The academy's halls stretched endless beneath the pale light of lanterns. Polished marble carried Gareth's lone footsteps, each echo swallowed by the silence. Clusters of students lingered in corners, their voices dropping when he passed. They did not hate him, nor did they welcome him. He was something else entirely—an absence given shape, a shadow moving through their bright halls.
To Gareth, it felt natural. He had been an outcast for as long as memory allowed. The cold air, the sidelong glances, the faint hush that followed him—it was less a wound and more a cloak.
His path led him to the great library.
The doors loomed before him, dark oak engraved with sigils that glowed faintly, like stars seen through mist. He pushed them open. Silence breathed out, heavy and vast, pressing down upon him. Inside, the library rose like a cathedral of forgotten gods. Shelves climbed toward vaulted ceilings, sagging under the weight of tomes older than empires. Dust floated in the air, shimmering like starlight caught in suspension.
The place felt alive. Watching. Waiting.
He wandered between rows, fingers trailing along spines of books etched with languages long dead. It was then that his hand stopped—not on any gilded tome, but on a volume half-buried, hidden where no eye should fall.
Its cover was black. Not the black of ink or dye, but the black of the void itself—depthless, devouring. A single silver crack scarred the surface, like a wound across an endless night.
The moment his fingers brushed it, his Mark flared.
Agony ripped through his hand, sharp and merciless, as though molten iron had been poured beneath his skin. He staggered, clutching his wrist. The Mark burned—no, it bled pain into his veins.
Still, he opened the book.
The pages resisted, sticking together as though they too feared what lay within. When they finally parted, the words shifted, alive, flickering across parchment like constellations rearranging themselves.
Pain lanced deeper. Gareth's teeth clenched, but his eyes devoured the words.
---
"In the year 1985 Before the Great Sundering (BG), the Twelve Thrones stood unbroken. Rivers sang, and stars bent low, and man walked as equal with gods. This was the Golden Age."
The script bled light as he read, searing itself into his sight. His Mark pulsed violently, his vision swimming, but he forced himself onward.
"And when the thirteenth shadow rose… memory itself was torn from the marrow of men. Songs curdled, names were unspoken, and the Golden Age drowned in silence."
His body convulsed. For a heartbeat his veins darkened, black cracks spiderwebbing up his arm before fading. Sweat ran cold down his spine. The Mark throbbed like a wound that would never heal.
Then came the whisper.
Soft. Barely there. Yet it slipped into his ear like ice:
"Outcast… thief of memory…"
The library around him seemed to bend, shelves groaning as though warning him away. He slammed the book shut, chest heaving.
For a moment, silence returned. But it was not the same silence. Now it was charged, heavy, as though something had been disturbed.
From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw a shadow pass beyond the arch of the library entrance. Someone had been there. Someone had seen.
He pressed the black book against his chest, clutching it like a stolen heart. The pain in his Mark dulled, but it did not vanish.
Slowly, he left the library. The night air met him cold and sharp, moonlight spilling silver across the courtyards. He lifted his hand. The Mark was no longer just glowing faintly—it bore faint black cracks, veins of shadow pulsing beneath the skin.
The bells of the academy tolled in the distance. Each strike echoed like a sentence.
Gareth exhaled, steady despite the pain. The academy had given him nothing. Yet tonight, in silence, he had stolen from the gods themselves and the gods had made him bleed for it.
Gareth pressed the book to his chest as he stepped out of the library, its weight lingering on him even after the cover had vanished beneath his cloak. His head still throbbed, faint waves of pain pulsing in rhythm with his heartbeat. Every step down the corridor felt heavier, though the world around him seemed untouched.
Laughter drifted from the courtyard. Students lounged along benches, trading jokes, sharing food, voices bright as if nothing in the world was wrong. A pair of boys sparred with wooden blades, their shouts sharp and eager. A group of girls leaned together in the sunlight, laughter spilling like bells.
No one looked at him.
