"I'll probably need the membership card," Arthur muttered to himself. He pulled on his worn-out coat, feeling the frayed lining around the shoulders, and tucked the card securely into the inner pocket.
Fleur had warned him not to step outside. Sorry, Fleur, he thought with a wry, quiet remorse. I will leave a note for you.
Before slipping out the door, he left a small slip of paper weighted down on the wooden kitchen table. It read, "I am going to visit the library. I will be back before sunset, so don't worry," accompanied by a simple smiley face in the corner.
Once again, Arthur found himself immersed in the bustling streets of Riven.
I'll never get used to this crowd, he thought, adjusting his collar against the crisp morning air as he navigated the dense flow of pedestrians.
As much as he detested crowded thoroughfares, he couldn't help but feel a quiet fascination with the city's chaotic vitality. The cobbled avenues, narrow shopfronts, and lingering scents of coal smoke and roasted grain bore a superficial resemblance to Akuro, yet everything felt subtly off. It was in the rhythm of speech, the abrupt mannerisms, and the sharp social divide stamped onto every passerby.
The street was a restless blend of two distinct worlds. On one side were the laborers and destitute—blunt, weathered, and fiercely pragmatic. On the other were the aspiring middle class, carrying themselves with a fragile, elevated arrogance. Yet a closer look exposed the cracks in their demeanor. Their coats were carefully pressed but worn at the cuffs, and their boots were polished over cracked leather. They were striving desperately to project wealth they did not possess, caught in the quiet strain of lower-middle-class ambition.
Cutting through a succession of crowded alleys, Arthur finally reached his destination. He stopped at the foot of the grand stone steps and looked up, taking in the structure.
The library was imposing—a three-story mansion of dark, aged timber and stone that had once surely belonged to a high-ranking noble. Spiderweb cracks coursed through the exterior stone foundation, and the heavy glass windows, set in weathered wooden frames, were fogged with years of grime and dampness. Shadows of patrons moved slowly behind the glass like ghosts inside a lantern.
Yet despite the decay, the architecture retained a striking elegance. Delicate filigree carved into the eaves still bore traces of gilded leaf that caught the sunlight against the dark wood. It was a monument to faded magnificence—a place that had once flourished under wealthy patronage, only to be eroded by time and hardship, leaving behind the marks of its former glory.
Arthur took a slow, deep breath, letting the cool air clear his head, and pushed through the heavy wooden entrance.
The interior was just as striking, wrapped in the warm, golden light of brass chandeliers. The entry hall served as a quiet reception area, flanked on either side by plush, worn velvet sofas positioned near closed latticed windows. A few elderly patrons sat quietly, sipping tea from chipped porcelain cups while leafing through the morning's newspapers.
To the right of the desk lay the archway into the main hall. Even from the threshold, Arthur could see towering rows of dark timber bookshelves stretching upward until they dissolved into the dim, shadowy reaches of the high ceiling. The air carried the rich scent of aged parchment, dry leather bindings, and faint lavender polish.
Deciding to speak with the librarian first, Arthur stepped up to the reception counter.
Behind it sat a tall, sharp-featured woman. She possessed a natural posture—her neck long, her back perfectly straight with the effortless uprightness of someone who had maintained it for decades. Her dark hair was streaked with silver at the temples, pulled back into a tight, precise chignon at the nape of her neck. She wore a high-collared navy dress, buttoned to her throat, and thin-rimmed spectacles rested on the bridge of her nose. In her ink-stained fingers, a pencil moved in small, rhythmic strokes across an open ledger.
She did not raise her head until he was standing directly before her.
When she finally looked up, the pencil came to a sudden halt.
"Mr. Arthur."
Her voice was low and hushed—the quiet cadence of someone whose life was defined by speaking softly in quiet halls. Yet beneath the reserved tone lay a warmth he hadn't anticipated. It was not mere recognition, but the restrained relief of someone deliberately trying not to show how concerned she had been.
Shin felt the weight of it before he could mentally brace himself. The look in her eyes wasn't that of a distant acquaintance; she looked at him as though he were someone whose return had been genuinely doubted.
He caught himself—quickly, though not fast enough to hide the brief hesitation in his eyes.
"It's good to see you," he said, matching her soft, measured tone.
