The ledger slipped from Vera's shaking fingers and landed face-down on the floor with a thump. The cataloger at the desk sent her a sidelong glance. Vera swallowed, forcing the panic from her face. She kneeled to pick it up and place it back on the retrieval shelf, then spun away and strode toward the wing in the very back corner of the Archive.
The bookshelf she sought looked like any other, aside from a small notch carved into the wood behind an herbalist's botanicum at the very bottom. When she kneeled down to tap the divot with her fingertip, the shelf began to rumble. She stepped back to watch it transform. The leather-bound books flung themselves from their perches and landed in neat piles on the floor. The center of the shelf separated vertically, its two sides parting open like a double-door.
A stone-carved tunnel awaited beyond the opening. Vera slipped inside, tapping a similar notch on the wall to close the secret door behind her. The torches lining the sides sprung to life, throwing dappled orange light across the darkness. Away from prying eyes, Vera broke into a run. Her leather boots echoed with every step, and damp air stung her nose as she gulped down ragged breaths.
This passage was for members of the Silent Archive only, allowing them hidden access to the outdoors without compromising the mirror-trial at the main entrance. Few librarians chose to use it, though, so it was not maintained nearly as well as the rest of the Archive. Vera splashed through long puddles of murky rainfall collected from the most recent storm, and likely many before it. By the time the light of the afternoon appeared at the end, her hem was drenched and her toes were numb.
The outside air smacked her like a stone. She emerged in a small grass-lined clearing, and had to pause with her hands braced against her knees as she fought to catch her breath. The air was so thick with moisture it made her lungs ache.
There was no conservancy magic here. The Silent Archive used Applied Thaumaturgy to grow food, maintain its structure, and perform a hundred other tasks to keep the library running. Among those tasks was allowing the air to flow crisply and free of humidity. Out here, it felt like inhaling steam.
Vera shook her head to clear it. Perhaps it wasn't only the lack of Thaumaturgy that caused such strain. She hadn't set a foot outside the Archive in months. At the end of the day, she was simply not built for the wild.
That didn't matter, though. She still had a mental map of every safekeeping cache on Witherstone Isle. She couldn't ask any of the guardians for their routes without giving away her mistake, but the closest cache was only a short walk from the Archive. It was manageable to check herself. She hoped so, at least. Perhaps in the ferocity of last night's rain, whoever had carried out her storm preparation hadn't bothered to go very far.
On the other side of the clearing, she found a narrow trail within the forest, more of a faint animal track than an actual path. Vera swallowed down the taste of metal on her tongue and stepped towards it. All she could do was pray for a miracle.
The trees pressed in on both sides, their branches like talons and their leaves drooping like wet tears. She tried not to glance too long at the shadows that lurked between them. Instead, she looked up. The cloud cover was thinner today, the sun a hazy sphere of white behind it. Most of Witherstone's beasts preferred to hunt at night, but not all. She pushed her legs into a quicker pace, stumbling across roots and rocks. She needed to move faster.
The minutes dragged on, but eventually the cache appeared in her path in the form of a large, nondescript boulder. It appeared ordinary, coming up to her shoulder. At the very top, however, was another notch. When she tapped it, a rectangular section of rock retracted into its body, then slid aside to reveal a hollow interior.
It was too dark to see what lay within it, so Vera thrust her arm inside and began to fish around. Her fingers brushed against something like leather. Straining, she managed to wrap them around it and pull it from the stone.
It was indeed a book, though thinner than she was looking for. The cover was caked in mud and scraps of moss, which she brushed away with the heel of her palm. Treatise on Unmaking.
She suppressed a groan, set it aside, and felt around the cache once more. Nothing but damp stone and dirt. This was the only book stored there, and it was not the one she sought.
Vera's hands shook as she returned it to its spot and closed the entrance of the boulder. She stood for a moment, hands against the side of her face, mind reeling. The next cache was too far to find safely. In her haste, she hadn't brought any defensive spells or equipment with her. Even at midday, the risk of beastly ambush was too great. It would be prudent to return later and better prepared.
But Vera was in no mood to be prudent. She could picture the disapproval on Corvin's face, the condemning click of his tongue. Oh, you misplaced a chained tome? He would say. The one that the Duke of Ruin came here for? And to think you call yourself an archivist.
Vera steeled herself. No. She would find that book. It was fifteen minutes on foot to the next cache. If she left now––
Up ahead, mist began to pool. It trickled through the spaces between trees like a stream, collecting in dense clouds at Vera's feet. She went still. Everything had gone quiet. No chirping of birds, no buzz of insects. Something was wrong.
