The moment Luke crossed the threshold, the world seemed to expand.
The library unfolded before him not as a room, but as a quiet realm unto itself. Shelves rose high—far higher than any human-built archive he had ever seen—curving gently along the walls as if the architecture itself respected the presence of what it housed. Books of every size and binding filled them: leather-wrapped tomes darkened by age, pale vellum volumes etched with silver script, thick spines reinforced with metal clasps, and slender books whose covers shimmered faintly when the light touched them just right.
Sunlight streamed in from tall, narrow windows set between the shelves, refracted through glass treated with subtle enchantments. The light did not glare or fade; it simply rested in the air, illuminating the dust motes drifting lazily like suspended stars. The scent hit him next—old paper, polished wood, ink, and something faintly floral, as though the forest itself had lent its breath to this place.