She regarded him quietly for a moment. Then, removing her spectacles, she let them hang by their delicate chain against her collar and folded her hands across the desk.
"You look better than I expected," she noted. "Given what I was told."
Arthur kept his face unreadable. "What were you told?"
"That you were found injured." A brief pause. "That you were being kept in an Ashen Cell safe house while you recovered, and that visitors were prohibited." Another slight pause. "I am glad to see those circumstances have passed."
Arthur looked at her. Her tone was entirely devoid of drama—she stated it with the quiet simplicity of a truth that needed no flourish. A strange pang settled in his chest, catching him off guard.
"How did you hear about all that?" he asked softly, keeping his tone light. "Was it Fleur?"
The librarian nodded once. "Little Fleur came in one afternoon asking if I had seen you. That was how I learned you were missing." She picked up her pencil again, turning it once between her fingers before setting it down. "After that, she came back every few days to share news of your recovery. She didn't seem to have anyone else to confide in."
Arthur fell silent.
A sudden image filled his mind: little Fleur, walking into this grand, echoing library alone just to speak with a librarian because she had no one else in the world to bear her worry with.
"That sounds like her," Arthur said, his voice softer now.
"It does." Corinne's tone was dry, perfectly balanced. She placed the pencil beside her ledger. "I assume you are here to use the library?"
"If that's alright."
"You carry a membership," she replied, treating the question as self-evident. "Your card, please."
Arthur reached into his coat pocket and slid the card onto the counter.
Corinne picked it up without looking directly at it, turning instead to a heavy leather register at her elbow. Its spine was held together with dark cloth tape, its edges softened by years of use. Running an index finger down a column of names written in small, neat handwriting, she paused at his entry, made a brief checkmark in the margin, and picked up a rubber stamp. With a practiced motion, she pressed it cleanly onto the back of his card—leaving a crisp, rectangular ink mark of today's date—and blew gently across the surface before setting it down.
From a small wooden tray, she lifted a round wooden pass. It was worn smooth at the edges, stamped with the number 14 in tarnished brass. His regular table, Shin realized. Arthur's table.
She slid both the card and the wooden pass across the desk.
"The northeast quadrant is quietest at this hour," she said, already turning her attention back to her notebook. "Two new acquisitions arrived in the periodicals section this week. The index has been updated accordingly."
Her words were delivered as plain fact, offered simply because they were relevant.
Shin gathered the card and passed. He lingered for a moment, looking at this woman who had quietly held space for a lonely girl, day after day, without ever making a show of it.
"Thank you," he said gently. "For looking after her."
Corinne Ashby did not raise her eyes from her writing.
"She looked after herself," she said softly. "I only made tea."
Arthur offered a faint smile, turned, and stepped through the archway into the main hall.
The main reading hall was vastly larger than it appeared from the street—the sort of expansive space that seemed to stretch far beyond the building's outer boundaries.
Dark, polished timber ran beneath his feet, worn smooth and soft down the central aisle where generations of patrons had walked, yet retaining a low gloss along the edges where foot traffic rarely strayed. Long reading tables spanned the length of the hall in orderly rows, each illuminated by a frosted glass lamp mounted on a heavy brass stand. They emitted a steady, warm amber glow—a sourceless light without flame or flicker. A few isolated patrons sat hunched over open volumes, coats still wrapped tightly around their shoulders and hats unremoved, as though they had intended to stay for only a moment before succumbing to the quiet trance of the room.
On either side, towering shelves rose from the floor to the vaulted ceiling. Two full storeys of dark leather bindings were packed so densely that, from a distance, their spines dissolved into a single continuous texture—much like trees blurring into a distant treeline. They extended upward into heights that felt almost unreasonable for a building in this district. The highest tiers receded into cool, shadowy depths where the warm illumination of the brass lamps failed to reach, giving the upper shelves a ancient, geological permanence, as if the books held up there had been shelved long before anyone currently alive was around to read them.
Then Arthur noticed the brass rails.
Mounted flush against the face of every shelf tier ran a slender, continuous track of polished brass. So seamless was its fitting that he had initially mistaken it for decorative moulding.
Until he saw the arm move.
