We didn't have to wait long.
The library swallowed sound the way snow swallowed footsteps—soft, total, and a little unsettling. Even Lina, who usually filled every silence like it offended her, kept her voice low as she wandered her eyes up the towering shelves.
Arlo sat with his hands folded on the edge of the table, trying to look patient and failing. His gaze kept sliding toward the aisles where Beris had disappeared, like he could summon books with willpower.
Mya stayed close to my side, shoulders tucked in, eyes wide as she took in the endless floors above us. She looked like she was afraid to breathe too loudly and wake the library.
I tried to act like I belonged here.
Like my sling and bandages didn't make me stand out.
Beris returned with a stack of books so tall it covered the lower half of his face.
He set them down with careful precision. The thump was quiet, but it still felt loud in this place.
"I selected volumes appropriate for your age and access," he said, voice gentle. "Please handle them with clean hands and respect the bindings."
Lina's eyes sparkled. "Yes, sir!"
Arlo nodded like that was obvious.
Mya nodded shyly.
I nodded too, because "respect the bindings" sounded like the kind of rule Miss Nanda would approve of.
Beris's gaze swept over us—kind, watchful, librarian-sharp.
"If you need assistance locating a reference," he added, "you may ask. I will be at the librarian's desk."
Then he glided away, returning to a smaller table near the edge of the open floor where ledgers and ink waited like tools.
The moment he left, Lina moved first.
She practically pounced on the stack, fingers hovering like she wanted to touch everything at once.
"Ooh—bestiary—illustrations—oh, this one has tabs—" she whispered, already half-gone.
She pulled out a thick book with a worn leather spine stamped with a beast skull and leaf patterns. She hugged it like treasure and slid into a chair, immediately flipping pages fast, eyes scanning for drawings.
Arlo reached for a different volume—darker cover, simple title, the kind of book that looked like it contained maps and bad news. He opened it with reverence and started reading like he was trying to outrun the words.
That left the remaining books.
Mya hesitated, hands half-raised, unsure where to land. Her eyes flicked between titles like she didn't want to choose wrong.
I could've let her drift. Let her pick something easier. Something safe.
But the reason I came here—my real reason—pressed behind my ribs like a hidden bruise.
I wanted to know more about miasma.
Not for monster trivia. Not for fun.
For… survival math.
For the kind of question you couldn't ask out loud without making yourself noticeable.
I slid a book toward myself and tilted the cover so Mya could see.
The title was embossed in faded silver:
The Ethera Treatise on Miasma and Mutation
Even reading the word Treatise made my tongue feel too big.
Mya leaned closer. "That one looks hard."
"It's fine," I lied immediately.
Mya's brows lifted. She didn't argue—she never argued like Lina did—but she didn't look convinced either.
I nudged the book a little, subtle. "If you want… you can read with me."
Mya blinked. Then her cheeks warmed slightly.
"O-okay," she said, soft.
We sat side by side at the table, the heavy book between us like a shared secret.
Lina was already whispering excitedly at a drawing across from us. "Look! This one's like a deer but wrong! It has—why does it have that many eyes—"
Arlo didn't react. He'd disappeared into his dungeon book, flipping quickly, then slowing when something caught him.
The library settled.
Pages turned. Crystal lamps hummed faintly. Somewhere far above, a soft creak suggested a shelf ladder shifting—maybe Beris moving, maybe the building itself breathing.
For the first time since I stepped through the gate, it felt like the world got quieter enough for thought.
I stared down at the cover again.
"E-the-ra," I mouthed quietly, then immediately got stuck on the author name printed beneath.
Jinxes Ethera
"J… Jin…" I tried.
Mya leaned in without making a big deal of it. "Jinxes," she whispered. "Like 'jinses.'"
My ears warmed.
"Right," I muttered, then tried again, softer. "Jinxes Ethera."
Mya smiled—small, pleased. Not teasing. Just happy to help.
I opened the book.
The pages were old parchment—thicker than normal paper, edges softened by time. The ink had faded slightly in places, but the script was crisp, careful, the kind of handwriting that looked like it had been made by someone who believed words deserved discipline.
The first page wasn't text. It was a diagram.
A simple one.
A human outline beside an animal outline. Arrows. A fog-like shading labeled with terms I didn't fully understand. Below it, a small table:
Exposure Duration — Initial Symptoms — Advanced Symptoms
I could read that.
My chest loosened a fraction.
Mya traced the top line with her finger, reading silently. I followed, slower.
"Ex… po…" I started.
"Exposure," Mya corrected softly, like she was helping me step over a stone instead of pointing out I'd tripped.
"Exposure," I repeated, then went on.
I read. Slowly. Like a ten-year-old kid reading a book written by someone who assumed you'd already lived a few lifetimes.
I stumbled on a word.
Mya corrected me again, gently.
I stumbled again.
She corrected again.
It was embarrassing in a quiet way—the kind that didn't sting but still made my cheeks warm.
I kept going anyway.
Because the words mattered.
