The air inside the archives was colder than usual, or maybe Elena was just nervous.
She adjusted the strap of her satchel and stepped carefully around the slightly slouched figure of Old Master Wimble, who was asleep in his chair again, quill still tucked behind one ear. He snored softly, and the tea by his elbow had long gone cold. A note written in spindly script rested on the desk beside him:
"Do not disturb unless the archives are on fire (again)."
Elena grinned. At least the place hadn't changed overnight.
Today marked the third week of her job at the archives, and she was finally being trusted to sort some of the older tomes. She didn't exactly love the mildew smell that clung to them, but the thrill of touching history—actual history—made up for it.
Also, the pay helped.
Income Update:
Sorting and scribing in the archives: 12 copper crowns per day, with a bonus 2 copper if she copied legibly in both Old Script and Common.
Meals cost 3 copper per day if she skipped meat. Meatless stew it was.
Not bad, considering she now had a weekly budget and hadn't burned down any books. Yet.
---
The note she'd found tucked inside the medical ledger from Chapter 10 had stayed with her. She kept it hidden in a pouch stitched into the lining of her satchel. Every so often, she'd unfold it to re-read the looping script:
"Follow the paper trail. Some truths are preserved only because they were misfiled."
She hadn't figured out what it meant—yet—but she was slowly learning how the archives were organized. Or rather, how they weren't. Documents were miscategorized all the time. It was part chaos, part curse, and part "system" invented by scholars who apparently enjoyed riddles.
Today, she'd decided to sneak a look into the forbidden section again.
No one had said it was forbidden, exactly. But there was a dusty curtain across the entrance and the shelves inside were labeled "Unsorted, Unstable, Possibly Cursed," which she took as a personal invitation.
---
"Don't get cursed. Again," Liora had teased her that morning, handing her a small paper packet. "For bribery," she added with a wink.
Elena had peeked inside. Lemon biscuits.
Bless her.
She kept the packet tucked carefully beside her notebook. If she got caught by Master Wimble or one of the other senior scribes, biscuits might be her only escape plan.
---
Inside the curtain, the shelves sagged under the weight of untitled scrolls, cracked ledgers, and ancient volumes with missing covers. Dust lay thick on everything.
Elena worked slowly, carefully cataloguing what she could. She wore a thin cloth mask this time—after a coughing fit last week had earned her a sharp glare from the elderly scribe named Thessa.
It was when she reached for a warped book with a deep crimson spine that something shifted. The weight of the shelf tilted slightly. She froze.
And then she saw it.
Behind the book was a narrow slot in the wall. A slit barely wide enough to slide a sheet of parchment through. And just behind that, tucked into the crevice, was something folded tightly and sealed with wax.
Her fingers trembled as she retrieved it. The wax bore an unfamiliar crest—three stars above an open eye.
Not the kingdom's crest. Something older?
---
She didn't dare open it there.
Back at her desk, Elena carefully cut the seal with her small eating knife and unfolded the letter. The ink had faded, but the handwriting was precise.
"To those who would hide the truth beneath ink and ash:
We remember the burning of the Southern Library.
We remember the silencing of Starcaller Mierin.
We remember the true cause of the Sapphire Plague.
And we will remember you, too.
— For the Hidden Record"
She exhaled slowly. This wasn't just some forgotten student's scribbling.
She flipped it over. Another line:
"If you have found this, follow the map in the binding of the Threefold Ledger, shelf 9-D. You'll need a flame, a truthseer's lens, and courage."
Well, she had a candle stub and mild anxiety. Close enough.
---
Over dinner, Elena tried not to blurt everything out to Liora, though the temptation was strong. Liora noticed anyway.
"You're bouncing," she said, raising an eyebrow as she sipped her soup. "Either you've figured out how to summon demons, or you're onto something juicy."
"I didn't summon anything!" Elena replied quickly, maybe a little too loudly. "I mean—I would never—"
"Uh huh."
She ended up telling Liora everything. Sort of. She left out the words "possibly cursed," "sealed wax," and "three stars over an eye," but shared enough to get a raised eyebrow and a thoughtful hum.
"You need to be careful," Liora said eventually. "If what you're finding connects to the plague… or that Starcaller name… well, people might not want it uncovered."
"But if it's true—shouldn't we want to know?"
"I said people, not me," Liora clarified. "I want to know everything. Especially if it gives us an edge someday."
An edge? That reminded her.
"Liora," Elena said carefully, "how much does a Truthseer's Lens cost?"
Liora winced. "Uh. About 5 silver crowns for a basic one. The good ones? Double that."
Five silver. That was over forty days of work, assuming she skipped meat and didn't get sick.
Elena sighed.
"Unless…" Liora leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You know how to make one."
---
Which led to the next day, with Elena back in the archives, reading a battered alchemical manual titled Ocular Constructs for the Slightly Gifted.
So far, she'd learned:
Lenses required ground crystal (which cost 20–30 copper per shard).
A stabilizing rune (which had to be carved by hand or it wouldn't work).
And at least one drop of wyrm's blood. Retail price? 1 gold crown, if you could even find it.
Elena groaned. Maybe she could just develop night vision instead. That sounded easier.
---
But she didn't give up.
She began scribbling notes, diagrams, and ingredient substitutes. Liora promised to help gather safer components—and discreetly.
Meanwhile, Elena returned to shelf 9-D and found the Threefold Ledger. Hidden in its binding, she did find something faint—almost invisible. The parchment looked blank at first glance.
She'd need the lens.