High up along the right wall, at the third tier, a small mechanical apparatus glided smoothly along its track. It moved with quiet, frictionless precision, catching the warm light as it passed. Suspended beneath it on a fine steel cable, a single book descended toward the floor in a slow, deliberate arc, held firmly by its spine in a padded leather grip.
At the foot of the shelf stood a young woman dressed in the same deep navy gown and dark grey apron as Corinne. Her posture was relaxed, her hand raised in a casual wait—the posture of someone expecting an outcome that had never once failed to occur.
The descending book settled neatly into her palm. She caught it without breaking her stance or adjusting her footing.
Throughout the grand hall, other attendants in matching navy and grey navigated the stacks. Some stood before small brass lever panels bolted to the ends of the shelf rows, while others carried stacks of leather-bound volumes toward the returns desk with the swift, effortless grace of people who had mapped every inch of the room into their muscle memory. Here and there, young women in simple maid attire moved softly between the reading tables with small silver trays, placing down fresh cups of tea and silently clearing away empty ones.
No one looked up as Arthur passed.
The soundscape of the hall was delicate and specific: the dry rustle of turning pages, the faint creak of aged wood under shifting weight, and the low, soft mechanical hum of a retrieval arm beginning its run along an upper rail. Nothing louder. No signs demanded silence; the quiet was simply held by unspoken consent.
As Arthur lingered near the central aisle, one of the librarians approached him. Her hands were folded neatly at her waist in a posture of practiced composure, her expression calm and professional. She offered a modest, respectful bow.
"It is good to see you again, Sir Arthur," she said, her voice kept purposefully low, barely carrying beyond the two of them. "How may I assist you today?"
"I'd like to look through some texts on the different branches of Arche," Arthur replied, keeping his tone equally subdued.
"Understood. Do you have a specific branch or tier of study in mind?"
"Not particularly," Arthur said. "Whatever you would recommend for a beginner. Someone who has yet to grasp the fundamentals of Arche, let alone channel practical skills."
The librarian paused briefly, her eyes shifting upward in quiet consideration.
"In that case," she said, "you will require a foundational text on perception. As for practical applications, there are only two entry-level skills accessible at Tier 1 for a novice: Kindle, belonging to the Thermal branch, and Gale, from the Atmospheric branch." She gave another slight nod. "Shall I retrieve them for you, Sir Arthur?"
"Yes," Arthur said. "That will be fine."
The librarian bowed once before turning toward the stacks. She passed beneath the soaring shelves, her sharp gaze scanning the numbered sections with practiced efficiency.
Stopping before one of the taller units, she ran her fingers down the brass control panel at its base, counting silently beneath her breath before settling on a lever near the top. She pulled it down with a firm click. High above, a soft mechanical latch released. The carriage arm glided along its upper rail, paused over a specific volume, and extended its leather clamp. The book tilted forward, caught cleanly, and descended steadily on its cable to eye level.
She gathered the volume, adjusted the lever to select a second title, and waited. A moment later, another book made its smooth descent into her waiting hands.
That's so awesome! What is that? Some sort of retrieval system? Arthur thought, watching the mechanical arm return to its resting housing. It saves them from having to haul ladders into the narrow aisles.
To someone from his background, the system looked like something engineered for a high-end film set. It struck him as almost surreal—this blend of brass mechanics and quiet scholarship proved far more jarring than the concept of Arche itself.
The librarian disappeared further into the labyrinth of shelves to gather the remaining material. Arthur waited quietly, taking in the ambient warmth of the room. Before long, she returned, holding a stack of five heavy volumes balanced comfortably in her arms.
"I have selected five texts for you, sir," she said in her stoic, measured tone. "The first is the Underscript Codex. If I am not mistaken, you have previously borrowed a copy, but I have included it as it remains the definitive text on fundamental theory."
She gestured toward two of the remaining books. "These two cover the Atmospheric branch—one detailing theoretical foundations, the other serving as the primary primer for practical application. The final two cover the Thermal branch in the same manner."
Arthur took the heavy stack from her hands, feeling the textured grain of the leather bindings. "Thank you. I appreciate the help."
The librarian offered a subtle smile, bowed, and stepped away to assist another patron.
