It's a nice warm day, a few weeks have passed, and as fast as winter came it disappeared. Outside, the first birds are chirping, and the wind is gently rustling through the leaves and branches surrounding the university.
Cale has been awake for a while, but aside from the occasional servant rushing past, the halls have been strangely quiet. Which would have been weird on its own—except for the fact that there haven't been lessons for the last two days.
Why? He doesn't know. But he overheard some people talking about a war yesterday.
A war he doesn't know about.
He'd been bored enough to decide to investigate himself. He knows there is a library somewhere on the university grounds, but after almost an hour of searching through hallways, staircases, and confusing twists in the architecture, he still hasn't found a single sign pointing him in the right direction.
He's about to give up when he turns one more corner and suddenly spots a massive carved door at the end of the hall.
He lets out a sigh of relief. "Finally," he mutters.
He takes a moment to admire the door: dark wood polished smooth with age, covered in carvings of swirling lines and scenes of mages standing before storms of fire, water, and stone. When he drags his hand across the surface, the grooves feel almost alive beneath his fingers.
With a soft push, the door swings open.
His jaw nearly hits the floor.
He expected a small library—maybe a shelf or two and a few hundred books. But instead he finds one of the largest rooms he has ever seen in the building. Only the dining hall is bigger.
Two floors stretch upward with balconies supported by marble pillars veined in gold. The railings are carved with intricate designs: phoenixes rising from flames, waves crashing over ships, roots twisting into symbols he doesn't recognize. Rows of massive shelves run the entire length of the hall, reaching all the way to the ceiling. Not hundreds but thousands of colorful books fill them, their spines glittering with gold lettering.
Soft light pours through huge stained-glass windows depicting historic magical battles, tinting the air with shifting shades of blue and red. The room smells faintly of old paper, warm wax, and something else—an earthy scent, like stone after rain.
Cale walks past a row of books, letting his fingers trail along the spines as he reads the titles.
Principles of Elemental Conduction.
Ashcraft: Advanced Fire Manipulation.
The Codex Ignivar.
And so much more.
"Can I help you?" a voice asks.
Cale turns.
The librarian is an old man, thin and slightly hunched, leaning on a cane carved with what look like tiny runes. His robe is a dusty brown, his beard long and wispy, and his eyes—despite how tired he looks—are sharp and observant.
"I'm looking for books about the… war," Cale says carefully.
"Of course." The old man nods as though this is a perfectly normal request. "Row twenty-seven, in the corner." He hands Cale a candle. "You'll need this. It can get pretty dark in some rows."
Cale smiles softly. "Thanks."
He turns and heads toward the corner, lighting the candle with a controlled flick of fire he has learned to manage very well over the past weeks.
The shelves grow narrower, closer together, and far darker. Shadows cling between them, and the warm light of the candle flickers against the rows of ancient wood.
Finally, he spots the books.
All with black covers.
All with gold lettering.
He steps closer, reading the titles:
The Vanished Battalion of Redlake.
The Long Winter Campaigns.
Ashfall: Siege of the Ninth Gate.
And many more.
His eye eventually catches a thin book squeezed between two thick volumes.
Ash in My Lungs: A Soldier's Diary
He hesitates for a moment before pulling it from the shelf. The leather is warm—strangely warm—as if someone had held it moments ago.
Cale carries the book to a nearby table, sets down the candle, and slowly opens it.
He flips through the book for a while, losing track of the time.
Day 73
It's dark and misty today. The stretch between our trenches and their treeline is muddy, snowy, and full of spikes. For now that cursed stretch is the only thing keeping them away — the snow hides the stakes, and the mud drags at their feet, slowing their charges just enough that we can hold the line.
The early silence was broken by their usual growls, but there is something new. The orcs seem to have adopted some sort of lizard-like… pet. Too big to be a hound, too small to ride. Scales like wet stone and eyes that shine even through the fog. Curious to see what it can do, though one thing I know for certain: it's not going to be nice for us.
Day 96
The snow is starting to melt. When the mud dries, the stretch will no longer protect us. The sergeant already called on the lectors from the University of Elementology to help on the front. They're the strongest and most seasoned elementors we have — far better than those noble snobs who just finished their studies and piss their pants the moment they see an orc.
The librarian clears his throat.
"You have to leave, boy. It's late and I'm going to close."
Cale quickly closes the book.
"Oh— right, yeah… sorry."
He stands up and picks up the thin diary. "Could I keep this one?"
The man eyes the worn cover and sighs.
"Fine. Nobody reads it anyway," he mutters.
"Thanks, and goodnight, sir," Cale says as he slips the book into his cloak and leaves the library, making his way back to his room.
He spends a long time flipping through the rest of the pages, reading bits that catch his eye.
There are stories of life in the trenches — weeks without proper sleep, freezing nights huddled together for warmth, the constant fear of hearing a horn sound in the distance. Descriptions of brutal skirmishes: shields splintering, fire spells lighting up the night like falling stars, wounded men crawling back through the mud while arrows whistle overhead.
There are also detailed descriptions of the orcs and other creatures, each page paired with surprisingly delicate drawings. One sketch in particular shows an orc warrior:
Broad shoulders like a bull, skin a deep ashen green. Thick tusks curve upward from a jaw scarred and cracked like old stone. Its eyes are small but bright, almost human in their fury. Heavy bone plates jut from its forearms, forming natural armor, and its braided hair is decorated with bits of metal and sharpened teeth — trophies from past kills.
He keeps reading until his eyelids grow heavy.
At some point, the book slips from his fingers and lands on his face.
He doesn't notice.
He's already asleep.