“I will.”
The word tasted like a lie.
I drifted deeper into the library, past towering shelves. The silence pressed in, broken only by my labored panting. My trembling fingers grazed the spines of the many forgotten works. All this knowledge, all these secrets, buried under frozen Ground where no one could see. No one could learn.
But only one book mattered right now.
Every nerve screamed caution, but hesitation was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I stopped before a tall stack near the back corner and placed both hands on its edge. The plan was simple.
I pushed.
The shelf groaned, swayed, and then toppled. The crash was thunderous, a symphony of cracking wood and tumbling books. Dust exploded into the air in thick, choking plumes.
A shout ripped through the stillness.
“WHAT HAPPENED?!”
The librarian came charging, his face contorted in panic. He dropped to his knees among the fallen texts, fingers trembling as they traced torn bindings and ripped pages. His voice rose, cracking with grief:
“What happened?”
“I’m so sorry!” I stammered. “I tripped—I didn’t mean to—”
“Get out.” His tone cut like a blade.
“But—”
“I said GET OUT!”
His roar shook the dust from the air.
I backed away, head bowed, feigning shame while my pulse beat wildly like a drum. My eyes flicked to his throat. No chain. Good.
Once I made it to the front entrance, I opened and closed the door, hoping it was enough to fool his ears. I moved quickly then. The keys were hanging on thehook, and I silently grabbed them. They were heavy in my hands. Their weight was both a promise and a prayer.
I didn’t linger long. Every moment felt stolen as I ran to the door at the far end of the library, careful to evade the librarian still cataloging the destruction. I sorted through the ring of keys, trying each one in the lock, until I heard the click of the latch.
Slowly, I pushed in.
Inside, the air changed. Stale, untouched, laced with the sweet rot of aging parchment. The only illumination came from a flickering light that turned on when it sensed me. Tomes lined the walls in regimented rows, their spines dull with centuries of secrets. And there in the center, a glass case glimmered faintly in the gloom.
Inside lay the book that had called to me.
My breath hitched as I wrestled with finding the right key to unlock the case. Once I did, I lifted the lid, and the faint scent of old leather and iron ink wafted over me. My fingers brushed the cover—scarred, dark, whispering of hands long deceased. I gently picked it up, and the weight startled me.
I opened it.
The first page greeted me with words etched in a hand both regal and severe:
Journal of His Majesty, Acaelar Bloodborne, first of his name.
This was it. The lost journal. Not lost, but hidden. Buried away, and hoped to be forgotten.
The first prophecy was eerie and foreboding:
The Old Bookspeaks true:
Ascend from ruin, and be made anew.
