The Grand Library was a cathedral of knowledge, its silence so profound it felt like a physical presence. Soaring stone arches reached into a vaulted gloom, and shafts of golden light from high windows illuminated swirling dust motes, each a tiny world of forgotten history. The air was cool and dry, thick with the scent of aged parchment, crumbling leather, and the faint, sweet perfume of binding glue. It was a world away from the humid rot of the city outside.
Low moved through the towering stacks of the ancient history section like a predator in a cage. Her small size made the shelves seem even larger. Her brow furrowed in concentration as she scanned titles, her finger trailing along dusty spines. Beside her, Zombiel drifted with the silence of falling snow, his orange eyes absorbing the archaic text of the titles with an unnerving, inhuman focus.
"Find anything that doesn't require the powdered fang of a basilisk or the tear of a remorseful king?" Low muttered, her voice a low rumble that was immediately swallowed by the vast quiet. She pulled out a heavy tome bound in cracked, dark leather: Transformations: A Compendium of Metamorphosis, Vol. III.
Zombiel shook his head, his attention caught by a nearby shelf shimmering with books bound in shiney, reptilian scales. He gently touched the spine of one titled Lycanthropic Afflictions: A Comparative Study, his finger tracing the embossed image of a wolf howling at a fractured moon.
They spent what felt like an age immersed in the cryptic texts, seated at a heavy oak table in a secluded alcove. Low deciphered arcane recipes for curses, her lips moving silently over lists of impossible ingredients, while Zombiel pointed a pale finger at disturbing woodcuts depicting transformations in gruesome detail. One book offered a dozen ways to inflict the were-beast curse; another provided complex rituals for embracing it. Cures, however, remained elusive, hidden behind impenetrable allegories or ingredients that had passed from the world into myth.
"This is hopeless," Low finally exhaled, carefully closing the heavy tome with a soft *thump* that still sounded like a drumbeat in the silence. Frustration simmered just beneath her calm facade. "It's all riddles and rhymes. A hundred ways how to *become* the beast, not a single clear word on how to get rid of it." She leaned her head back against a towering shelf, the weariness of their long journey settling deep into her bones.
It was in this moment of frustrated stillness that she felt it—a sharp, primal prickling on the back of her neck. It was the distinct, animal sensation of being watched. Her gaze, suddenly sharp as a hawk's, swept the nearby reading carrels and shadowy alcoves. Scholars with wispy beards murmured over texts, students scribbled furiously with charcoal sticks, and robed librarians drifted like ghosts between the stacks. No single figure stood out, yet the feeling persisted, cold and insistent.
Her heightened senses, now on high alert, snagged on snippets of hushed conversation from two elderly scholars huddled over a manuscript nearby. Their voices were dry and raspy, like crumbling parchment.
"...another specimen is required, now that the first is lost..." one said, his tone clinically detached. "...the expedition to the Dark Forest is a royal priority."
"...the King's bio-alchemist can then proceed," the other replied, a chilling blend of academic intrigue and fear in his voice. "The protocols will be refined in the institute this time... fascinating experiments..."
The words struck Low like shards of ice. *Another Dryad. Experiments. Institute.* It clicked horribly into place with what they had witnessed at the Institute. A cold dread, far more immediate than her own curse, settled over her.
Zombiel had ceased his own search and was watching her face, his still features somehow conveying a shared sense of alarm. They had planned to wait here for Leonotis and Jacqueline, but the hallowed silence of the library had suddenly grown heavy and dangerous.
Low leaned towards him, her voice a strained whisper that barely carried. "Bad news, Zombiel. Overheard those two. The King's not giving up. He's sending an expedition to the Dark Forest to find another Dryad. For his 'pet alchemist'... in the institute." She glanced nervously over her shoulder, lowering her voice further. "And I think we're being watched."
Zombiel's eyes narrowed, the fiery spirit within him causing them to gleam with a faint orange light as he scanned the library with renewed intensity. A low, almost inaudible growl vibrated in his chest. He placed a steadying hand on Low's arm for a brief moment before turning back to the table. His gaze fell upon a slender volume Low had inadvertently jostled in her frustration: *The Linguistic Evolution of Ancient Runes*.
He picked it up with uncharacteristic care, his pale fingers navigating the brittle pages. He stopped, his finger tapping an elegant, intricate symbol—a design of sharp, intersecting lines that implied both a lock and a key. He met Low's gaze, then pointed from the symbol to her, raising a questioning eyebrow.
"Runes?" Low frowned, pushing aside her immediate fear to focus on the page. "What about them? Think it's a clue?"
Zombiel nodded slowly. He pointed to the intricate symbol again, then made a distinct breaking motion with his hands, snapping an imaginary twig. "Break," he mouthed silently, the word sharp and clear.
"A breaking rune," Low breathed, the words a fragile ember of hope in the growing darkness. Not a recipe of ingredients, but a symbol. A key of pure magic designed to *unmake* a curse.
The possibility warred with the chilling reality of the captured Dryad and the unnerving certainty of unseen eyes tracking their movements. Sunlight slanted through the high, arched windows, painting long shadows that seemed to claw at the edges of the grand reading room. Their quest for a cure had suddenly become entangled with a darker, more immediate plot, and time, marked by the descending sun, felt dangerously precious.
The Caravanserai Nexus was a necessary evil, a chaotic heart pumping all manner of transport through the city's arteries. Jacqueline pushed through the throng, one hand instinctively covering the coin purse tucked deep within her tunic. The air was a cacophony of smells—the musk of strange beasts, the sharp tang of cheap ale, and the dust of a hundred different roads. She needed passage south, back towards the coastal region of Silverport, and she needed it to be swift.