With the five volumes in hand, Arthur made his way toward the northeast quadrant of the hall. As Corinne had noted, it was noticeably sparser, tucked beneath a series of high, arched windows where the ambient shadows settled deep into the corners.
As he approached a vacant table near the far wall, his eyes brushed past a man seated alone at an adjacent desk. The stranger wore a dark, tailored suit resembling a formal butler's uniform, topped with a low-rimmed top hat and pristine white gloves. The stark black attire gave him an imposing, almost out-of-place presence against the warm wood of the library.
Arthur lowered his eyes and kept moving.
Best not to draw attention, he thought, pulling out a heavy timber chair. I don't need any unnecessary interactions right now.
He sat down, arranged the stack to one side, and pulled the Underscript Codex to the center of the table.
First, I need to understand how to perceive Arche and interact with the Underscript, he thought, running a thumb down the ribbed spine. If I remember right, practical application starts around chapter six. To grasp the concept before that, chapter four or five should have what I need.
He flipped through the thick, textured pages until he reached the heading.
CHAPTER FOUR — ON PERCEIVING THE UNDERSCRIPT
The first contact, its nature, and what to expect from it.
The Underscript is not something you learn to see. It is something you learn to stop ignoring.
It has always been present. Every individual who has ever lived has existed within the ambient reach of the Underscript without ever perceiving it—much like an individual existing in the presence of sound frequencies their ears were never built to register. The frequencies are real; the listener simply lacks the refined instrument to record them. Developing perception of the Underscript is not the acquisition of a new sense, but the deliberate refinement of attention toward a layer of reality that was already there.
This distinction is of practical importance. A student who approaches first contact as though reaching outward for an external force will fail. The Underscript is not outside you. It is the underlying substrate of the physical world, and you are already resting within it. The correct approach is not to reach, but to cease reaching—to allow ordinary sensory focus to settle until what lies beneath becomes clear.
The method is as follows:
First, attain physical stillness. Not through formal meditation or ceremony. Simply cease movement and allow the body's reflexive focus on immediate physical sensation—ambient sound, draft, the pressure of the seat, the touch of air against skin—to settle without force. Do not suppress these sensations; allow them to exist without claiming your focus.
Once sensory awareness has quieted, direct your attention to the atmosphere immediately surrounding you. Not to its temperature, nor its physical movement across the skin, but to its composition—the unseen elements contained within it, the manner in which they are arranged, and the reality that the air you occupy is a structured mixture, each component bearing its own weight and weightless behavior.
Do not attempt to visually perceive this. Simply hold the truth of its existence in the foreground of your mind rather than allowing it to drift into the background.
Most students report no immediate sensation at this stage. This is expected. First contact with the Underscript is not an abrupt event. It is a gradual resolution—the way an object in a darkened room grows distinct not through exertion, but as the eye naturally adapts to the ambient light. Maintain awareness of the composition of the air. Do not evaluate whether the process is functioning; evaluation merely draws focus back to the surface. Continue.
When contact occurs, the student will know without ambiguity. It does not arrive with drama. It manifests as a sudden, absolute clarity that the space before you possesses an underlying structure—that it is not merely empty air, but an arranged, shifting matrix moving in patterns that feel as obvious as the distinction between light and shadow. This clarity does not resemble imagination; it carries the weight of a fact that was always present and merely overlooked.
At this juncture, first contact is established. The student is, by technical definition, a Tier 1 practitioner of whichever branch their perception has unlocked.
Do not attempt application at this stage. The initial session must conclude here. Forcing application before perception has stabilized yields no practical result and frequently induces severe cerebral strain lasting several days.
Rest. Return tomorrow.
Arthur stopped reading.
He sat back, letting his gaze linger on the dense print as the concepts settled. It was the sort of technical text that should have required multiple passes—a dense, academic exposition where full meaning arrived slowly. Yet it hadn't felt difficult. The words had settled into his mind with smooth, unresisted clarity, the underlying logic building itself in his thoughts with an effortless fluency that felt almost borrowed.
Like remembering a forgotten path rather than walking it for the first time.
He noted the sensation, but chose not to dwell on it. In the weeks since waking up as Arthur Leonor, he had learned the quiet discipline of not pressing too hard against things that felt out of place.
Setting the book flat against the dark wood, he rested his hands on the armrests of his chair and leaned back.
