Page 101 of The Last Remaining Light

When Caelyn had asked where he might find a place to stay, a young Astrari merchant directed him toward an inn tucked within the lower eastern terraces, not far from the trade bridges.

"Travelers disappear into the crowds there," the merchant had said with a shrug. "No one pays much attention to another laborer."

Concern made his stomach drop when he spotted the inn. The entire building leaned precariously toward the cliff, as though only stubbornness kept it standing. Inside, the air reeked of damp stone, stale smoke, and cheap ale.

No one looked twice at him. No one asked questions. That alone made it suitable.

The first night was miserable. He expected the raucous laughter and shouted arguments down in the common room would keep him awake. But he was bone tired and fell into a deep sleep.

It didn’t last.

Bells before dawn, Caelyn woke, gasping. Frost had spread across the walls surrounding his bed.

It hadn’t been ordinary frost. This frost had blackened at the edges, and it took half a bell for it to disappear. Caelyn had never seen such a thing, and he had no answers for what had happened, nor did he have anyone to ask.

By the second sun in Veylspire, Caelyn understood two things very clearly.

First—Elowynn belonged here now. He saw her name everywhere.

Scholars debated the Selvicta prodigy within bustling market corridors. Observatory notices referenced her demonstrations. Even merchants traded stories about “the Astrari woman who manipulates astrylite without focusing rods.”

Pride warred painfully against something darker each time he heard her name. She had done it.

She had become extraordinary.

The second thing he understood—Korvel Thorne was no longer simply a name from her letters.

The man surfaced constantly in noble gossip surrounding the upcoming Frostfall Gala. He was a Council affiliate and from an influential family. He was politically connected.

And, according to a cluster of giggling noblewomen near the Spire, "dangerously charming."

Caelyn wasn’t inclined to believe them.

By the third sun, he finally saw the upper observatory districts. One look was enough to convince him he did not belong here.

The Frostfall Gala would take place in the Zenith Hall atop the western observatory terraces, where nobles, scholars, Council officials, and the most influential members of the Conclave and Collegium gathered beneath formidable security. Infiltration would be difficult.

Caelyn had already decided he was going.

The challenge was simply figuring out how.

The answer arrived unexpectedly that very evening.

Or, more accurately, Agatha had apparently solved the problem before he even left Lumenshire.

A courier arrived at mid-bell carrying a letter addressed to him, along with explicit instructions that it was not to be delivered until the third sun after his arrival in Veylspire.

That sounded exactly like Agatha.

Which meant she had planned this.

Growing suspicious, Caelyn accepted the letter and broke the seal. Several silver coins spilled into his palm alongside the neatly folded note. He pocketed the coins before unfolding it.

Stop brooding and purchase proper clothing.

—S.A.

Caelyn slowly lifted his head and looked around the crowded street, half expecting Agatha to be standing nearby with her arms folded and that disapproving look she wore so well.