A draught coiled up the spiral stair like a sigh from the earth. Alex's wool lifted with static; magic pooled here like cold water. He crept along the balcony, keeping to the dark between shafts of moonlight.
Below, the library stretched out like a canyon of knowledge. The moving ladders had stopped. The quills had frozen mid-stroke. Silence pressed against his ears.
This isn't right.
A ripple of green light slid across the nearest shelf. Books shifted as though breathing. From between two stacks, a tall figure glided out — a robed silhouette with skin pale as paper and hair the colour of dried ink. Its eyes glowed a dim teal.
The system whispered:
Entity Detected: Curator of Forgotten Names Level: Unknown Disposition: Neutral/Hostile Tip: Avoid direct conflict.
Alex hunkered low. He hadn't even seen a Curator before. They were supposed to be myths — custodians who could erase your name from history if you angered them. His horns tingled with warning.
The Curator's head tilted. "Little wanderer," it murmured, voice like pages turning. "Why does a lamb tread the archives at this hour?"
Alex forced a bleat, trying to sound harmless. The Curator's mouth curled into something like amusement. "Ah. A mask. But underneath… much sharper teeth."
It raised a long finger and the air around Alex shimmered. Words formed — ghostly letters spiralling up like smoke. His true name trying to rise. Panic spiked. If it read him, his cover in the palace would be finished.
He snapped his head up, focusing the new magic in his horns. Mask, he thought. Hide me. The system flared:
Skill Unlocked: False Wool (Level 1) Temporarily obscures user's true identity. Duration: 30 seconds.
A rush of warmth cloaked him. The ghostly letters crumbled. The Curator's eyes narrowed, then softened again. "Curious," it said. "A puzzle piece without a picture."
It turned away, robes swishing. "Take what you came for, little puzzle. But know this: the elves are moving faster than you think. The princess's garden is not as safe as it looks."
Alex blinked. It knew about Elara. It knew about everything. He wanted to ask questions, but his thirty seconds of cover ticked down. He bolted.
He darted along the balcony to a smaller alcove marked with a sigil of crossed horns — the same symbol he'd glimpsed on the glowing fountain-lamb. Inside stood a single plinth bearing an old codex bound in pale leather. Its title glimmered: Bestiary of Reclaimed Souls.
He nosed it open. Pages fluttered, stopping at an entry illuminated with lambs and silver bells. His breath caught.
Subject 74: "Lamb of the Lost Path." An anomaly: mortal soul fused to beast's vessel. Powers unpredictable. Often attracted to royal bloodlines. Potential harbinger of change or collapse.
In the margin a scrawled note: Elven Horn Project accelerating. Palace infiltration imminent.
The horn outside blared again, closer. He snapped the book shut, mind racing. So I'm not the first. And the elves know exactly what I am.
Footsteps clanged on the lower stair — not the Curator's glide but boots, many of them. A squad of palace sentries? Or something worse? Alex's quest log updated:
Optional Subquest triggered: "Escape the Tower." Reward: ??? Failure: Capture. Time until breach: 2:15
He backed from the plinth, scanning for exits. The balcony door he'd entered was already frosting over with runes — locked. The spiral stair led down toward the approaching boots. His horns itched. The moving ladders… could they carry him?
He leapt onto one. It shuddered, then swung away from the shelves like a gondola, gliding across the cavernous library toward a high stained-glass window. The boots below reached the balcony just as he drifted into shadow.
He caught a glimpse of the newcomers: not palace guards but lean figures in cloaks of living bark, ears tapering to sharp points. Elves. Three of them, bows already strung.
One looked up, eyes gleaming. "There," it hissed.
An arrow hissed past, splintering the ladder rung behind him. Alex clung tighter as the ladder accelerated of its own accord, gliding toward the window. Come on, come on, he thought.
The Curator appeared below, lifting a pale hand. "Not in my archive," it intoned. Every arrow in the elves' quivers turned to ash. The floor rippled like paper and swallowed them waist-deep. The elves screamed, struggling as ink rose around them like tar.
Alex didn't wait to see more. The ladder bumped the window frame. He butted the glass with his horns. Cracks spidered. Another butt and the pane gave way, spilling him into the cool night air.
He tumbled onto a ledge outside the tower, scrabbling with his hooves. Far below the palace gardens glimmered in moonlight. He could see Elara's window, a candle flickering there, and Thistle's ears silhouetted against it. Home base. He just had to get back.
He glanced down at the drop, at his small body, at the distance. The system blinked:
New Skill Available: Wool-Glide. Convert stored magic to a brief slow fall. Activate? Y/N
"Yes," he whispered in his head, and the skill triggered. His wool fluffed enormously, catching the wind like a parachute. He leapt.
Air roared past. His wool glowed faintly, slowing his fall. He drifted down over the garden wall, landing in a bed of night-blooming roses with only a soft poof.
The horn sounded one last time, frustrated and fading. The palace bells began to ring in answer.
Alex rolled to his feet, heart hammering. He'd seen the library, touched the book, and survived the Curator. But the elves were already inside the walls. And the princess still thought he was just a lost lamb.
He shook rose petals from his wool and trotted toward the hidden stair back to Elara's room. Time to plan. Time to turn this anti-hero game to his advantage.