And Gareth preferred it that way.
He slipped through the bustle like a shadow, his presence unnoticed, unimportant, unmarked. The throbbing in his skull flared when his eyes brushed the banners of Highwarden above, but he lowered his gaze quickly, steadying his breath.
At last, he reached the wooden hall. Inside, the hum of voices softened to a dull murmur. Students of the Commoners' Hall sat scattered across rows of long desks, parchments unfurled, quills scratching lazily. A handful dozed against their arms. Someone laughed too loudly in the back, earning only half-hearted shushes.
This was his world now.
He moved to the farthest corner, silent as a wraith, and sat down. No one noticed. Or if they did, they did not care. That was fine.
Beneath the desk, his fingers brushed the black cover one last time. Then, with a thought and a whisper only Umbrael could hear, the book vanished—drawn into that shadowed space where secrets slept and no eyes could pry.
Not a soul had seen.
Gareth folded his hands on the desk, the faint pain still gnawing at his temples, and closed his eyes for a moment. The class carried on around him—ordinary, noisy, careless.
But within the corner of the hall, unseen, unread, and unspoken, the seed of a greater truth pulsed in silence.
Gareth finally opened his eyes. The ache in his head dulled to a slow pulse, and for the first time he let himself look around the classroom.
It was worse than he expected.
The desks were mismatched, some carved from dark oak, others from pale pine, as though scavenged from a dozen forgotten storerooms. The wood was scarred by old ink stains, names scratched by restless hands, and deep grooves left by knives. A few legs wobbled whenever a student leaned too far.
Dust clung to the corners where cobwebs had been left to gather, and the windows were so clouded with grime that the light slanted in weak and uneven. The floorboards creaked at every shuffle, some warped by damp, others splintered where years of boots had worn them down. A chalkboard stood at the front, but the runes etched upon its surface were faded, half-erased, as if no one had bothered to renew them in decades.
Compared to the ivory halls above, where fountains sang and banners gleamed, this place felt abandoned—left to rot because no one important would ever sit here.
And yet… it was alive.
Students lounged without care. One boy had his feet up on the desk, flicking playing cards into a pile. Another girl leaned back, her pale eyes half-closed as the air whispered back to her muttering. A pair in the back bickered loudly, their laughter sharp and unrefined, echoing through the room without restraint.
It was chaos, it was unpolished, it was forgotten.
But to Gareth, it felt strangely… fitting.
He leaned back in his seat, folding his arms, the throbbing in his head fading to something manageable. For the first time since stepping through the gates, he felt no eyes watching, no judgment pressing down.
The class was broken, neglected, dirty—just like its students.
And perhaps, like them, he belonged here more than anywhere else.
Gareth wandered deeper into the library, letting the hush of the shelves swallow him whole. He traced the spines of ancient tomes with fingers that trembled slightly—not from fear, but from anticipation. Each book seemed alive, humming faintly beneath his touch, whispering secrets he had longed to hear.
A sudden flare of pain surged through his chest. The Mark pulsed sharply, forcing him to stagger. His boots slipped on the polished floor, and he fell to one knee, hands pressing against the wood for balance.
As he scrambled upright, his eyes caught something unusual—a corner of the floorboard, slightly raised, almost imperceptible beneath the dust. Gareth bent closer. The tile was loose. The edges were chipped, as though it had not been moved in decades.
His fingers hesitated for a heartbeat. Then, carefully, he pried it free. Beneath the tile lay a small cavity. Inside, resting like a dark heart against the cold stone, was a book.
It was black—pure black, absorbing the dim light of the library rather than reflecting it. A single silver fissure ran across its cover, like a wound cutting through the void. The Mark flared violently at its presence, burning along his arm and shoulder, sending sharp, molten pain through his chest. Gareth gasped, teeth clenched, but he did not let go.