Alright, he thought softly, closing his eyes against the warm amber glow of the lamp. Let's see.
He stopped moving.
That part came easily enough. Tucked beneath the arched windows of the northeast corner, the quiet felt natural rather than forced. Around him, the ambient soundscape of the hall softened into a low, steady background: the distant click of a retrieval carriage gliding across a rail somewhere in the central stacks, the dry turn of a page from an unseen table, and the quiet, unvarying hum of the amber lamp beside him.
He let the sounds sit undisturbed in the space around him, shifting his focus toward the air itself.
Not to its temperature against his skin, nor to the faint draft created when a distant attendant walked past two rows over. He focused on its composition—the unseen truth that he was sitting inside a structured fluid rather than empty space, each component bearing its own subtle weight and behavior. Seventy-eight percent nitrogen. Twenty-one percent oxygen. Trace elements of argon and carbon dioxide. A fine, suspended veil of moisture.
He had known this for as long as he could remember—academically, distantly, the way one knows a distant shoreline exists without feeling the sea spray. He brought that knowledge to the foreground of his mind. He didn't reach for it or force it into shape; he simply allowed it to occupy the quiet center of his attention.
He waited.
The Underscript Codex had warned that most novices experienced nothing for hours. Arthur had taken the warning to heart, mentally settling in for a long, unproductive session—
And then it resolved.
There was no sudden flash of light, no low rumble of power, no dramatic shift in the room's gravity. What struck him most in the moments that followed was the utter lack of drama. One second the space before him was merely air, and the next—without a sound or a second's delay—it was distinctly, unmistakably something more.
He could feel it.
Not in the way his palm felt the smooth grain of the wooden table, nor how his back pressed against the chair. It was a direct, absolute awareness of the space around him as an organized matrix. He could perceive the subtle variations in density between the cool floorboards and the warmer air rising near the tabletop. He felt the thin, invisible thermal plume rising from the frosted glass chimney of his lamp, drifting upward before dispersing into the shadows above. He felt the microscopic currents dancing through the room—air that was never truly still, shifting in delicate, rhythmic currents far too subtle for human skin to register, yet suddenly entirely legible to this new sense.
He sat perfectly motionless.
The Underscript did not feel like magic or raw force. It felt like absolute clarity—a sudden correction to a lifelong blindness he had never known he possessed. The structure had always been there; he was simply, for the first time, actually paying attention.
He held the perception for a few seconds longer, absorbing the quiet elegance of it. Then, with a slow, deliberate exhale, he let his focus relax, allowing the unseen lines of the room to fade back into ordinary background noise.
His hands resting on the dark timber were completely steady.
First try.
He picked up the Codex, turned back to the chapter, and verified the text. He chose not to dissect what his immediate success meant just yet. He merely noted it, the way he had learned to note every strange, unexplainable occurrence in this new life—quietly, carefully, and without letting a single flicker of emotion reach his face.
Setting the Underscript Codex to the side, he reached for the two foundational texts.
They were relatively slim compared to the grand, heavy tomes in the main stacks—modest volumes bound in plain, unadorned leather. Their spines were simply stamped Thermal: A Domain Introduction and Atmospheric: A Domain Introduction.
He opened the Thermal text first.
Heat is not a substance. This was the central error of pre-modern natural philosophy, and correcting it is the primary objective of this text.
Heat is energy—specifically, the kinetic energy of particles in rapid motion. The faster the constituents of a given substance move relative to one another, the higher its measurable temperature. Temperature is not a measure of contained heat; it is a measure of average particle velocity. These are distinct concepts, and the distinction is fundamental.
The Thermal domain concerns itself with the full behavior of this kinetic energy—how it transfers through conduction, convection, and radiation; how it drives phase transitions from solid to liquid, gas, and plasma; how it initiates and sustains chemical oxidation; and how the relationship between heat and work governs every physical process in the material world. Thermal is not merely the study of flame. Flame is but one visible consequence of thermal dynamics. The domain itself is vastly broader.
He closed the cover. He had absorbed what he needed. The book undoubtedly continued into detailed formulas for specific heat capacities, thermodynamic laws, and entropy—essential material for a complete education, but far beyond his immediate scope.
