Chapter 2:
The morning came in shades of gray, and Elian hadn't slept. Not really.
He sat behind the shop's front desk, elbows resting on a stack of unsorted journals, eyes fixed on the green-leather book. It sat on the counter like it owned the place, its presence quietly altering the air around it.
Lyra hovered nearby, wings folded in, her light dimmed to a soft candle-flicker.
"So… what now?" Elian asked.
"Now," she said, "we wait."
"For what?"
Before she could answer, the bell above the door jingled.
This time, someone did enter.
A girl, maybe fifteen, with a rain-damp coat and eyes that didn't quite meet his. She held a cloth-wrapped bundle close to her chest.
"I'm… returning this. It was my grandfather's. He passed."
Elian blinked. "Sorry to hear that."
The girl offered the book and turned to leave.
"Wait—" he reached out instinctively. "You don't want it?"
She paused. "I don't remember why he kept it. The writing made no sense. Felt like… I forgot what it was even about." She gave a small shrug. "It didn't feel right in the house."
Elian took the bundle, his fingers brushing faintly against the cracked leather beneath. Cold.
Too cold.
The girl was already gone before he could ask her name.
Lyra hovered silently as Elian unwrapped the cloth.
It was an old, sea-blue volume, water-stained but intact. The spine had a name—barely visible—but the title had faded into pale gray smears. He opened it gently.
The first few pages were blank.
Then a single chapter began—fragmented. Sentences felt hollow. Phrases stopped mid-thought. Words were missing like teeth from an old comb.
Something was wrong.
Then he saw it.
Tucked between the final pages was a slim strip of worn parchment, curled at the edges, deceptively plain.
A bookmark.
Elian reached to pull it out—
"Don't touch it!" Lyra hissed, wings flaring with sudden urgency.
He froze. "It's just a—"
"It's not. Look closely."
He squinted.
The bookmark shimmered faintly, as if something beneath the surface was pulsing. The ink along its edge twitched—like it was breathing.
"That's a larval form," Lyra whispered. "A Devourer not yet fully transformed. It hides as a bookmark until it's consumed enough memory to molt."
"And it was inside this book?"
"Yes. The fact that this copy still has any text left is a miracle." Her voice darkened. "But it's fading. You can't feel it, but I can. The story is unraveling."
Elian stepped back. "Then what do we do?"
"We seal it. Immediately."
"With what, tape?" he asked, half-panicked.
"No. With blood, and a name. But you're not trained—not enough. We need help."
"From who?"
She hesitated.
"There's a Conservator. Still alive. One of the last your grandfather trusted. She's… particular. But if anyone can save a dying book, it's her."
Elian nodded. "Where?"
---
The back alley behind Vale & Sons wasn't used anymore. The old storm door leading down to the basement had long since been sealed shut—at least, that's what Elian thought.
But Lyra guided him through a hidden side passage between two shelves that didn't quite touch the wall. A lever disguised as a coat hook revealed a staircase beneath a trapdoor, descending into darkness.
They walked in silence, the fading book wrapped in cloth and held tight to Elian's chest.
At the bottom, a stone corridor opened to a round chamber lit by dim golden globes floating just below the ceiling. Tables lined the room, each covered in scrolls, paper scraps, cracked leather bindings, and tools Elian didn't recognize.
At the far side stood a woman.
Her hair was silver and tightly braided, and she wore magnifying lenses strapped to her forehead, which she pulled down with a click as they entered.
"You brought something cursed," she said without turning.
Elian stiffened. "You knew we were coming?"
"I know when stories scream. Put it on the table. Slowly."
Lyra hovered behind Elian's shoulder. "Elian, this is Archivist and Conservator Merrin Dowe. She worked beside Elias—your grandfather—on several restorations. And, when needed… exorcisms."
"Exor—what now?" Elian asked.
"Later," Merrin barked. "Now."
He placed the wrapped book down. Merrin unwrapped it like a surgeon exposing a wound. Her fingers hovered over the frayed bookmark.
"It's molting," she muttered. "Another few hours, and the entire narrative will be voided."
"What does that mean?" Elian asked.
"It means the story dies," Merrin replied. "Not forgotten. Not misplaced. Gone. Gone in a way even memory can't recover."
She reached into a drawer and retrieved a small silver stylus. With it, she carefully drew a thin circle of runes around the book.
"Blood," she said without looking. "Yours."
Elian didn't ask why. He pricked his finger on a pin Lyra offered and let a drop fall into the center of the circle.
The glow was instant.
The runes pulsed, then settled. The twitching bookmark stiffened. The air quieted.
Merrin sat down, finally looking at him. Her expression was tired but steady.
"You bonded?"
Elian blinked. "To Lyra? Yes. Yesterday."
"Of course it would start with you," Merrin muttered. "The last Vale to carry the line."
"You knew my grandfather?"
"Everyone who mattered did." She stood and began sorting tools back into drawers. "Elias didn't just preserve books. He fought to keep them alive. And when the Academy fell silent, he kept doing the work they abandoned."
Elian froze. "The Academy?"
Lyra floated beside him. "It's time you knew, Elian. There's a place where people like you—like us—aren't myths. Where knowledge is more than dust."
Merrin nodded. "The Scriptorium Athenaeum. Hidden. Ancient. Forgotten by many. But it still exists."
"And they train people to… do this?" he asked.
"To protect books," Merrin said. "To fight Devourers. To heal stories before they vanish."
"Why didn't my grandfather take me there?"
Merrin's gaze softened. "Because the last time he went, he came back with a scar no book could describe."
The silence after that was thick.
Lyra broke it gently. "This one's only eaten five. Not strong enough to manifest… yet."
Elian looked at the sealed book, its corrupted pages now still and silent within the glowing circle.
Then he looked at Lyra.
"Where do we start?"