Heir of Obsidian (A Throne of Glass Fanfic)

3 - Asterin Blackbeak-Havilliard

Swirling motes of dust glinted in and out of the reflected sunlight, a hazy disco ball dancing down to the floor. The skylight peaked above the ancient room, the trembling remains rebuilt with the same love and thirst for knowledge that had ignited its fierce power in the beginning. The crystalline shimmer of the geometric cut made the upward view a constant revolving sunbeam, the bright light as fierce as that of the resident within. The hazy swirl of dust picked out the heavy tomes that graced the uppermost curve of the room. It curled down the layers and levels of light-quartzite floors, a pattern that spiraled in and out of shelves upon shelves of crisp pages, written and bound to hold the knowledge of thousands: a world of many faces cradled within a golden haven. Enchanters of their own brand, a magic, simple and pure, ignited within storytelling. A question and an answer, if only one bothered to look.

Books of all ages, some far more ancient than the room itself, some an endearing if not crude collection of more modern scope. The titles looped and curled, positioned on a slight lean for the enchanting effect of one having to tilt their head in order to read them: romance, history, science. And burrowed beneath the heavy shelves were arched windows that let in both light and nature itself. Clear cut glass, swung open to welcome in the birdsong and over-animated ivy that curled down the frames. The alcoves of light illuminated titles with halos of yellowing tones and curving shadows.

The bottom level was the belly of the beast, sprawling twice as wide as the towering floors above and welcoming visitors to become lost in the darkening shelves. The skylight above was a swirling beacon of light above which called such wayward visitors home, to the spread of cushions and couches in the foyer below. The books' golden tones and blue and green highlights broke the barrier of the rooms' walls, bringing the outside into the elegant chamber with swirling clouds and leaves patterned, stitched or painted upon the furniture.

Wreathing the space, between the shelves and the nook, were two armchairs. They were luxurious in design and craft, with velvet and suede overlay and cushions of embroidery and weave. The first starred a cushion embroided with a burning stag and the second bore the Whitehorn family crest, indicating whose spots these seats were. The latter cushion lay on the floor in disregard and the chair was instead occupied by a lean figure lounging within its velvet embrace. The scent of cedar, old parchment and steel emanated from their silent and still form. Asterin Blackbeak-Havilliard's long legs were slung over one arm, ivory hair dripping down the other, just brushing the floor. The particular volume she held was thick with bindings and thinned by age. Dust motes gathered to the title "The Southern Continent" like moth to a flame, settling on its worn leather.

It lay there still for only a moment before the tangy smell of drooping pines rushed in from the towering bay windows opposite the chair. Like the breath of an enormous wyvern it picked up the telltale dust and swept out again. The lulling scent swooped round the room and rustled her long hair. An eye of gold, like spun silk, glinted in the light, speaking of a reckoning power beneath. Her molten eye glittered forebodingly but her serene pose betrayed no threat. She adjusted her position, lithe muscles shifting as a deep sigh exhaled from her nose. The book was informative, she had to give it that. But it was so goddamn dry! It was almost as if the Ancient History authors were trying to make her fall asleep. She dramatically flopped back in Rowan's chair. The enchanting scene that lit the window nearest was beckoning, the landscape adorned by fields of cowslips and walls of blossom trees. She refocused, determined to stay strong and remain focused on the minuscule words, and begrudgingly she let herself be lulled back into her previous musings.

As she turned the last drooping page of the book, the mood, which had settled into that of elegant repose and slumbering power, began to change. A shift in the wind brought a more urgent and erratic air, a whiff of chaos blended with burnt orange and chicory. She sniffed, stirring again. Her eyes sharpened as a cloud passed over the sparkling glass. The room fell into a momentary eclipse, shadows emerging with lengthening greed. They clawed up the spines of the books, whipping the wind into chilly gusts that whispered through the shelves. The eerie change was not lost on Asterin and as she began to emerge from her seat, head tilting to the skylight above, her other eye was revealed. It shimmered a piercing blue, sharpening with threatening depths of turquoise and indigo as the darkening climate encircled her form.