He set it down and opened the Atmospheric volume.
The atmosphere is a fluid. This is the first and most practically important truth within this domain.
Air behaves according to the same principles of fluid dynamics that govern water—it flows, forms pressure differentials, creates currents, eddies, and boundary layers. Its compressibility distinguishes it from liquids, yet the underlying mechanics remain continuous. A practitioner who grasps fluid dynamics holds the foundation of this domain.
Atmospheric science concerns itself with the composition of air—primarily nitrogen and oxygen, with precise concentrations of trace gases and water vapor—and how this fluid mixture behaves under shifting conditions of temperature, pressure, and altitude. The domain encompasses aerodynamics, acoustic propagation, chemical gas reactions, and pressure-differential mechanics. It does not begin and end with wind.
He set it alongside the first and picked up the two practical entry guides.
These carried a noticeably different weight. They were thicker, denser volumes where the sentences were concise not out of simplicity, but because exact precision had been chosen over stylistic flourish.
The Thermal Practitioner's Entry began with molecular orbital theory and the thermodynamic threshold of combustion, devoting nearly sixty pages to oxidation kinetics and photon emission spectra before finally introducing the concept of Underscript interaction. Here, the author's tone shifted—becoming painstaking and cautious, as if struggling to articulate a phenomenon that defied easy description.
Arthur read through the perception guide and into the initial application chapters. The text outlined the specific depth of Underscript attention required to perceive energy at the particle level—what it meant to directly sense molecular velocity rather than merely knowing the physics behind it.
Then he reached the start of the practical section: Chapter Nine — First Application: Kindle.
He marked the page with his thumb and set the book down, turning to The Atmospheric Practitioner's Entry.
It followed a matching structure: fluid dynamics, pressure differential equations, gas law relationships, and the acoustic properties of air as a medium, leading into an Underscript perception chapter that approached the concept from a structural angle. Where the Thermal text spoke of sensing motion and energy, this volume spoke of sensing arrangement—the molecular geometry of the air, its pressure gradients, and its constant, fluid movement.
Further in, he reached the corresponding section: Chapter Eleven — First Application: Gale.
Arthur set both guides side by side on the table and studied them silently. Two marked chapters. Two practical skills waiting at the end of exhaustive academic foundations.
He reopened the Thermal entry guide to the beginning of the application section.
He had time.
He read through both volumes twice more, taking care to absorb how the theoretical framework served as the catalyst for the skill itself. The authors had calibrated the material with surgical precision—explaining just enough of the underlying physics to make the application possible.
To think you have to digest two dense textbooks just to execute entry-level skills, he thought, leaning back. And these are the most basic Tier 1 applications in existence. I can't imagine the sheer volume of knowledge required for higher tiers.
He glanced down at his hands, a quiet thought stirring. Should I test one of them now?
He looked around the quiet, shadow-draped hall. The warm light of the brass lamps, the aged timber shelves, the quiet patrons absorbed in their study... one mistake here could trigger an uncontrolled flare or a sharp vacuum drop.
His eyes drifted to the adjacent table, where the man in the dark tailored suit, top hat, and pristine white gloves remained seated in silent immobility.
Definitely not the place, Arthur decided. Too many eyes, and far too fragile an environment.
He closed the volumes, stacked all five neatly under his arm, and pushed his chair back.
Navigating the central aisle, he returned to the front reception desk. Corinne was behind the counter, accompanied by the junior librarian who had retrieved the books earlier. When Arthur laid the heavy stack onto the wood, the younger librarian blinked, her calm composure faltering into momentary surprise.
"Sir Arthur?" she asked, her voice hushed. "Are you finished with these already? If you require more time, I can establish a Reading Ledger record for you so they remain reserved for your next visit."
A Reading Ledger? Arthur noted the concept. So it's an internal bookmarking system for active research.
He wondered briefly if the original Arthur had left anything on record.
"No, thank you," Arthur said smoothly. "I've finished going through them for today. But out of curiosity... do I happen to have an active ledger record under my name?"
The junior librarian looked even more startled. What? He already finished reading all 5 of those books? He's gotta be joking, right? It takes several months to fully understand the contents of those books. He must have just grazed over them at best.
"Of course, sir," she replied, turning to Corinne.
