Yorika
Footsteps echo from one of the passages. Not normal footsteps: these sound like mountains learning to walk. Like granite grinding against steel with purposeful intent.
What emerges matches the sound.
Eight feet of living stone, but not carved, grown.
Formed. The surface shifts between rough granite and polished obsidian as he moves.
Four arms, each as thick as my torso, end in hands that could crush steel like paper.
His head is a rough suggestion of features, like someone started carving a face and decided halfway through that expressions were unnecessary.
His eyes are liquid metal that reflects everything and reveals nothing.
"Master." The word rumbles up from somewhere deep, tectonic plates shifting to form speech. Those metal eyes fix on me, and I see my death reflected in them seventeen different ways. "This is the acquisition?"
"My bride." Nezavek says it simply, but the word carries weight.
The stone giant doesn't move, but somehow gives the impression of deepening disapproval. "She requires containment protocols."
"She requires quarters." Nezavek's tone brooks no argument. "And an introduction. Yorika, this is Mikaere. He maintains the realm's security."
Security. That's one word for it. I suspect jailer might be more accurate.
Mikaere inclines his massive head slightly. Not a bow, not respect, just acknowledgment that I exist. "She's armed."
He says it like stating the weather. Observational. Matter-of-fact. The kind of tone that suggests he could disarm me before I processed the thought to reach for a weapon.
"Of course she is." Something in Nezavek's voice might be amusement. Or anticipation.
"The knife in her boot. The poison in her bracelet. The ceramic blade sewn into her dress." Mikaere lists each weapon without looking, without searching. He just knows. "Should I remove them?"
"No."
Mikaere's stone form shifts, a grinding sound of protest. "Master."
"They're hers. She keeps them." Nezavek's tone ends the discussion.
Another long look passes between them. Not an argument exactly, but a conversation in silence.
"Take her to the library," Nezavek says finally. "P?ivi will arrange quarters."
"Are you certain?" Mikaere's tone suggests he'd rather throw me in an actual dungeon.
"The library."
And that's that. Nezavek dissolves into shadow, not walking away but simply ceasing to be present. One moment he's there, the next he's part of the darkness between pillars, gone without transition.
Mikaere watches him go, or watches the space where he was, then turns that gaze back to me. "Follow."
Not a request. He starts walking, each step deliberately placed to make minimal sound despite his massive frame. I follow, keeping three paces back. Far enough to react if he turns hostile, close enough not to lose him in this maze of impossible architecture.
"Don't look too long." Mikaere says it without turning. "Human minds aren't equipped to process paradox. You'll give yourself an aneurysm trying to understand."
"How long have you served him?" I ask. Information gathering, not small talk.
"Since before the Shift."
"That's vague."
"Two thousand, four hundred, and twenty-three years." He still doesn't turn. "Six hundred thousand, and seventeen confirmed kills in his defense."
"And you've never failed?"
"Never."
"Everyone fails eventually."
He stops. Turns. The movement is fluid despite his size, too smooth for something made of stone. This close, I can see crystalline veins beneath his surface pulse in patterns that might be a heartbeat or might be something else entirely.
"You're threat number six hundred thousand, and eighteen." Each word drops like a stone into still water. "You'll attack within the week. Something clever, something you think we won't expect. You'll fail. The only question is whether you survive the failure."
"Confident."
"Experienced. Lord Nezavek has brought humans here before.
Some for information about his enemies. Some out of curiosity about your species.
Some because he thought they might be...
special." His gaze sharpens. "They all think they're different.
That they'll be the one to find the weakness everyone else missed. "
"Maybe I am different."
"You're not." He resumes walking. "Although you're the fourth he's tested for compatibility in my service. The others... didn't work out."
"Compatibility?"
"Nothing that concerns you. Yet."
We continue through the twisted architecture. "There are areas of the realm you cannot access. The master's private studies, the deep vaults, the meditation chambers. Attempting to enter them would be... unwise."
