Chapter 1: UNEXPECTED

The air had an intriguing taste. That was Elara Vance’s first and foremost thought as the taxi wound its way higher into the rugged hills. It was the taste of dry earth, of sun-baked rock, of dust, and something else… something sweet and smoky she couldn’t name. It was the scent of secrets, and it clung to the Sierra like a lover’s intimate whisper.

 La Casa del Azafrán(as it was known) was not what she had expected. It was more severe, more beautiful, a fortress of sun-bleached stone standing sentinel over a valley of gnarled olive trees. The taxi had barely stilled on the gravel when the door was pulled open, framing a man against the blinding blue sky.

He was not Don Alejandro.

“You are the archivist?” His voice was not the polished Castilian she’d heard in Madrid; it was rougher, a dialect shaped or sculpted by the land itself.

“I am. Elara Vance.” She shielded her eyes to look at him. He was all lean muscle and sun-weathered skin, a man who belonged to the landscape. His hair was the colour of walnut husks, his eyes the rich amber of old sherry. He assessed her in one swift, unnerving glance that felt a lot more physical than visual.

“Umm… My father is… unavailable.” He took her largest suitcase—the one filled with acid-free tissue and archival gloves—as if it weighed nothing. “I will show you to the library. Try not to get lost.”

“I'm Santiago”. He led her through a courtyard where the air hummed with the lazy drone of bees and the intoxicating perfume of night-blooming jasmine. That was the scent, she realized. Jasmine and ancient stone.

But it was the library that truly stole her breath and left her breathless. It was a beautiful mausoleum for words, a cathedral of forgotten stories. Books slumped against each other in teetering piles. Light speared through the dust, illuminating worlds waiting to be rediscovered.

“His obsession is somewhere in this mess,” Santiago said, his voice low in the hallowed quiet. “The journal of a princess who wrote about passion when she should have been praying.” He moved past her, his arm brushing against hers. A spark of pure, unexpected heat shot through her linen sleeve. He stopped, noticing her sharp intake of breath. A slow, knowing smile touched his lips.

“They say her words have a power,” he murmured, his gaze dropping to her mouth. “That to read them is to feel what she felt. To want what she frantically wanted.”

He left her then, alone in the silent, waiting room. The only sound was the frantic beat of her own heart. Elara placed a hand on a stack of books, the leather warm as living skin. She had come to catalogue history. But as the intoxicating, secret-scented air of the sierra drifted through the open window, she knew, with a thrilling and terrifying certainty, that she was the one about to be unravelled...discovered.