Corinne cast a mild, curious glance at the assistant before reaching beneath the desk to pull out a massive, leather-bound archive ledger. She turned the thick pages, tracking her finger down Arthur's entry column. She verified his last registered visit—exactly one week ago—and paused at a line written in precise black ink.
"Your last active record was for a private, vaulted volume," Corinne said calmly. "The registered title is..."
She paused briefly to read the entry, and the words that followed made Arthur's heart freeze in his chest.
"...Shin Nomiya, The False King."
Arthur's breath hitched. For a fraction of a second, his composure cracked—a slight widening of his eyes, a momentary tightness in his jaw.
Corinne's sharp gaze caught the flicker instantly.
"Is something wrong, Mr. Arthur?" she asked softly.
Arthur forced his breathing to remain steady, smoothing his expression back into an easy, neutral mask. "No... It's nothing. May I retrieve the volume?"
Corinne studied him for a quiet beat. Though she clearly registered his reaction, she chose not to push. She noted something down on a small slip of paper and handed it to the junior librarian, who nodded and quickly departed into the main hall.
Once they were alone at the desk, Corinne reached for a porcelain teapot, pouring a thin stream of steaming tea into a cup.
"Would you like a cup, Arthur?" she asked quietly.
"Thank you. I'd appreciate that."
She passed the saucer across the counter, taking a subtle sip from her own cup before speaking in a low, measured tone.
"Mr. Arthur... whatever affairs you are currently managing, I would strongly advise you to exercise caution. Getting involved in dangerous matters rarely ends well."
Arthur held the warm porcelain, keeping his voice light. "I'm not sure what you mean, Corinne. What makes you think I'm up to no good?"
"A great deal of things," she replied smoothly, setting her cup down. "When you first joined three years ago, you were a frequent, predictable visitor. But over the past year, your behavior shifted noticeably. You began requesting strangely specific historical texts from the Old World. Your visits grew erratic. You would arrive carrying personal manuscripts and maps, paying substantial sums to rent our private study vaults."
She looked directly at him over her thin spectacles.
"And whenever you were here, you carried yourself like someone expecting a shadow behind them. When I inquired back then, you claimed you were simply researching local history. And then, just days before your sudden disappearance, you brought in that locked volume and placed it into secure vault storage."
The air between them felt suddenly heavy with history he was only now discovering. Feeling the need to defuse the rising tension, Arthur offered a faint, dry smile.
"Miss Corinne, are you quite certain you selected the right profession?" He leaned slightly against the desk. "I'm beginning to think you would have made a rather unsettling investigator."
Corinne held his gaze for a long moment, the quiet severity in her eyes softening just a fraction before she returned her focus to the ledger.
"I work with information, Mr. Arthur," she said softly, a subtle, almost invisible smile touching her lips. "I simply pay attention to what it reveals."
"You needn't worry," Arthur said gently. "I'm being careful."
Corinne offered a subtle nod of relief.
Footsteps echoed softly along the timber floor as the junior librarian returned, carrying a moderate-sized volume wrapped in dark protective cloth. She unwrapped it and laid it onto the wooden counter.
The book was bound in deep brown leather so dark it appeared nearly black in the warm chandelier light. Its surface was aged and soft, faintly cracked along the spine. Each corner was capped in tarnished bronze that had aged into a delicate greenish patina, and a solid bronze clasp held the side shut—latched tight, as if meant to keep its contents secure from casual eyes.
At the exact center of the front cover, embossed in faded silver that resembled old frost, was an intricate snowflake. Its six points branched into micro-crystalline details far too precise to have been carved by human hands. As the overhead light caught the silver, a faint, cold blue glint seemed to shimmer beneath the metal.
It was neither overly thick nor light, possessing a quiet, flawless symmetry despite its clear age.
Arthur reached out and took the volume. The weight was ordinary, yet as his fingers brushed the aged leather, he felt a faint, resonant pull in the back of his mind—not a physical force, but a quiet, subtle connection stirring in his thoughts.
"Thank you," Arthur said, bowing his head slightly to both women. "I'll be on my way now. I will drop by again when time allows."
Holding the dark volume securely beneath his coat, Arthur turned and stepped out into the crisp evening air of Riven.