He lifted the book with trembling hands, feeling the weight of it settle in his palms. Its surface seemed almost to pulse, reacting to his heartbeat, syncing to the rhythm of his blood. The roots within him stirred, reaching outward instinctively, as though recognizing an old friend—or a dangerous master.
He found a narrow aisle between two towering shelves and sank to the floor, legs folded beneath him. Sweat ran down his face, mixing with the dim dust of the library, but his eyes never left the book.
Slowly, he opened it. The pages resisted, sticking together as if afraid of what lay within. When they finally parted, the words danced across the parchment—alive, flickering faintly like distant stars rearranging themselves in impossible constellations.
The agony of the Mark intensified. Pain lanced through him with every line he read, but he pressed onward. His eyes drank the words, committing every symbol, every phrase to memory, ignoring the fiery burn that seared through his veins.
"In the year 1985 Before the Great Sundering (BG), the Twelve Thrones stood unbroken. Rivers sang, and stars bent low, and man walked as equal with gods. This was the Golden Age."
The letters shimmered as he read, etching themselves into his vision. The Mark pulsed violently, black veins spiderwebbing across his arm, yet Gareth forced himself deeper into the text.
"And when the thirteenth shadow rose… memory itself was torn from the marrow of men. Songs curdled, names were unspoken, and the Golden Age drowned in silence."
A whisper threaded through the silence, soft and insidious: "Outcast… thief of memory…"
Gareth's chest heaved. His body trembled, but he did not close the book. The library seemed to lean closer, shelves groaning, dust swirling in anticipation, as if the room itself had held its breath for this moment.
He pressed the book to his chest, feeling the heat of the Mark dull slightly, though the pain lingered, a constant reminder of what he had uncovered. For the first time, he felt the weight of forbidden knowledge—and the power that came with it.
Outside, the library's silence remained undisturbed, yet Gareth knew something had shifted. He had found the book, and in doing so, he had stepped onto a path that could not be undone.
Gareth pressed the black book to his chest, feeling the searing pulse of the Mark beneath his skin. The library seemed to shrink around him, shelves bending slightly toward his presence, whispering with silent anticipation. He could feel the weight of forbidden knowledge pressing against his mind, and he knew he couldn't risk being caught—not yet.
With a subtle thought, he extended his roots and telekinetic threads, lifting the book effortlessly from his hands. The words glimmered and shimmered, resisting, almost alive, but he forced them toward the shadowed pocket of reality Umbrael had carved out for him—a place unseen, untouchable, a world folded into folds of darkness where secrets slept.
The air shivered as the book passed through the rift. A faint echo of light and sound followed it, vanishing as the portal closed. The library exhaled around him, dust settling as though nothing had happened. Gareth's knees shook, but the sharp agony of the Mark dulled slightly.
From the corner of the aisle, movement caught his eye. Cassiel Draemond stepped lightly into view, his cloakless form cutting through the dim light like ice through shadow. Blue eyes glinted, sharp and calculating—but there was no malice in his gaze. Instead, he smiled faintly, almost teasing, as though he had stumbled upon a secret not meant for anyone else.
"You've been busy," Cassiel said quietly, his voice smooth, almost amused. "I didn't think you'd find… that."
Gareth froze, then allowed himself a small, hesitant smile. It was the first in hours—maybe days. A flicker of warmth crept into his chest, fragile but real, breaking through the tension of the Mark and the weight of the stolen knowledge.
Cassiel's grin widened slightly before he nodded and stepped back into the shadows, leaving Gareth alone again—but lighter, somehow, than he had been moments before.
He exhaled slowly, letting the silence of the library wrap around him once more. The Mark still throbbed beneath his skin, the black veins pulsing faintly, but the danger had passed, and the book was safe. Hidden. Waiting in Umbrael's shadowed dimension.
For the first time that night, Gareth allowed himself to look around and feel almost… at ease, the tiniest spark of trust—or at least camaraderie—kindled in the presence of the boy whose smile had made him forget, for a heartbeat, the ache and fire of the Mark.