Dragging his fingers along the spines, some jutting just far enough to clip his knuckles. Veyn drifted deeper into the west wing of the Blythe Street Private Library.
The shelves here loomed taller, gloomier, the air thick with the scent of old glue and paper rot. He didn't know what exactly he wanted to read, but that had never stopped him before.
Let's see… A Study in Ash and Fog. 'Nope.' The Clockwork Soul: Theories of the Mind in Mechanized Form. "Mind in mechanized form?" Veyn muttered aloud. 'That doesn't even make sense.'
He moved on. An Account of a Hybrid Sorcerer. Hybrid Sorcerer? Tch. Don't need to read much more about that.
Still, he paused. The spine was worn, the title pressed in faded gold leaf, just barely legible. The hybrids, as people called them, were the freaks whose bodies could handle two types of magic.
'Lucky bastards'
'Magic? There's really only 3 ways to get it. You're either born lucky, two, maybe three percent who pop out screaming and glowing. The second way is through potions, rituals, divination, and all that nonsense. They're more accessible, sure, but only if you've got the right materials and know what you're doing.'
He paused for a moment.
'You can also get it the hard way, inheritance. The first and last way, people start calling you a sorcerer. Degree Sorcerer, contrast Sorcerer, blah blah whatever. Sounds neat, right? But inheritance? That's where things get messy.'
Veyn glanced down the aisle toward a cracked stained glass window and leaned against a shelf, letting his mind wander as it often did.
'To inherit magic, you need two things, someone who's got it… and a spirit Sorcerer, and spirit sorcerers? Good luck. They're a small percent of the already rare few. The ritual's long, hours, and creepy as hell. The spirit Sorcerer doesn't just yank the magic out.'
He ran a finger along the book's cracked spine. The title had nearly vanished.
'They twist up the poor bastard's soul until it leaks. Turns into some weird liquid essence. It tastes awful, apparently, so they spike it with liquor. Helps it go down and absorb into the bloodstream easier. Or maybe it just makes the nobles feel better about raising a toast while someone dies in the next room.''
His jaw clenched. 'Because yeah... when the magic gets squeezed out of your soul, so does your life. Happens every time. Nobles love calling it "an honorable sacrifice." Sure. Real honorable. Being bred to die for someone else's power. And there will be a body because the stuff needs to be fresh. Cant just go buy some and store it.'
He kicked the bottom shelf lightly, stirring a puff of dust that made him sneeze.
'And that's just the legal side of things. Behind all the candles and toasts? Kidnapping. Trafficking. Magic theft. Nice, polite way of saying murder.'
'Anyway the hybrids. Freaks, some call them. Doesn't matter if you were born with magic or not, if you try to stack a second type on top, only two things can happen. One, your soul tears apart like wet paper. Two, you survive. And if you do… congratulations, you're a hybrid. Those guys? They're monsters.'
He sighed. 'Me? I'm not a Sorcerer. Not that it's rare to be magicless, most people are. But I don't have the coin, the name, or the connections to inherit legally. And if I tried illegally, I'd probably end up the one getting squeezed.'
'But, if I did have the chance... I'd say yes. Even if it killed someone. Some days I think I'd trade everything for a chance. A chance to get out of this scummy life.'
'Why am I thinking like I'm explaining all this to someone? Have I finally lost it? God, next I'll be narrating my own life like a bloody history book.'
He rolled his eyes and kept walking.
'Get a grip, Veyn…''
'...But, if I had it… just one type… not a hybrid or anything crazy'
Interrupting his thought, Veyn registered the sudden voice echoing from the front of the library.
"I'm telling you, I'm Edmund Hargrave! I lost my wallet earlier and thought it might be here!"
Veyn froze.
No time to think.
He spun on his heel and trying not to draw attention, started walking through the shelves, past a small cart labeled Books Needing Repair.
Trying to cause a distraction, not that he needed one but because one could never be too theatrical, he grabbed a nearby book and hurled it toward a large, ornate vase some fifty feet away.
His aim… was off.
But-
CRACK.
The book sailed past, crashing not into the vase but against the tall, grimy window behind it. The glass shuddered, then groaned with a spiderweb of cracks.
'Huh, that might have been even better.'
Speed walking down the dim aisle that curved toward the staff room. He knew the layout like the inside of his own coat. There was a rear service door over there.
He stepped through it. A burst of cold slammed into him just before the heavy iron door clicked shut behind him.
'Dammit. I should have grabbed a book on the way out.'