In the shade of the forest two lights appeared. Small and side by side. Vera squinted, her heart like thunder within her chest.
Those aren't lights, she realized. They were eyes, white with a piercing glow. They moved closer. A shape materialized around them, tall, hulking, antlered like a deer. Her instincts began to scream, her mind racing to identify it. She'd never bothered to learn the names of many Witherstone beasts, for she never had much reason to leave the Archive. She knew one thing for certain, though. That was no deer.
Just as the creature opened is large, gaping mouth, the name came to her. Mistmaw. Fog condensed into glinting fangs.
Vera's gaze flitted between the beast and the trail from which she'd come. Five minutes if she walked. Two if she ran.
She broke into a sprint. The mist followed her, and the sound began. Screams, both human and otherwise. Wailing, shouting, crying out. Begging her to stop, taunting her to keep going. They did not speak in any clear language, but she understood the meaning all the same. It reverberated straight into her bones.
The tunnel back to the Archive was only large enough for a person. The mistmaw shouldn't be able to follow her. But when she ducked beneath the curtain of vines in front of the entrance, it contorted itself downward, joints popping with the strain.
She ran faster.
The mist continued to chase her. In this confined space, it extinguished the torches one-by-one, drenching the tunnel in darkness. Vera threw out a hand in front of her to keep from crashing into the wall, but she didn't slow her pace. The mist provided enough glow to keep her from tripping over her own feet.
That was the problem, though. There was too much of it in too marrow a space. It thickened with every breath she took, until her lungs were inhaling more vapor than air.
She stumbled as she coughed. The mist maw thundered after her.
She reached the end, but it was too dark. She couldn't find the notch to open the shelf. Chest screaming, limbs shaking, she patted the damp stone. The mistmaw closed the distance between them.
Terror melted into sheer, desperate focus. Vera grabbed one of the dead torches and spun to face the beast. It reached towards her with a tendril of white mist. The air crystalized with a sudden, acute cold.
Just as it opened its ugly mouth, Vera lunged. She thrust the torch deep down its throat. The wood splintered as it struck jagged teeth. The mistmaw reared back, slamming against the side of the tunnel.
Her finger found the divot on the wall. The entrance folded open behind her, and she thrust herself through it. She struck the ground hard, rolling to reach for the closing mechanism. The beast roared, and the doors slammed shut.
Vera sat on the floor for several long, long moments, heaving wet coughs of mist. When at last she could breathe again, she glanced up to find a too-familiar face staring down at her. It was Thierry, with his arms full of books as if he'd been browsing the general stacks for the last hour.
He frowned as he spotted her, drenched and covered in dirt. She frowned back. In the immediate aftermath of life-or-death, his opinion of her was little more nuisance than a fly.
"Don't go in the tunnel," she said by way of explanation.
He looked like he was going to ask her more, but she hauled herself upright and walked away before he could. Her heart was still a hammer, her breath still short. She made for the basement without quite realizing where her feet were taking her.
The reception area of the downstairs guest inn was small and cramped. The Silent Archive didn't prioritize hospitality, and the dim, dusty hall reflected that. A yellow-haired girl manned the desk, several years younger than Vera. She was likely in training to become a guardian, the sect of librarians who dealt the most with the outside world, including visitors.
The girl cocked a brow at Vera's disheveled appearance, but Vera paid it no mind.
"Our newest visitor," she said. "People call him the Duke of Ruin. Which room is he staying in?"
"Um," the girl squeaked. "I don't think I'm supposed to––"
Vera put on her most placid smile. "I have some information about a book he was looking for. It seemed urgent, so I'd rather tell him now."
The girl stared at her for a moment longer, clearly put off, but eventually released a breath. No matter her reputation, Vera's role as archivist still outranked a guardian-in-training.
"He's in the Red Room."
"Thank you," Vera said.
The smile slipped from her face as soon as she turned away. Her feet slowed as she wandered down the narrow corridor, every breath a rasp.
This was likely as dangerous of an idea than any other she had, but what else was there to do? Admit to Corvin of her mistake?
No. Not until she exhausted every alternative.
When she found the correct door, her hand hovered above it. She swallowed. Took a breath, then knocked.
Shuffling sounded within. Vera took a step back, steeling herself. The door lurched open, and in its frame stood the Duke of Ruin, rimmed in the dark crimson candlelight that gave the Red Room its name. He was no longer hooded, his complexion marginally less pale, but his face was as much of a storm as before.
"You again," he said.
"It's about your book," Vera said. "The Blackfire Codex, was it?"
His venom-green eyes widened at the mention of the title. "I'm listening."
Vera crossed her arms. "I've come to offer you a deal."