base of the fountain slid closed, forever shutting away the memory of Korva.

For a moment, they both stood before the fountain as the fog rolled in. A tingle of magick in the air, a sparkle of orange, and they were in a Poppintum bustling with Sorcerers. Cypur quickly took Wescherlie into an alley. Concealed in the dark, he stared out at the square. The fountain was polished and new, unlike the old ruined one they saw. Yellow-gold lights decorated a bird statue on top. Children ran by laughing and chattering about Carnival.

Where they had been, he realized, was only a memory. It had to be Wescherlie's return to Poppintum that triggered it. But how? So little was known about magick-induced memories. What was known was the no one could create a magick-induced memory. It all had to do with being there at the right moment, but even the right moment was inconsistent.

"It's like an illusion," Wescherlie whispered, fingering the key Marlevianne gave them, "but not quite."

"Charmteller," she whispered and dried her eyes with the back of her hand. "If it is him, and if he's not dead, I'm going to find him and kill him. And you can't stop me."

Cypur pressed his boot against the wall behind. He debated about telling her. But what good would it do? His problem with Charmteller had nothing to do with her and there was still the chance Wescherlie's past had nothing to do with Charmteller. What were the chances of that? Besides, there were more pressing matters here.

The last of the species in my hands. He refrained from biting his lip, showing his nerves. Wescherlie suddenly looked precious. He wanted to tell her to go back to Ulk Pyne to be safe. Preserve her species instead of heading into danger. But he knew she would refuse with all her might. So, instead, he snatched the key from her hand.

"Well, turn into a raven, Wes. Let's go to the Library of Eternals and Deaths." He smiled. "Rhymed, didn't it?"

Wescherlie nodded and transformed. In his ear she said, "You've really grown into yourself. Thank you back there." She nudged her head against his.

Pride filled his chest, ballooning until he felt as if he were floating. But he quickly grounded himself as he fixed his messy illusion hair—long, black, and unnatural to him—and lifted his head in Sorcerer pride. The fake type. He would act his part and get them there without having anyone ask questions. No problem.

Be a Narsy. A big old ugly Narsy. Cold and mean. Cypur left the comforts of the shadows and set out into the crowd, slipping easily into the hoard on their way to Wegginfaezerie. He noted on a poster it was the last day of Carnival. They were in luck. The last day always had some special performance that everyone would go to.

He briefly turned to Wescherlie to give a reassuring smile. Her beak curved up, returning the smile, but her eyes remained sad as if the fog from the memory had shrouded her in mourning. He couldn't fathom what it must feel like to find out that after all this time, you were the only one left alive.

* * *

Cypur slipped away from the crowd when the streets slipped to Zarkentauf. Since he was with Zarkentauf citizens, the guards at the entrance didn't even bat an eyelash at him as he moved with the rest. The disguise was working but didn't have much time. Daero had warned it only lasted for a few hours. Because of the memory being in a frozen time, Cypur only had fifteen minutes left and they were still far from the Library of Eternals and Deaths.

Orbs of light dislodged from atop lanterns, slipping around corners in the direction Cypur had to go. It was as if they were guiding him which wouldn't be right. No one knew he was here or for what reason. Cypur licked his dry lips, and his palms were sweating. Wescherlie leapt from her perch and flew ahead. She quickly doubled back, hitting his chest.

"Hide me!" she hissed, trying to bury herself under his cape. Talons slipped through his pant leg.

"What are you doing?" he whispered, but soon found out. A long black boot appeared from out behind a three-story stone house. Following, long white hair flowing forward in an icy breeze that nipped at his skin. Chrisma fèi Kaliophenous stepped out into the alley. Her white skin almost glowed in the darkness. Cypur nearly stopped walking, but he kept his cool, hiding Wescherlie the Raven in his cape. He kept going, not stopping as if Chrisma had not startled the lights out of him.

Keep calm. Keep calm. He hid his emotions, keeping his gaze straight ahead. Chrisma had the Junior Bounty Hunters trailing after her like loyal dogs. To many Sorcerers, the group was frowned upon. Many looked down on her no matter their rank while some with more twisted aesthetics looked up to her rather rebellious ways.

Don't talk to me. I'm just off to Carnival. Avoiding the crowd. You know you can get there this way, too. He kept his mind racing with excuses, not that she could read his thoughts.

"Good evening," she said, and his heart sank. They were about to pass and go on without a conversation. Why did she have to go and say something? "Lost your mommy, little boy?" The Junior Bounty Hunters snickered.

And why does it have to be an insult? Cypur gritted his teeth. "Good evening, Missus. Taking a shortcut," he said.

"To Carnival," she said with a scoff. "From here."

Not a question but a statement, she was trying to make him feel stupid. Wescherlie's talons dug in his thigh, and he held back a wince. He knew what she was trying to do, but he was tongue-tied. He had to get her back, ward her off, be on his way.

"Your face," Chrisma said, and he sucked in his lips hoping she didn't recognize him, "aesthetically pleasing structure." A shiver ran up his spine as a probing icy wind slinked up his sleeve and slipped across his skin. It reminded him of that handsy fashion designer he was often made to put up with.

