I try not to blush. “I’m a librarian.”
“Then your enemies are ignorance and dust. Both worthy foes.”
“Okay,” I say, snorting. “You’re a lot.”
“I amKursk.”
“Yeah. You mentioned.”
He leans forward slightly, eyes steady. “You are different than I expected.”
“And you’re a lot more polite than someone who kicks in bathrooms and tongue-bombs strangers should be.”
He smiles at that. And I hate how charming it is.
There’s a weird comfort in his presence now. The room feels smaller with him in it, sure—but it also feels... safer. Like if that rotting thing came back tonight, he’d punch it through a wall.
And maybe that’s what scares me most.
Because something tells me this isn’t the weirdest part of the night.
It’s only the beginning.
CHAPTER 4
KURSK
The air here is wrong.
There’s no ash, no tannin of bark smoke. No wet leather or forge heat to greet me when I rise. Just the scent of something... delicate. Sweet. Faintly spiced.
Books. Ink. And something like toasted bread with spice bark—cinnamon, Olivia called it.
I sit up from the low pallet she gave me—some cloth-and-feather contraption that tries to mimic a proper ground nest. It creaks under my weight like a dying animal, but it held through the night, barely. The walls of her shelter are wood. Thin. Cheap. Not a single defensive brace, no ward-carvings, no palisade. There arewindowsin every room. Clear ones. Just... open holes in the wall where any enemy can see in.
This is not a stronghold. It is acoffin waiting to happen.
I stalk through her dwelling like a sentry surveying enemy terrain. Her hearth is cold, mechanical. The heat it gives is artificial and tasteless. The ceiling hums with magic light orbs—unholy silent fire trapped in glass. I poke one with a claw. It zaps me.
I growl.
She keeps books—many of them. I find myself drawn to the shelves, brushing thick tomes with one hand. Some of the words are familiar now, burned into my mind by the Communion. Others are gibberish, even to my enchanted tongue. She lives in a world of stories. Of inked memory. There’s power in that.
But not the kind that keeps you alive in battle.
I stop at the wall mirror—an old one, framed in human relic-wood, flecked with age spots. I stare into the reflection.
My skin is paler now, faded from its deep umber to something almost... washed out. The magic here gnaws at me already. I can feel it.
I lean in close, teeth bared. “What has this world done to them?” I murmur. “So soft. So blind.”
The day passes without threat, but not without discomfort. The cabin's systems baffle and infuriate me. I cannot conjure flame from her stove. The ‘toilet’ hums and howls with strange sorcery when I use it. The small cold box—a “fridge”—makes a grinding noise every time I open it. And every time I turn on thetelevision,I am convinced I’ve glimpsed the screaming void.
When she finally returns, I hear her vehicle before I see it. Her iron beast growls and rattles as it approaches, chewing up the gravel road like a tired hound.
I brace myself near the door, spear in hand.
She steps in, looking tired but bright. “You didn’t burn the place down. I’m impressed.”
