The Five Realms

Chapter 33: Beanca V

Chapter 33: The Weight of Names

The air smelled like dust, starlight, and old promises.

Beanca kept her arms crossed as she leaned against one of the obsidian book pillars, trying not to show how itchy the atmosphere made her feel. The others were scattered through the chamber, each transfixed by floating tomes that hovered toward them like dream-summoned familiars. Steven's book had cracked open and begun to write itself. Joey cradled his like a relic. Fate's glowed like sunrise. Even Chyna—tight-lipped and still simmering—held hers as if it might vanish.

Beanca rolled her eyes. "This is ridiculous," she muttered, more to Solin than anyone else.

The direwolf pup nuzzled against her leg, his fur prickling. She followed his gaze and froze.

There it was. Alone. Quiet.

A book bound in mossy green leather sat at the edge of the circle. Its cover was laced with silver bark-like ridges, and the symbol of a wolf pressed into its surface pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat under frost. Emeraldsa—her green-scaled dragon—had already crept toward it, her nostrils flaring with quiet interest.

Beanca straightened, scowling. "That doesn't mean anything," she whispered, though no one had said it did.

But the book... shifted. Just slightly. Like a leaf catching wind. It didn't fly toward her—it waited. As if it knew she hated being cornered.

A low growl escaped Solin's throat—urgent, insistent. His eyes glowed faint silver.

Beanca took one slow step, then another. The closer she got, the colder the air felt—sharp, clean, northern. It smelled like winter bark and pine ash. Like home.

She reached for the book. The instant her fingers brushed the surface, a pulse of silent sound hit her chest. Not painful—but deep, like a bell tolling underground.

The Bonewood Legacy.

She didn't like how it felt in her hands. Too heavy. Too knowing. It was the kind of book that didn't tell stories—it exposed them.

"Of course," she muttered, lips tight. "Stupid book about wolves and trees and death."

She tucked it under her arm, refusing to meet anyone's gaze. But Emeraldsa brushed her snout against Beanca's side, and Solin gave a tiny, approving chuff.

It wasn't comfort. It was confirmation.

And that was somehow worse.

They stood in a ring, all of them now marked.

Joey clutched his like a soldier holds a banner—confident, maybe too confident. Chyna's floated just beside her palm, unreadable as she was. Steven held his open, expression furrowed like he'd read something invisible. Fate looked pale, reverent. Even Murtagh's book—sleek and red-black like obsidian fire—hovered obediently behind his shoulder. Only Beanca kept hers tucked under her arm like an accusation she wasn't ready to voice.

Arya stepped into the circle, her green cloak trailing just behind her. "Do not ask these books for answers," she said, voice low, echoing in the library dome. "They are not instruction. They are reflection."

Beanca narrowed her eyes. "What's the difference?"

Arya met her gaze. "One tells you what to do. The other shows you who you already are."

Steven rubbed the back of his neck. "So basically... we're carrying magical therapy journals."

Fate chuckled softly. Chyna didn't.

Arya knelt before the stone pedestal in the room's center. "You may not open them yet. Not here. This place holds echoes. Too much reading, too soon... might draw the wrong kind of attention."