And because sitting beside Mya like this—her shoulder almost touching mine, her voice soft and patient—made it feel less like failing.
After a few pages, the text shifted from diagrams to long paragraphs.
Professor Ethera's writing was… dense.
Words stacked on words. Terms layered like bricks. Sentences that ran so long I forgot where they started.
I read the same line three times and still couldn't tell what it meant.
I looked at the next line.
It didn't help.
By page six, my brain felt like it had been turned inside out.
By page ten, I was absolutely certain of one thing:
I understood nothing.
Not "a little."
Not "most."
Nothing.
I stared at the page until the letters started looking like shapes instead of language.
My hand twitched toward the edge of the book as if I could physically shove this problem away and pick a different one.
Something easier.
Something written for kids.
Something that wouldn't make me feel like my head was too small.
Then I glanced at Mya.
She was focused.
Not pretend-focused. Not "trying to look smart." Her eyes moved steadily line by line. Her mouth made tiny silent shapes as she sounded words out in her head. Her brows pinched sometimes when something was difficult—then relaxed when she understood.
She looked… comfortable.
Like the book wasn't a wall. Like it was a door.
I swallowed.
"Mya," I whispered.
She blinked and looked up.
Her cheeks pinked a little, like she'd been caught staring even though she'd been staring at the page.
"Hm?" she hummed, cute and soft.
I hesitated, then forced the question out.
"…Are you reading this?"
Mya stared at me, confused. "Yes."
Because obviously she was.
I felt my ears burn.
I rushed on anyway before my courage died. "C-can you… explain it to me?"
Her eyes widened.
Then her mouth curved into a bright smile that made something in my chest loosen.
"Sure!" she whispered, excited like I'd offered her a gift. "Which part?"
I stared at the open page, then at the previous pages, then at the entire book like it had personally insulted me.
"…Everything?" I said, and my voice rose at the end like I wasn't even sure I was allowed to ask that.
Mya giggled—light, delighted. "Okay," she whispered, smiling big. "I'll try."
She tapped the page with her finger.
"Um… the first part," she began, careful and proud, "these first eleven pages are… mostly the author's background. And a surface explanation of miasma."
I blinked. "That's… it?"
Mya nodded. "Yes. It's like… introduction."
I stared. "Eleven pages for that?"
Mya nodded again, as if that was normal.
Then she brightened, leaning closer like she was sharing a cool story. "But the background is interesting."
"How?" I asked, genuinely lost.
Mya's eyes shone. "Professor Ethera traveled across Avalonia to study miasma. Like… everywhere. And he also had experience with Abyss exploration."
My stomach tightened at the word Abyss. I kept my face calm.
Mya didn't notice. She continued, excited.
"And he was part of a team that analyzed and helped create the blueprint for an anti-miasma device," she said. "It says the team received a medal of honor from the Great Emperor for their contribution."
I blinked. "The Emperor?"
Mya nodded, pleased. "Mm-hm."
I felt a strange, distant curiosity spark—like imagining a figure in a storybook.
"I wonder what the emperor looks like," I muttered. "He must be… really noble."
Mya giggled again, softer. "My mom says he's the most powerful man in Avalonia. And it's really hard to meet him. So… not many people know much."
That made sense. Kings and emperors always felt like weather—real, but far above your head.
Mya tapped the text again. "And the miasma explanation here is… basic."
I stared at the paragraph she meant.
It was "basic" the way a mountain was "just a rock."
The book read:
"Miasma may be most accurately characterized as an aetheric, particulate-laden haze of toxic disposition, capable of permeating organic tissue through sustained inhalation and dermal absorption. Prolonged saturation of the subject's internal humors produces progressive somatic deviation—often accompanied by cognitive disarray—until autonomous regulation of the body's functions deteriorates, and the afflicted may exhibit involuntary transformation and loss of self-directed control. In the latter stages of saturation, subjects commonly manifest a condensed crystalliform locus in proximity to the cardiac structure—hereafter referenced as the core—the properties of which remain incompletely described within the current body of scholarship."
I blinked at it.
Basic.
The word hit me like a slap.
I stared at the page.
I couldn't even understand the "basic" version.
"How is this basic?" I whispered before I could stop myself.
Mya smiled apologetically and shifted into "helping" mode, voice soft.
"It's basic because it's not… deep yet," she explained. "It's like what kids can understand."
That stung a little, because I was a kid and I still didn't understand.
Mya continued anyway, trying to translate Professor Ethera into something my brain could hold.
"Miasma is kind of like a toxic fog," she said, keeping her voice low. "It gets into living things. If you breathe too much of it or absorb it too long, it makes your body… change. And you can lose control."
I remembered Ash explaining miasma beyond the wall—how it wasn't always visible, how it could cling to places, how filters mattered when you went somewhere wrong.
I nodded slowly, even if my stomach tightened.
"And it says…" Mya's finger slid down the page. "That infected living things eventually form something like a crystal core… near the heart."
My breath hitched.
"A crystal core?" I whispered.
