The Rejected True Heiress (Liora) novel Chapter 110

Liora

Getting past the staff was too easy.

One smile from Callum’s infuriatingly perfect, eyes crinkling just enough to look genuine, and a quick lie about “supplementary research materials,” and the librarians melted faster than snow in summer.

By the time we were halfway down the hall, I was still waiting for someone to stop us.

“They didn’t even check your story,” I muttered.

He shot me a smug glance. “That’s because it was a good story. And I’m the president.”

“A president who’s corrupt. Break rules often?”

“Pretty sure I’d get my way either way.”

I scoffed. “Right—an average story with a good face behind it.”

“You’re welcome.”

I bit back an eye roll, lips twitching despite myself.

At the far end, the green door waited, paint chipped, brass keyhole gleaming in the dim light. I slid the key in; the lock clicked open, louder than it should have.

Inside, the air shifted. Not dust-and-paper like the main library—colder, sharper, as if untouched for decades. The room stretched like a long, narrow hall, black walls reflecting warped shapes back at us like broken mirrors. Dust drifted in ghostly beams of lamplight, swirling with our steps.

“Stay quiet,” Callum murmured, his voice low enough to prickle down my neck.

“I am quiet,” I hissed.

His mouth twitched, holding back a comment. He shook his head. “This place feels off.”

I pretended to ignore him, but he was right—the place felt heavy.

The shelves ahead rose like pillars, taller than those outside, stacked with cracked leather spines, titles faded to nothing. Scrolls tied with ribbon lined the rows, paper so brittle I was afraid to breathe near them. Some books bore no titles at all—just carved sigils that seemed to watch as I passed.

I brushed a fingertip over one. The grooves were deep, the leather oddly warm. “These have to be centuries old…”

“They are,” Callum said. “Which means you can’t take them out.”

“Noted,” I murmured, already sliding one free.

He sighed but didn’t stop me.

We settled at a narrow table in the far corner, lamplight barely touching the wood. Callum didn’t sit—he leaned against the table, arms folded, gaze fixed on me. Impossible to ignore.

I unrolled the scroll carefully. The script was old, looping, but familiar enough from weeks of study. I skimmed for anything close to Professor Ilan’s hints—rare divine encounters, trials, blessings.

Halfway down, my pulse caught.

Only those who shed blood in devotion may call upon the Moon’s Eye.

The words hummed in my head. I read them again. Again.

“What is it?” Callum asked, leaning to peek.

I shook my head, scanning faster. Maybe I’d been thinking too small. The Moon’s Eye—a sacred audience. And the only way to reach it? Winning a Divine Token in one of a handful of sanctioned tournaments.

“Interesting,” I murmured, pulling out my journal. I copied the line, sketching the symbols in the margins. Most were abstract, but one— a crescent intersected by two vertical lines—shimmered faintly under the lamp, like it had just been inked.

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