* The room breathed in the rustle of book pages.
The grand walls were lined with leather-bound volumes cracked by time, each holding a whisper of the past. Amidst those endless aisles of knowledge, a woman sat caressing the cover of a worn tome, while two pairs of questioning eyes stared up at her from the carpeted floor.
* "Mother," the little boy protested, the crease in his brow reflecting his boredom, "Five nights in a row you've read us the same story. We know every plot point—even before the prince draws the sword from the stone."
*
"That's right," his little sister chimed in, her finger tapping the marble floor, "We want something real. Not a fairytale stitched from dreams."
* The woman smiled, a smile too wise for just a mother. "You want the truth? No longer the hero stories with happy endings that you scratch into your sketchbooks?"
* "Are you really going to tell us?" The little boy cried out, his eyes widening like newly opened gates.
*
"Grandfather always forbade us," the girl perfectly imitated the old man's heavy voice, even furrowing her brow exactly like him, "'You are not tall enough to touch my Sceptre staff, let alone to hear this tale!'"
* The air vibrated.
The woman raised a hand—a simple gesture that triggered a burst of golden light from the room's ceiling. The wind hissed, slicing through the silence as a book wrapped in mystical roots descended from the beam, landing in her palm. The roots shriveled like frightened snakes, revealing a cover made not of parchment—but something darker.
* "Mystic Roots?" the little boy whispered, his tiny finger pointing, "Is this story so dangerous that it had to be sealed?"
The woman did not answer immediately. Her finger traced the faded letters on the cover, as if touching a wounded memory.
* "Every hero story you have heard," she finally spoke, her voice like water flowing under ice, "is a lie. The real one... is always hidden behind the happy ending."
She pointed to the stained-glass window above them, where twelve silhouettes moved in an eternal dance. One figure was lifting a sword to the sky, while the others knelt, protecting him in a sacred formation.
* "They are not just heroes," the woman whispered, "They are the warriors. And the one in the center? That is not just a hero—that is the last flicker of hope, almost extinguished."
The two siblings exchanged glances, confusion and curiosity battling in their pupils.
* Then—with a sound that shook the room's walls—the book opened.
* Gently, she opened the book. The sound of the cracked leather cover was like a cry.
"This," she hissed, "is the real story."
* The first page turned.
The world ceased to breathe.