Mya shook her head quickly. "I'm not sure yet. It mentions it here, but it doesn't explain it fully. I think it explains later."
My mind immediately tried to connect it to something I had heard before—stories of Chimmeria beasts with glittering shards, rumors of monsters that left crystals behind.
Is that why—?
I stopped the thought before it grew teeth.
I didn't know enough.
That was the whole point.
Mya looked up at me, eyes bright, cheeks still warm.
"What do you think, Trey?" she asked.
I froze.
Because I needed to answer in a way that didn't make me look stupid.
Or worse—suspicious.
I swallowed and chose honesty that wasn't humiliating.
"It's… interesting," I said carefully. "I just… don't get it yet."
Mya's smile softened like that was the right answer. "You will," she whispered, encouraging.
Before I could say anything else, a dry voice cut in from across the table.
"Trey," Arlo said without looking up from his book, "you should learn to read fluently before trying to wrestle a professor's treatise."
Heat flooded my face instantly.
Lina snorted quietly into her monster book like she'd been waiting for someone to poke me.
I glared at Arlo, but my glare had no power.
Arlo finally looked up, his thoughtful expression sharp but not cruel.
"That wasn't an insult," he added quickly, practical. "It's just… fact. Ethera writes for scholars."
"I can read," I muttered.
Arlo's eyes flicked to the page I'd been staring at like it was a trap. "You can read words. Understanding is different."
That made me want to sink into the floor.
Then Arlo did something unexpected—he shifted his book toward me.
"I can lend you something easier," he said, voice matter-of-fact. "A primer. One meant for trainees."
My pride flared up like a spark.
"No," I said immediately.
Arlo blinked. "No?"
I sat up straighter, sling tugging uncomfortably, ribs protesting.
"I want this one," I said, tapping The Ethera Treatise on Miasma and Mutation like it had personally challenged me and I wasn't going to lose. "I'll… do my best."
Arlo stared at me, then sighed like he'd just watched someone choose the hardest route on purpose.
"…Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, firmer.
Mya's eyes widened slightly, then softened into a proud smile, like she liked that I wasn't giving up.
Lina whispered loudly, "He's so stubborn," like it was a compliment and an insult at the same time.
Arlo exhaled through his nose, then nodded. "Fine. You can borrow it."
I blinked. "Really?"
"Yes," Arlo said, rolling his eyes slightly. "As long as you return it. It's not a toy."
"I won't treat it like a toy," I said quickly.
Arlo closed his book with a soft thump and raised his hand toward Beris's desk.
"Beris," he called, voice respectful. Not loud—just enough.
Beris looked up immediately, attentive, like he'd been waiting to be useful.
Arlo gestured. "Trey would like to borrow The Ethera Treatise on Miasma and Mutation."
My stomach did a small flip.
Beris rose and approached with smooth steps, expression calm.
"Borrowing is permitted," he said politely, eyes flicking to me. "However, I must record it."
He pulled a small ledger from inside a drawer near our table—already prepared, as if he had one for this exact moment. He opened it to a page with neat columns and took out an ink pen.
"Your name?" he asked.
"Trey," I said, then corrected quickly, because this wasn't the guild. This was a mansion. "Trey Austere."
Beris's pen paused a fraction—so small I might've imagined it—then continued writing.
He didn't react.
He didn't show surprise.
But the tiny pause made my skin prickle.
He wrote with clean strokes, then placed a small stamped slip on the table—a borrowing chit with the Deltadyson crest.
"Thirty days," Beris said. "You may return it any time before then. If you require an extension, you may request it through Master Arlo, or return in person."
"In person," I repeated, hesitant. "I can… come back?"
Beris inclined his head. "Yes. The gate staff records entry and exit. You will be listed as a guest of Master Arlo. If you arrive with clear intent—returning a book, studying—there will be no issue."
I swallowed. "Will they recognize me?"
Beris's expression remained gentle, but there was something firm under it. "You need not worry. The household keeps a guest ledger—especially for young Master Arlo's friends."
Ledger.
Names.
My fingers tightened slightly on the edge of the book.
Above us, the plaque that listed "VONEL FAMILY" as authorized access felt heavier than stone.
If Vonel can go upstairs… can they also see this ledger?
I didn't ask.
I didn't let my face change.
I simply nodded. "Thank you."
Beris's eyes softened as if he could tell this mattered to me more than I wanted to show.
"You are welcome," he said, then returned to his desk.
The quiet settled back in.
Lina returned to whispering at drawings, lips moving as she mouthed monster names like they were spells.
Arlo reopened his dungeon book and fell back into it.
Mya leaned closer to our page again, patiently explaining one paragraph at a time in simpler words, her voice barely louder than the turning of paper.
I tried.
I really tried.
Even when my eyes crossed.
Even when my brain complained.
Even when the letters started swimming.
Because the book wasn't just a book.
It was a rope.
And somewhere deep down, I needed to believe that if I held tight enough, it could pull me toward something precious without anyone noticing why.