A shiver prickled in Xanthy's skin. Gods, this place was creepier than the Temple of Souls and the banshees had their own set of spooks. Since they entered the lighthouse and began their ascent on the stairs, a heavy feeling settled on Xanthy. The creaking wood underneath her feet didn't help, either.

Xanthy's knees shook with every step forward. She craned her neck up. How much more of this? A hundred more? Great.

Cirasa chuckled to himself, the sound of it echoing across the rock walls. He ran his hands against the walls and the stairs' balustrade, stirring up dust and debris that stung Xanthy's eyes and tickled her nose. Ugh. This was worse than the sand.

"Stop that," she hissed, her own voice quivering through the hollow air around them.

Cirasa cleared his throat. How come he didn't get the urge to sneeze? Immunity, maybe? "You should enjoy this historical place," he said. "Not everyone is given a chance to explore places like this."

"What's with this lighthouse anyway?" Xanthy gritted her teeth against the growing numbness gripping her thighs. Stairs. They were annoying.

A gasp made Xanthy look down at Cirasa two steps behind her. "You don't know?"

Xanthy rolled her eyes. Ugh. Here they go again. She'd had enough people tell her that she's an imbecile of not knowing enough history. She clicked her tongue. Well, these pampered pricks didn't spend their childhood surviving on the Disfavoreds. "Yeah, I don't," she said.

"This lighthouse stood during the Hundred Years' War and survived!" Cirasa exclaimed with such wonder and awe. Dust rained from the planks in the ceiling as the lighthouse slightly shook at the echoes of his voice. Xanthy glared at him. He's going to erode this lighthouse faster than rain.

She looked up again. Sunlight shone from the windows but were blocked by some sort of platform made of solid blocks of stone, judging from its gray hue. "I know about the Hundred Years' War," Xanthy braced the balustrade to steady herself. Her knees were unstable for some reason. "And the races included in that."

"So you're familiar with Elves?" Cirasa said.

Xanthy raised an eyebrow even though Cirasa couldn't see her face. "Yeah, what about them?"

"This is their beacon during the war," Cirasa's voice behind her explained in a tone that almost reminded Xanthy of those edict readings she heard in the Commons. "Refugees from across the ocean would sail from Alch Serin in hopes of finding a better life here in Umazure."

Xanthy paused to turn to Cirasa. "Alch Serin?"

The shard fairy waved his hand like Xanthy was supposed to know this information already. "The Elves' continent."

Xanthy stuck her bottom lip out as she resumed her climb. If Umazure was but an island and it's already this big, how much bigger would a continent be? What did a continent even look like? "But didn't the territories back in the War were in one giant landmass and that there were no oceans back then?" she bit her lip when her mind played the memory of June telling her about that.

"That's the common misconception," Cirasa replied. "But comparing the works of Haagel and Torqin Gorre yields the conclusion that yes, at the start of the War, the world was just one mass of land, but over the hundred years of magical fighting, the territories drifted apart, inch by inch,"he paused. "Or you could say that the Arbotrois stepped in themselves and separated the races."

Xanthy looked down at Cirasa and saw him wave his hand dismissively. "But, of course, that's a myth," he added.

Xanthy nodded slowly, chewing on her bottom lip. Arbotro again, huh? Jonadrin mentioned it as well. The Grand Royal never said it was a myth, did he? She squeezed her eyes shut and exhaled. This was no time to contemplate the myths. She has a more urgent problem to solve. At least that one was real. "So you're saying that in the midst of fighting, the magic itself tore at the land part and drifted it away?" Xanthy tapped her chin. "That sounds like a myth more than the Arbotro thing."

"The geological records prove it!" Cirasa spread his arms. Xanthy's eyes widened. Won't he need to brace the rails to avoid falling especially at this height? "The geological setting of rocks, for a start, was different from the start of the War and towards its end. The magical component of soil—"

Xanthy put her hand forward. "Okay, I'm going to stop you there," she sighed. She didn't want another lecture. Why does she always end up with scholarly prodigies? She leaned over the rail and noted that they were high up now. Really high up. "So this lighthouse has been standing for hundreds of years," Xanthy said. "So what?"

"Pelrise Seros lived here."

Xanthy knitted her eyebrows. "Who?"

"Pelrise Seros!" Cirasa repeated it like that would tell Xanthy anything more. "The one who wrote hundreds of children songs and stories. He's a literary legend!"

Xanthy rolled her eyes. " I'm supposed to know him because...?"

"He wrote 'Rafaline'."

Xanthy choked, her saliva going the wrong way back from her throat. That silly song was actually written by someone? Whoa.

"That's like the prima of all folk songs," Cirasa crossed his arms as he trudged up the stairs after Xanthy. He seemed to not mind the creaking wood nor the unstable rails at all. "It's impossible for you to not know that song."

Blood rushed to her face. "Yeah, I can play it on the dushim," she shook her head. "But I don't know the whole song."

Cirasa hummed, satisfied. "It's reported that he wrote 'Rafaline' in this exact tower as he waited for his family to arrive from the Umazuran Capital so they could escape together."

"Why would they need to escape?"

"He lived during the War so he's probably thinking of moving to other continents to start a new life," Cirasa shrugged. "But we know that he never did. His family hadn't even stepped foot in Desara."

"Oh."

"The Dwarves found out and slaughtered those who his wife had promised to help," Cirasa continued. "They hadn't made it out of Dwanzeig. Pelrise, himself, was tracked here and killed."

"Dwarves?" Xanthy dusted her hands free from all the dirt that clung to her palms. Looks like she didn't need the rails too now that her knees had finally gotten used to the unstable stairs. "Rutoria mentioned Dwarves too..."

"That's because she's old enough to have seen the War with her own eyes," Cirasa's argumentative tone rang in Xanthy's ears. She glanced down at Cirasa and squinted, searching for any sign that he was lying. He's not. Cirasa blew a breath. "I baited her into telling me who she really is."

Xanthy nodded. "And who was she?"

"She's the person that had the most hand in stopping the War," Cirasa said. "The Arbotro punished her for orchestrating everything."

Xanthy inclined her head at the top of the stairs. Close. They're close now. "So the Arbotro is not a myth?"

"If it is," Cirasa scratched his hair and brushed off small debris that had fallen there. "Then we're really doomed."

"Why?"

"Because according to myths, the Arbotro controls everything," Cirasa said. "It gave us our synnavaimis and it can take them away in a flash. It gives birth to all the children and sends them off to couples who recently took the oath before it. It dictates which race, which parents, and which life a soul would live."

Xanthy paused. She faced Cirasa again and the shard fairy's face was a flat expression. "The Arbotro is a freaking god."

"Arbotro or no Arbotro, we have a throne to find," Xanthy turned away with a shake of her head and resumed her climb. "Let's not concern ourselves with trivial things such as faith."

"You're right," Cirasa rolled his shoulders. "To each his own beliefs. There's no way we could even prove it's real."

Xanthy clenched her jaw, filing that thing Jonadrin said to her in the gardens, deep, deep down. "We're almost at the top."