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The library was the only place where Tempest could genuinely wind down and finally be at peace.
Things were already draining enough as it were, what with imbecilic complaints about stained dresses and incessant demands to extend the duration of tea parties.
Tempest did not desire more trouble, yet chaos seemed to have a way of constantly creeping up on her when she least expected it.
Rumor had it that, while Tyrian and Idril Raith were, well, in an intimate position, they heard an animalistic noise, followed by the sound of glass shattering. When they looked down the broken window, however, they were met with nothing but eerie silence.
Be that as it may, the morning of the following day the Raiths sent their daughter, Sylvia, to investigate Aularia's Sylvas, where the noise came from. On the verge of giving up, Sylvia groaned and leaned down to pick up a tulip.
There, she saw a piece of frayed fabric tangled in the bush.
Only a Destitute would wear clothes in such a pathetic state. Only a Destitute would be capable of abusing magic.
So that's what Tempest was preoccupied with in the library. Rummaging through dusty books, desperately hoping to solve this frustrating mystery. Surely it was merely an ordinary Destitute attempting to steal from the palace. Because Visabutents, ominous power hecklers, were purely villains in tales meant to frighten children... right?
Now Tempest was not so convinced. Ugh, why did she have to complicate things so much?! She could already hear her mother's shrill voice ringing in her ears "I told you, Temper, overthinking NEVER solved anyone's issues. Why don't you just treat yourself to a manicure?" And then she would let out one of these childish giggles of hers. Classic.
Was she wrong, though? It was past midnight and, having done nothing but overthink, Tempest had achieved absolutely nothing. Maybe dealing with petulant, fashion-obsessed mothers was not quite so dreadful. At least it wouldn't involve Tempest racking her brain for a nonexistent answer to a vapid problem.
Consequently, Tempest shut the bulky book, which blew a gust of dust in her face, and stood up, cracking her aching knuckles and running a hand through her mauve hair.
She was about to exit the vast library, when she heard a daunting shriek, followed by the spine-chilling wobbling of the ground beneath her. Books tumbled and bookcases quaked alarmingly. Tempest could have sworn she saw some novels darken and grow fangs, ready to bite into her flesh. She remembered a line she had read earlier that night "Visabutents have the ability to impurify something pure, tarnish something angelic and transform it within a few seconds into something sinister. Their curses help no soul. They don't have a power of their own. They simply abuse our beloved power to turn our dreamy world into a nightmare." Tempest had snorted, thinking of the words as a ridiculously efficient way of causing little kids to wet their undergarments. But now... now she knew this was no fable.
And then... quiet. Disconcertingly so. Tempest pivoted on one heel unhurriedly and bit back a gasp, her violet eyes widening.
Dark, slimy liquid that resembled blood was sprawled all over the rug. Was she hallucinating? Was this some kind of twisted jest?
Didn't matter. She was the Princess of Aularia, for raven's sake. But most importantly, she was the Umbra, a spy whose identity was unknown to the public, a name that caused people's hair to rise. She was going to unravel this riddle. But she couldn't risk going out to Penuria, where the Destitutes lived. She had to fetch her trustworthy Lieutenant, Ven. She was the one that embarked on special missions on behalf of the Princess. Tempest couldn't help but feel a deep sense of gratitude for Ven... not that she would tell her.
With that thought in mind, Tempest stormed off the library to warn her Lieutenant.