Her eyes scanned the options. First, a brightly painted, flimsy-looking buggy hitched to two nervous zebras. A wiry man with hopeful eyes darted forward.
"Quickest ride south, milady!" he chirped, gesturing towards the twitching animals. "Zephyr Zebras! Get you halfway to the coast faster'n a rumour!"
Jacqueline eyed the frayed harness and the way the lead zebra was trying to bite its partner. "How reliable are they?"
"Mostly!" The man grinned wide. "Keep 'em pointed right, and they fly! Might get a bit skittish 'round loud noises… or sudden movements… or large birds… but fast!"
"I need to arrive in one piece, preferably with my belongings," Jacqueline stated flatly, already turning away. Speed meant little if the engine of that speed was prone to bolting at the sight of a pigeon.
Further on, a more imposing sight commanded attention: a massive rhinoceros, a walking mountain of muscle and horn, stood patiently while its handler adjusted the straps on an ornate, cushioned howdah. The handler, a portly man in silken robes, surveyed the crowd with an air of bored superiority. Intrigued, Jacqueline approached. "You offer passage south?"
The handler sniffed disdainfully. "The Scutum Rhino Express offers unparalleled security and guaranteed arrival along the Southern Trade Road. We convey only *discerning* clientele."
"And the cost for such discernment?" Jacqueline inquired.
The man named a figure that was easily twice of their entire treasury. She kept her face a careful, neutral mask. "Considerable."
"My rhinos have a large amount of ase emitting from them to scare off any predators. Comfort and safety have their price, madam," the handler replied dismissively. Prohibitively so. She gave the rhino a final, wistful look and moved on.
Disappointment began to set in. Perhaps swift passage was a luxury they couldn't afford. Then, tucked away near an exit leading towards the river docks, she spotted a weathered wooden sign: 'River Serpent Lines - Swift Water Passage South - Inquire Within'. Below it, leaning against a stack of coiled ropes, sat a sturdy woman with sun-creased eyes, calmly mending a fishing net. She radiated competence.
"You handle the River Serpent Lines?" Jacqueline asked.
The woman looked up, her gaze sharp. "Aye. Captain Thabile. Headed south along the Serpent River, all the way to the estuary near Silverport."
Hope flickered. "Silverport is my destination. How long is the journey?"
"River's running swift this season," Thabile replied, her voice raspy like shifting gravel. "two weeks, maybe three. Beats two months bumping overland."
"And the cost?"
Thabile named a price. It was steep, but manageable. A significant expense, but not an impossible one. "That price is firm as the riverbed, lass. Includes rations and a spot on deck. We leave on the evening tide, day after the King's tournament."
A boat felt safer, more contained. Five days was a miracle. "Thank you, Captain," Jacqueline said. "That is… very promising. I must consult with my companions."
Thabile just nodded, her attention already back on her net. "Suit yourself. Spots fill quick when the current's good."
Jacqueline walked along the weathered planks of the main pier, Captain Thabile's offer a beacon of hope in her mind. Her path towards the library district took her past groups of dockhands and lounging sailors. As she passed a stack of damp, pungent crates, she caught snippets of a heated discussion.
"...handle it with extreme care!" a man clutching a ledger insisted. "Lord Valerius himself oversaw the arrangements. It requires special transport upriver."
One burly dockhand grunted, wiping sweat from his brow. "Special transport for what? More of the King's 'pets'?"
The second leaned closer, his voice a conspiratorial rumble. "Heard from Gareth it's one of them scaled nightmares. A wyvern. Bound for the Dark Forest garrison. Shipping out next week, under heavy guard."
"A wyvern?" the first scoffed. "What in the blazes does the King want with one of those on his little expedition?"
"Quiet, you fools!" the ledger-man hissed. "Such matters are not for us to question!"
Jacqueline's steps faltered. A wyvern, heading to the Dark Forest where the King was already leading an expedition. The news was an ominous piece of a puzzle she was desperate to avoid. She quickened her pace.A burst of raucous laughter drew her attention to a cluster of sailors sharing a bottle. One particularly animated man was gesticulating wildly.
"...nets were heavy as sin, I tell ya!" the sailor, Dube, exclaimed. "Thought we'd snagged a wreck, but when we hauled it up… gods! Big as a man, scales like silver coins, tail like a great fish, but with arms and a face! Screamed louder 'n any banshee!"
One of his companions snorted. "A merman? Dube, you've been swallowing too much seawater again."
"It's true!" Dube insisted, thumping a fist on the post. "Caught near the Serpent's Mouth! The Watch Captain himself came down, bundled it off straight to the palace under heavy guard!"
"More likely a big seal making a fuss," another sailor offered dismissively. "You see monsters in every wave."
Jacqueline moved past them, the sailors' skepticism echoing in her own mind. It sounded like a fantastical yarn. Yet… bundled off straight to the palace under guard. The phrase snagged in her thoughts, cold and sharp. Her people were creatures of myth to the surface world, but they were real. And one of them was in the hands of the King.
Her carefully laid plans dissolved. The mission was to go south, to get to the coast near her underwater hom. But leaving one of her own kind to suffer in the dungeons of a man who experimented on Dryads was not just unthinkable; it was a betrayal of her very blood.
The wyvern, the King's expedition, the boat to Silverport—all of it suddenly took a backseat to this new, terrifying imperative. The rendezvous at the Grand Library couldn't come soon enough. She had to tell the others. Her journey south had just been indefinitely postponed.