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“Because they knew something.” Bastian stands up to inspect the books. “Something he didn’t want discovered.”

Lark’s lips part, and she snaps her fingers. “The crypt under Cyphero’s temple.”

A knock at the door interrupts us.

Agnar strides over to answer it, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his sword as befits his training. He opens the door to Helene, who’s flanked by two scribes carrying more journals bound in leather and stained with a dark substance that might be blood. “I brought what you asked for, Councilor Bennett.”

Agnar shifts aside so they can enter.

The scribes deposit their burdens on the table and leave without a word, dismissed by Helene’s imperious nod.

She ventures farther into the room. “The journals of the murdered scientist-priests. We’ve been translating them.”

Lark gestures to an empty chair. “Join us. Please.”

Helene sinks into the seat, and one by one, we reach for the journals, spreading them open and scanning their bloodstained pages for anything useful.

Agnar squints at the cramped script. “Gods, this handwriting.”

“Well,” Lark flips a page, not bothering to look up, “they were scientists, not calligraphers.”

I scan pages of diagrams, equations, and observations. The scientist-priests recorded changes in prayer-response patterns, documented the growth of crystalline formations, and noted fluctuations in magical energy during religious ceremonies.

“Look at this.” Bastian points to a detailed illustration of what appears to be a crystal growth. “These formations that appeared in the temples grew in specific patterns based on the type of prayers offered.”

A memory flashes through my mind. The diamond waterfall that Rivlan sent to us as a wedding gift. The cold emanating from the frozen structure.

Something about that visual bothers me, though I can’t pinpoint why.

When Lark speaks, I almost believe she read my mind. She sits up and rolls her neck from side to side, her eyes distant. “The diamond waterfall gift. That thing was frozen and had to stay cold. Why? What does freezing do?”

We glance at each other in shared confusion.

“Holds things in place?” Leesa suggests.

Bastian gestures to the breakfast spread on the table. “Preserves food.”

My head snaps up as the connection forms. “Preservation.”

Lark frowns, tilting her head to stare at the books and journals. “ What are these formations preserving? And for whom?”

Bastian shuffles through more of the scientist-priests’ notes, using his finger to keep his place. “They grow during prayers and ceremonies.”

Rafe’s expression darkens. “When people are most devout.”

Agnar frowns. “Most connected to the gods? They pulsed in the portal.” He opens and closes his hands. “Like little heartbeats.”

“Listen to this.” Helene reads a passage aloud. “‘The gods aren’t helping us.’”

“We couldn’t figure out the end of that part.” Lark drums her fingers on the table before stopping abruptly. “Wait…what if that last line is something like ‘they’re feeding on us’?”

The reaction is immediate and visceral.

Everyone recoils as if the journals themselves are diseased, contaminated by the awful truth they contain…one even worse than the blood soaked into the pages. Leesa’s olive skin pales, and her hand flies to her mouth while Agnar curses under his breath.

“That’s what the Guardian said at the portal.” Lark turns to me. “‘If you’re so fed up with the gods, stop giving them so much power.’”

“‘And they won’t have so much power.’” I remember the moment with perfect clarity. “It wasn’t metaphorical.”