Silence.
It was a deep, profound silence, broken only by the faint, almost imperceptible crackle of ancient parchment and the frantic, hummingbird rhythm of Elara's own heart. Kaelen was gone. The immense, sun-drenched library felt both vast and claustrophobic, a beautiful prison of knowledge and shadow.
You may look at any book that does not glow.
His command echoed in the stillness, a rule laid down by a god-king in a realm where disobedience likely meant a swift and final end. Her eyes scanned the endless shelves. Most of the books were dark, bound in muted leathers and dull metals. But here and there, nestled amongst them, were volumes that pulsed with a soft, internal light. Some glowed a steady, ominous red. Others thrummed with a cool, blue energy. One, high on a shelf, flickered with a greenish light that seemed to breathe. She gave them all a wide berth.
Tentatively, she reached out and let her fingers brush the spine of a large, non-descript book bound in what felt like supple, black leather. It was cool to the touch. She hesitated, half-expecting a shock, a curse, a scream. Nothing happened. Emboldened, she carefully pulled it from its shelf. The sound it made was a soft, whispering shhhff of old pages against old wood. It was a comforting sound, a tiny piece of home in the terrifying unknown.
The book was heavy in her arms. She carried it to the large table where Kaelen had been studying his maps and laid it down with a soft thud. The title on the cover was embossed in a flowing, silver script she couldn't read. The letters seemed to shift slightly when she wasn't looking directly at them.
Frustration bubbled up inside her. A librarian in a library where she couldn't read the books. The irony was bitter. She opened the cover anyway. The pages were filled with the same shifting script, alongside intricate diagrams of constellations that were utterly alien. One diagram depicted a massive wolf howling at a twin-mooned sky, its form outlined in shimmering silver ink that caught the light.
She turned another page, and a dried, pressed flower fell from the binding. It was delicate, with petals the color of a twilight sky, and it smelled faintly of frost and something sweet. A forgotten bookmark from a forgotten reader. The simple, fragile beauty of it struck her deeply. Someone else, in some other time, had sat in this room, had read this book, had placed this flower here. The thought was at once comforting and lonely. She carefully slipped the flower back between the pages, a silent act of kinship across time.
A sudden, deep growl echoed from the doorway, so low it was more a vibration in the air than a sound.
Elara jumped, her hand flying to her chest, the book forgotten. A Lycan guard stood there, his massive frame filling the entrance. It wasn't the Captain from the throne room; this one was younger, his grey fur tipped with silver, his intelligent eyes watching her with open, wary curiosity. He didn't approach, merely stood as a silent, furry sentinel. Kaelen's order to remain did not mean she would be left unwatched.
Ignoring the guard as best she could, she reshelved the book with the constellation wolf and wandered deeper into the library. The sections seemed to be organized in a way she couldn't decipher. One aisle was icy cold to the touch, the books bound in what looked like polished river stone. Another was warm, the air smelling of desert sand and spice.
She found herself in a section where the books were smaller, bound in faded fabrics and soft, worn leathers. These felt less intimidating. She pulled one at random. This script was different—softer, more flowing. And tucked into the margins were notes, translations in a messy, harried hand she could read.
Her heart leaped. Common Tongue. Or whatever passed for it here.
She devoured the notes. They were fragmented, chaotic.
'…the Third Moon withered, so did the Aether-drain begin. The King's power is absolute, but the realm itself sickens…'
'…the Primordial Pact is not a myth? If the First Fang still draws breath, could the balance be restored? The texts suggest a convergence, a soul-key from beyond the veil…'
'…the cost would be catastrophic. A soul for a world. Is it justice? Or is it damnation? He would never agree. He would burn the world first…'
The notes were like listening to one side of a terrifying phone call. Aether-drain? Primordial Pact? Soul-key? It spoke of a dying realm, a desperate solution, and a king who would apparently rather see everything burn than pay the price.
"Does the knowledge please you?"
The voice, low and sudden, came from directly behind her.
Elara yelped, fumbling the book. It tumbled from her grasp, but before it could hit the floor, a hand shot out and caught it with impossible speed. The movement was a blur, accompanied by a soft whiff of displaced air.
Kaelen stood there, holding the small book. He hadn't made a sound. One moment she was alone, the next he was there, his presence sucking all the air from the aisle. The Lycan guard at the door had vanished, dismissed without a word.
"I—I couldn't read the others," she stammered, taking a step back and hitting a bookshelf. The impact sent a faint shiver through the wood. "This one had notes."
He looked down at the book in his hand, his expression unreadable. He flipped it open to the page she had been reading. His eyes scanned the frantic notes in the margin. A muscle in his jaw tightened. The air around them grew several degrees colder.
"The musings of a dead man," he said, his voice flat and dangerous. "A traitor who thought he understood the mechanics of worlds and the price of power." He closed the book with a sharp snap that made Elara flinch. "He was wrong."
"Is it true?" The question was out of her mouth before her brain could stop it. "Is this realm sick? Is that why I'm here? Am I… am I this 'soul-key'?"
He turned his molten gaze on her. The intensity in it was terrifying. He took a step closer, looming over her in the narrow space between the shelves. She could see the individual lashes framing his brilliant eyes, the faint scar on his cheek.
"You are a mystery," he corrected her, his voice a low, threatening rumble. "A question I have not yet answered. You are not a 'key.' You are a variable. An anomaly." He lifted the book slightly. "This is the past. The desperate, foolish prayers of those who lacked the strength to shape their own future."
He looked from the book to her, his gaze lingering on the fear in her eyes, on the way she pressed herself against the shelf to avoid his touch.
"You seek answers in paper and ink," he said, a note of cold amusement finally entering his tone. He tossed the book onto a nearby table. It landed with a dull thwack. "The truth is not written in a dead traitor's hand. It is written in power. In blood. In the will to survive."
He leaned in, closer than he ever had before. He didn't touch her, but his proximity was its own kind of cage.
"If you wish to understand your place here, little librarian," he whispered, the words a cold caress against her skin, "stop looking at the pages. Start looking at me."
He held her gaze for a heartbeat longer, letting the command hang in the air between them. Then, he turned and walked away, leaving the book of a dead traitor on the table and Elara with more terrifying questions than she'd ever had before.
The King didn't want her to read. He wanted her to understand him. And that felt like the most dangerous assignment of all.