My breath hitched, and my feet planted, unmovable.
It was the door from my dream.
The exact one, with the rounded top and the old metal latch. It was tucked away next to ancient territorial maps and left slightly ajar. Just enough for a whisper of shadow to seep out.
It felt like fate.
I wanted to turn around. The eeriness of it all gnawed at me. But curiosity clawed at my ribs. Something was pulling me toward that door, and I didn’t know what I feared more.
The pull itself, or what I was being pulled toward.
My chest tightened as I slipped through the gap.
The air changed the moment I stepped inside—colder, heavier, like I’d crossed an invisible threshold. The room was small, crowded with narrow shelves and stacks of books too brittle to touch. But the centerpiece was impossible to miss.
It was another glass showcase.
Inside, resting like a relic in a tomb, was a book bound in cracked leather and frayed cloth. Its spine was faded, lettering ghosted by time.
I crouched, pressing my face close to the glass. Dust veiled the surface, but through the grime, I could just make out the letters burned into the cover:
Acaelar Bloodborne
The name hit me like a stone.
Acaelar, the Prophet King. His prophecies were the reason the Ascension Project was created. He’d lived more than a hundred years ago, but his legacy still rippled through the kingdom like a curse.
And here his name was, locked away like a secret.
I reached out without thinking, fingertips brushing the cold glass.
That’s when it happened.
A shiver shot down my spine, sharp and startling. It wasn’t the draft—I knew the bite of cold air, and this wasn’t it. It was something else.
The fine hairs on my arms lifted as if stirred by a breath that wasn’t there. And for a moment, I felt it—warmth on my shoulder. Familiar. Comforting.
Willam.
The thought rooted itself so fast I didn’t question it. The tome would have the answers I sought. I knew it as sure as I knew the woods of Oak Hollow.
Blood roared in my ears.
I didn’t know what secrets an old king carried that could matter to me now—but every part of me knew I needed them. I needed to crack open the book and bleed its pages dry.
I curled my hand into a fist and stepped back, eyes locked on the case.
The lock glared at me.
For a fleeting, stupid second, I considered smashing the glass. My fingers even curled into fists, prepared for action. But the sound… the fallout…
No, I needed a cleaner way.
I slipped out of the room. As I walked backward, silently closing the door, I felt myself walk into something hard. I quickly swung around and came face-to-face with the librarian. His eyes were wide, and his expression sharp with suspicion.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
He barged right past me, pushing me out of the way, and studied the latch. Then he muttered, “How is this open?”