"Define unwise."
"Fatal."
"To me or to him?"
"To you. To him... inconvenient."
"Just inconvenient?"
"Cleaning interdimensional security systems is tedious."
The corridor opens into something that stops my tactical assessment cold.
It's not a library. It's what would happen if knowledge became architecture.
The space soars impossibly high, shelves rising into misty darkness that might go on forever.
Books float at various levels, orbiting slowly like paper planets around invisible suns.
Stairs spiral in directions gravity shouldn't allow, leading to reading nooks that exist in their own pocket dimensions.
The smell hits me: old paper and lightning, ink and eternity. The air is thick with words, like breathing in stories.
In the center of it all, something that might once have been a woman materializes from dust motes and forgotten words.
She pulls together from the library itself, pages flowing into a shape that's almost human but wrong.
Her skin looks like vellum, thin enough to see through, covered in writing that shifts and flows like living text.
Her hair is threads of gold and silver ink that constantly rewrites itself.
When she moves, she sounds like pages turning.
Her eyes are the color of faded ink, so dark they're almost black. Ancient. Judging.
She looks at me the way someone looks at a lit match in a room full of gunpowder.
"Absolutely not." Her voice is wind through empty archives, dust and disapproval. "I will not have this... creature contaminating my sanctuary."
"Lord Nezavek's orders," Mikaere says.
"Lord Nezavek has clearly lost his mind.
" She circles me, her form occasionally dispersing into loose pages before reforming.
Each reformation shows her from a slightly different angle, like she exists in multiple dimensions at once.
"Look at her. Violence clings to her like perfume. She probably can't even read."
"I can read." I keep my voice level despite the insult.
"Oh?" She stops directly in front of me. "In how many languages?"
"Twelve. Thirteen if you count binary."
"Binary isn't a language, it's a counting system."
"Tell that to the combat AI I had to reprogram during an infiltration op."
Something flickers in those ink-dark eyes. Not respect, but maybe a fraction less disdain. "You're a soldier."
"Among other things."
"What other things?"
"Whatever the contract requires. Deep cover. Infiltration. The occasional wetwork."
She disperses and reforms closer, close enough that I can read some of the text flowing across her skin. It's moving too fast to follow, but I catch fragments: warnings, threats, detailed descriptions of what happens to people who damage books.
"I am P?ivi, Archivist of this realm. Every text here is under my protection." She pauses, studying me with those ancient eyes. "You're not what I expected."
"What did you expect?"
"Another simpering fool or would-be assassin. Lord Nezavek has brought both before. The fools break within days. The assassins... well, Mikaere handles those."
"Which do you think I am?"
"Neither. Both. Something else." She tilts her head, pages rustling. "You're going to complicate things."
"That's the plan."
"No. Not the way you think." She starts to disperse, then solidifies again. "There's a chair in the east alcove. It will contain your essence adequately until quarters are arranged."
Mikaere makes a sound that might be annoyance. "She requires proper quarters."
"Then construct them yourself. I'm not wasting energy manifesting rooms for someone who might not last the week." But there's something in her tone, she's testing me, seeing how I react to dismissal.
"I'll last longer than a week."
"Will you?" She drifts closer again. "Lord Nezavek has specific... needs. The others couldn't meet them."
"What needs?"
"If you last the week, perhaps you'll find out."
She disappears entirely then, leaving only the faint sound of rustling paper.
Mikaere looks at me one last time. "Don't try to leave. The doors won't open for you, and what's beyond them after dark is worse than anything you've faced."
"After dark? There's no sun here."
"There's no sun," he agrees. "But there's definitely a dark."
He walks toward an archway. As he passes through, it seals behind him, becoming just another wall of books. No handle, no visible mechanism. Just solid knowledge where an exit used to be.
I'm alone.
The library hums around me, not quite silent. Books whisper to each other in languages I don't recognize. Somewhere high above, something that might be wind or might be breathing moves through the endless stacks.