And maybe something stronger than lemon biscuits to get through it all.
---
The Job With Too Many Hats (And Not Enough Pay)
The tower's second floor was an odd blend of library, laboratory, and storeroom. It smelled like dust and ink, with a tang of burnt herbs drifting from a brazier that had long gone cold. Scrolls were stacked on uneven shelves, and corked jars filled with strange things floated in murky liquids. Elena paused on the last step, trying to take it all in.
"This... is a mess," she muttered.
"Oh, you noticed!" came Arla's voice, dry and amused. "Congratulations. You may now claim the honorary title of 'Person With Functioning Eyes.'"
Elena turned. Arla stood by a broad wooden table buried under books, vials, and something that looked suspiciously like a small dried eyeball.
"I didn't know I'd be doing inventory too," Elena said, stepping carefully around a broken vial. "Or is this part of my magical education?"
"A little of both," Arla said, pushing a loose stack of parchments aside. "Let's call it 'Occupational Multiclassing.' You'll be a cleaner, reader, assistant researcher, potion ingredient organizer, and occasionally, someone who fetches lunch. The pay remains the same no matter how many hats you wear."
Elena blinked. "Which is…?"
Arla grinned. "Two silver crowns a week. Generous, right?"
Elena winced.
Let's see… If ten copper crowns make one silver, then that's twenty copper per week. Which means... less than three copper crowns a day. That wouldn't even cover a single meal in most inns. A bowl of stew cost five copper. A room? Twelve, at least.
"And before you ask," Arla added, "no, I won't be negotiating. You're staying here for free, eating my bread and jam, and using my ink. Consider the coins a kindness."
"…Kindness," Elena echoed faintly.
Still, she didn't argue. She was living in the tower rent-free, and the knowledge she could access—well, that was worth more than silver.
"Well, what do you need me to do first?" Elena asked, brushing her sleeves back. "Should I sort the books? Reorganize the dried eyeballs?"
"Start by not touching the eyeballs," Arla said. "Those are basilisk hatchling specimens. Rare, volatile, and inclined to explode when insulted."
"I'll... keep my opinions to myself, then."
Arla handed her a sheaf of notes. "These are rough drafts of potions I'm working on. I want you to copy them neatly into the grimoire, left shelf, green leather binding. Use the good ink. The one that doesn't smudge."
Elena nodded. She took the notes and made her way to the writing desk at the back. The grimoire was exactly where Arla said it would be—thick, green-bound, and covered in silver-rimmed runes. It hummed faintly in her hands.
She flipped to a blank page, dipped the quill, and began copying Arla's scrawl.
It wasn't glamorous work, but it was strangely calming.
Potion of Minor Clarity
Ingredients: Crushed dreamroot (2 g), dew collected before sunrise (5 mL), one feather from a truth-teller's crow, powdered moonstone (1/4 tsp).
Brewing time: 3 hours on low flame. Stir counterclockwise every 12 minutes.
Elena frowned. "What's a truth-teller's crow?"
"Exactly what it sounds like," Arla called over. "They're raised by monastic truthseers. Feed them lies, and they scream."
"...That sounds horrifying."
"It is. But they're fluffy."
She shook her head, smiling despite herself. The more time she spent with Arla, the more she found the woman's odd humor oddly comforting—like wrapping sarcasm in silk and calling it friendship.
---
By midday, her hand was sore from writing and her back ached from sitting so long. Arla tossed her a cloth-wrapped bundle.
"Lunch. Cheese, bread, and questionable pickles."
"What's questionable about them?"
"They've been here since last winter."
Elena cautiously bit into one. It crunched. "...Still better than the gruel at the bakery."
After lunch, Arla gestured for her to join at the worktable. A small glass orb rested in the center, swirling with blue light.
"I need your help with this," Arla said. "It's a memory orb. Used to store spells or memories in stable magical format."
"Like... a recording?"
"Yes, if your idea of a recording sometimes bites the handler. This one's incomplete. I want to see if it's salvageable."
Arla extended a hand, and Elena followed suit. Their fingers brushed the orb simultaneously.
A rush of wind. A flash of silver light.
Then suddenly—Elena was no longer in the tower.
---
She stood in a sunlit clearing, surrounded by wildflowers. Birds chirped. A woman stood across from her, robed in white and blue, her hair like woven sunlight.
"Do you remember the song?" the woman asked.
Elena felt her lips move. "I never forgot."
Then the clearing shattered.
---
Elena gasped, jerking her hand back. Arla was watching her closely.
"Well," Arla murmured, "that explains a few things."
"What was that?" Elena asked, heart pounding.
Arla tapped the orb. "A memory fragment. But it didn't come from me. That orb responded to you. Which means—"
"Someone stored a memory for me inside it?"
"Possibly. Or maybe you stored it yourself… and forgot."
Elena looked down at her hands. The memory had felt so real. That woman's face. Her voice.
"I knew her," she whispered.
"Mm." Arla crossed her arms. "Then we're one step deeper into your mystery."
---
That night, after sweeping the floor and returning books to their shelves, Elena sat alone in her tiny attic room. The lamp flickered beside her, casting golden shadows over the parchment on her lap.
She wrote down everything she remembered from the memory orb. The clearing. The sunlight. The woman.
And the question that now wouldn't stop ringing in her mind:
What did I forget?
As she set her pen down, her eyes drifted to the crumpled note hidden beneath her pillow.
(The one that had appeared in Chapter 10)
"The stars remember you. Do not trust the Tower."
---
[End of chapter 18]