"So, beautiful," she whispered, and a shadow drifted across her pale-blue irises. Aesthetic possession. If she started, she wouldn't stop and then Wescherlie would be put in danger.

Cypur snatched out his dagger, slashing her cheek. She leapt back with a cry, but the wound quickly healed. Calmly, he put the dagger away and straightened his back. When he spoke, he lowered his voice.

"Missus Bounty Hunter," he said with a snarl, "You are wasting my time." He made a point to trail his gaze from her feet to the top of her head, arching his brow in disbelief. To the Junior Bounty Hunters, he gave a side glare.

Curling his lip, he spat, "Pathetic!" Then with a flick of his cape, he stalked away as if he had been tremendously offended.

Cypur kept on the stiff demeanor until he turned the corner.

"Starlights," he whispered and wanted to stop walking and crumble to the ground, but he kept going. His heart was pounding so hard he thought it might burst. The palms of his hands were sweaty, and tears formed in his eyes in sudden relief. He could have slipped up any time. She could have been smart enough to notice it was him. Things could have gone totally wrong, but they didn't.

Wescherlie squirmed out from his cape and settled on his shoulder.

"The look on her face," she whispered with a snicker. "Well done, partner."

"Yeah, I did good." He gave her a lopsided smile, still nervous that Chrisma might come running after him. He picked up pace until he was running the rest of the way, not caring what anyone thought of what he was up to. Away from Chrisma and the Junior Bounty Hunters, hoping to never see them again.

As he ran and the cool breeze brushed through his hair, he began to feel the tingles of magick on his scalp, indicating Daero's transformation spell was running out of steam. Cypur had to at least get to the Library of Eternals and Deaths transformed even if they couldn't make it out in disguise.

But I did it. He gave a giddy smile as it sunk in. Whether she noticed me or not, I stood up to her.

It wasn't long before they came upon a silvery, glowing building, too many stories high, disappearing into the clouds. The giant moon, full as always, shone behind it like a sun. This silvery spectacle was the High Collection Police, Sorcerer Faction's headquarters. All the laws of Sorcerer society were made in there. It was the base for the annoying policewoman who was at least polite to those she was trying to catch. But the windows were dark tonight for she would be busy with Carnival policing.

And stay there all night long, please. Cypur bit his lip, not wanting to hear her 'excuse me!' which would ruin their plan of going in and getting out quick.

Close behind headquarters was the library, a tall, dark silhouette. Literally dark, too. It was painted all black, and even the windows had black curtains keeping light out and depression in. Cypur always thought the name needed an upgrade. For centuries it was called the Library of Eternals and Deaths.

Why couldn't it be called the Archives? Makes more sense.

"Like a square raven," Wescherlie whispered, flexing her talons on his shoulder. He pressed a finger to the edge of her beak and then to his own lips. The entrance was deserted and only stale magick indicated someone had guarded the library a few days ago at least. The front door was locked, but luckily Cypur had the key.

"Enemy territory," he said in the quietest whisper he could manage. Wescherlie nodded with a smile spreading across her beak and began bouncing in place and swinging her head side to side. He coughed a quiet laugh at her excitement. Despite the grim truth she'd just heard about her fliers and parents, he knew she was probably relieved to finally find out the truth of her race and who did it. No more worrying, wondering, stressing about it. It was contagious. Cypur walked up to the door in rhythm.

One-two, and three. Step-pen, chellia. I should really be careful around here, he thought with a grin. Good or bad, awesome or grim, finally, they would have their answers. He slipped the key in the lock and turned. The soft click was music to his ears. Once inside, there was no reason for Wescherlie to stay a raven with the black curtains pulled shut.

"Well," she whispered, rocking on her heels, "you have to teach me steppenchellia once we get out of here. I only know a bit."

"Oh, I will." He adjusted his cape and slipped the key in his pocket. "Now let's check the directory." He lifted his gaze then, marveling at the structure. All the landings of the floors were visible. It was like a circular tunnel inside a square chute.

At the elevator directory, they found a room called 'The Old History' on the fourth floor which seemed likely to have what Wescherlie was looking for, and 'Adoption Room' on the tenth floor. Promising to meet up at the first floor, they parted ways. Wescherlie would fly to the fourth and Cypur would take the elevator which turned on at the touch of his magick.

"I do think we should stick together," he said, frowning as she lifted herself up. It was fascinating to watch her fly without transforming. How could she lift her entire body with those wings?

"You're turning gold," she said with a laugh, and he touched his hair as the illusion faded, revealing his familiar golden locks, "I hated the black on you. And I'll be fine and there's no one here. And I'll be done quick, so you don't dilly-dally either, alright? See you later, partner."

"Yeah, later." Cypur lifted his hand in a wave as she flew. Alone to his task, nerves zipped through his chest and accelerated his hammering heart. Selfishly, he wanted her to come with him.

Each step to the elevator, he wanted to back down. Cypur forced himself to press 'X' and the doors closed. Was he really going to find out the truth? After all these years of being the outcast, the strange one, and the literal golden boy, he would finally figure out why he was different from other Sorcerers. Gold magick didn't do him any good. Even made him Arch experiment material. Who were his parents? Where was he from?

I'm not ready, he thought a moment too late. The elevator had arrived at floor ten and the doors slid open.