I walk the perimeter first, counting steps, memorizing the layout. The space doesn't want to be memorized, distances shift when I'm not looking, alcoves appear and disappear, stairs lead to different places each time, but I persist.
Seventeen possible exits, though none are currently accessible.
Forty-three floating books within jumping distance of ground level.
The chair P?ivi mentioned is in the east alcove, assuming east means anything here.
It's made of leather and wood that probably predates human civilization, worn smooth by centuries of use.
I sit, finally. A tray appears on a small table, food that's almost recognizable, water in a crystal pitcher. I drink carefully, testing. It's just water, cold and clean.
The hours pass. Or what feels like hours. Time moves strangely here, stretching and compressing like breath.
I think about Nezavek's form, the way his edges wouldn't quite solidify. The way the realm itself seems unstable in places, as if it's struggling to maintain coherence. There's something wrong here, something beyond the obvious impossibility of the architecture.
But that's a puzzle for tomorrow. Tonight, I need to plan. I need to understand the dynamics, the weaknesses, the patterns. Mikaere expects me to attack within the week. Perhaps I should. Perhaps meeting their expectations initially will lower their guard later.
Or perhaps I should do something entirely unexpected.
The stone giant returns without warning. One moment I'm alone, the next Mikaere stands in an archway that wasn't there before.
"Your quarters are prepared." He doesn't wait for a response, just turns and walks away.
I follow him through passages that fold in on themselves, up stairs that lead down, past windows showing different skies. The route is different from before, or maybe the architecture has rearranged itself. We stop at a door made of the same dark stone as everything else.
"Your room." He touches the door and it opens inward, revealing a space that's trying very hard not to look like a cell.
The room is stark. Stone walls, stone floor, a bed that might generously be called functional. No windows. But then, windows to what? A single mirror hangs on one wall, its surface dark like still water. There's a table, a chair, a door that probably leads to whatever passes for a bathroom here.
"The door locks from outside," Mikaere says. Not apologetic, just informative.
"For my protection?"
"For everyone's."
He leaves, and I hear the lock engage. Not a click, more like stone fusing with stone.
Finally alone, I can work.
I start with the walls. Running my hands along every surface, feeling for seams, hollow spots, anything that might be a weakness.
The stone is smooth, cold, and absolutely solid.
No gaps where the walls meet the floor. No hidden panels.
The door fits so perfectly in its frame that I can't even slide the ceramic blade between them.
The bed is stone too, with what might generously be called a mattress. I check underneath, solid stone base. No space to hide anything, no springs to repurpose as weapons. The sheets are soft but strange, made of something that isn't quite fabric.
The table and chair are carved from single pieces of stone. Heavy, immovable, useless as improvised weapons unless my plan involves dropping them on someone from a great height.
The mirror is the only interesting thing. My reflection looks wrong in it, delayed by half a second, like it's thinking about what to show me. When I move left, my reflection hesitates before following. I touch the surface and it's not glass, it's something liquid held in solid form.
The bathroom door opens to a space that makes even less sense than the rest. Water that flows upward into a basin. A mirror that shows me from angles I shouldn't be able to see. Everything functional but wrong.
Back in the main room, I test the door. It doesn't budge. Not locked in any way I understand, it's like the door has forgotten it was ever meant to open. I could probably damage it with enough time and effort, but Mikaere would be on me before I made real progress.
I sit on the bed and inventory my weapons again. Knife, poison, ceramic blade. All useless against a being made of shadow and a guardian made of stone. I need information, not blades. Need to understand what Nezavek wants from me, why he bought me specifically.
He has a pattern, the broker mentioned it. Always buying the unusual ones. But for what purpose? Curiosity, Mikaere said. Information. Testing for something.
Compatibility.
The word surfaces again. Compatible with what? For what?
Tomorrow I'll push boundaries, test limits, learn more. Tonight, I plan.
Three years I've waited for this chance. I can wait a few more days to do it right.