The wind whispered through the broken windows of the royal archive, stirring motes of dust that danced in the pale shafts of moonlight. Elira knelt by a toppled shelf, fingertips grazing brittle parchment and cracked leather bindings. The room had not seen a soul in decades, perhaps longer. It smelled of damp stone, forgotten knowledge, and something older — something asleep.
She should not have been here.
The palace guards had warned her, and her mentor, Master Faelen, had forbidden it. But Elira was never one to obey limits drawn in fear. And tonight, the voice had returned. Not spoken aloud, but threaded through her dreams like silk, calling her name — Elira...
She had followed that voice through the west wing of the crumbling palace, past halls where portraits bled their paint and ivy clawed through cracks in the ceiling. And now, in this library buried beneath rot and time, her heart beat with anticipation and dread.
Her hand froze over a particular volume. Unlike the others, this one was not covered in grime. Its surface was smooth, its spine intact, its binding sealed by a thin thread of gold that pulsed faintly under her touch. The title had been scratched off, but symbols — old, foreign — curled across the cover like smoke.
She drew her dagger and cut the thread.
The moment the binding snapped, the room shifted. The wind stopped. The light dimmed. And the voice — no longer distant — spoke.
> "You should not have come here, child of embers."
Elira staggered backward, eyes wide, clutching the book to her chest.
> "But now that you have... the forgotten must be remembered."
The ground trembled beneath her feet. From the stone floor, faint lines etched themselves outward in a glowing spiral. Books rustled. Whispers — real, countless, ancient — fluttered from every shadow.
Elira turned toward the exit. But the doorway had vanished.
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