The Devil's Son and His Fated Bride
Chapter 117: Historians’ Tower III

Chapter 117: Historians’ Tower III

Her gaze sharpened instinctively, only to falter as it landed on a stranger, getting closer from the dark.

The man standing at the far end of the hall was equally striking. Singular. He was tall and lean, wrapped in a flowing black robe that set him apart from the other scholars dressed in white. He moved with fluid and carried a deliberate grace.

This man was a black peacock. It strutted in front of them with eerie elegance, its iridescent feathers catching flickers of crystal light, trailing darkness and shimmering with each step.

Ren’s eyes lifted to the man’s features. His straight hair, white streaks running through in stark contrast, shimmered like obsidian beneath the golden-orange glow. His presence demanded attention, not through force, but through the quiet weight of knowledge worn like armor.

Master Doko stopped beside her.

"Milady," he said, bowing his head slightly, "please meet Principal Arcane. He is the master of this tower."

Master Doko’s introduction echoed, and for a moment, Ren thought the marble itself might catch the weight of her surprise. This man wasn’t just a scholar. He was the High Historian, the master of the entire Tower.

Her eyes widened slightly. That title alone meant he’d read every book within these walls. Every scroll. Every hidden fragment of forgotten lore. This wasn’t a mere guardian of knowledge, he was a living archive.

He must be ancient. Perhaps even the same age as the Alpha King or older? That was possible, though.

"Welcome to the Historians’ Tower, Milady," he said, inclining his head with a graceful bow.

His voice was smooth, dusted with something older than respect, reverence. And his eyes, a vivid green, gleamed like polished jade, holding depths she could only begin to imagine.

She wasn’t the first royal to set foot here. That much was obvious. But something about this meeting felt personal as if the Tower itself had opened its heart to her.

Seraphina. Kai’s mother.

Her mind pulled the name like a thread from the past. The great queen who had commanded the Tower’s construction. A woman of vision, whose orders shaped legacies so she could be here. Suddenly, Ren’s gaze snapped to the peacock man, understanding crashed into place.

Oh.

Oh...

It was him. He wasn’t just a scholar. He was the one who had received Seraphina’s order. The one who helped build this place. Brick by brick. Book by book. The Vine and the Rose said it, how could she forget? It was a black shifter bird who helped her collect information.

Of course. The peacock wasn’t just a companion, it was a symbol. A marker of old ties, and ancient loyalties. Heavens above! This wasn’t just a building. This was power. Not the kind men wielded on blood-soaked battlefields, but the quiet, enduring kind. The kind of power stored between pages. This was knowledge, truth, and memory of countless people who were mostly dead.

This was the power people foolishly sought in swords. But Ren had always believed otherwise.

"It is my honor to have the chance to see you," Ren said, dipping her head with sincerity.

Principal Arcane’s gaze shifted past her, landing on the older man behind. "Ah," he murmured, "so you’re the one who’s been recording the recent events from the Vine Castle."

His tone was mild, smooth as aged parchment. Not deep, but soothing, like water gliding over stone, calm enough to lure secrets from the soul. There was no arrogance in his voice. Only quiet wisdom. "And you’re very young," he added, his eyes returning to Ren.

"Yes, Your Reverence," he replied. "The Vine Castle... has been unusually eventful. And I owe my position to milady whose interest in history brought me an opportunity."

A faint smile touched his lips, like someone who had seen the patterns of history repeated too many times.

"I see," he said, nodding thoughtfully. "Then, how can I help you?"

He turned toward the nearest corridor, folding his hands behind his back.

"However," he added with a glance over his shoulder, "I’m afraid I cannot permit free access to everything here unless I’m present. I hope you understand, the books in this venue exist in only one copy. There are no duplicates."

Ren nodded, already knowing why. The more hands that touched the truth, the more likely it would be reshaped, diluted, and twisted. They didn’t even trust their own historians with unrestricted access. Knowledge was a blade, sharpened in silence, dangerous when unleashed.

And still... Why hoard it?

Why let the world stumble in darkness, while clarity gathered dust on sacred shelves? But she didn’t ask. Not yet.

"We understand," she said instead. "I was hoping you might help us find the earliest records on Saint Nimoieth."

Not Lillieth. Not yet. Ren wasn’t ready to walk that path, not while so much remained uncertain. Nimoieth’s revolution had more weight in history. Or so she believed. Lillieth... she remained cloaked in shadows.

Arcane studied her for a long moment.

"Hmm," he said at last, "so you seek the saints. That path is tangled and half-swallowed by myth."

He turned, and the hem of his dark robe brushed the marble floor as he began to walk.

"But myths," he added quietly, "always carry a spine of truth. Buried, yes, but never truly lost."

He turned to Master Roko with a polite but final tone. "You may leave us now."

Without hesitation, the owl man passed him a ring of keys and silently ascended the stairwell. Only when his footsteps had vanished did Principal Arcane step forward, his black robes trailing across the pristine black floor. He moved with slow precision toward the center corridor, calm, composed... yet undeniably commanding. There was discipline behind his gentleness. A man forged in knowledge, not warmth. Seraphina knew how to choose the correct person.

"I have a collection of myths for you, Princess Reneira," he said, then paused. "But I also have something far more intimate, her diary. Something that no one could ever read. She kept it during her time in the lower mortal realms. It appears... she cherished those days."

There was a strange softness in his tone. Admiration? No, more like fascination. Ren’s brow tensed. Was he truly praising that madwoman? That... perverse saint?

Yet somehow, that only deepened her curiosity.

If she could read it from the Saint’s perspective, unfiltered, raw, unadorned by politics or rewritten memory, perhaps she could understand. Was Nimoieth truly evil? Or had something shattered her soul?

They reached a towering wall lined with shelves carved from polished black marble, their surface cold and ageless. The shelves stretched up and up, two hundred rows high, no ladders in sight.

"That row," he said, pointing to the highest tier, "is where what you seek dwells."

Ren tilted her head. Was he going to climb it? Or...

"May I read them all?" she asked, already suspecting the answer.

Arcane nodded and gestured behind her to a square stone table embedded with runes, surrounded by low-backed chairs carved from stone and softened with velvet padding. "Seats are there. I was also told you asked for the records on Lutherieth. Do you want them brought here as well?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice steady. "Please. We need them."

The Principal turned to the uppermost shelf, raised a hand, and flicked his fingers.

A breeze stirred the silence. Then, one by one, books unlatched themselves and began to float, graceful as feathers, deliberate as soldiers, this was magical. They drifted through the air and landed gently on the stone table, aligning themselves in perfect order.

Ren felt the hairs on her arms rise.

This wasn’t human magic. It wasn’t even old-world witchcraft. No, it resonated with something within her, something ancient, something powerful. The kind of magic that hummed through her veins. He had a magic core.

This man... this black-robed peacock...

Who was he? Another half-Fae? Or something even older?

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