Chapter 6
Wild Rose
Elegy for the Lost
Spellbinding. That is the only word that could capture the allure of Haven’s library, this revered sanctuary of knowledge and olden histories. It stretches endlessly before you, with mountainous shelves that rise to the roof, laden with ancient tomes, their spines weathered by time yet still holding secrets in their inked pages. The air here is filled with the scent of age—dusty, musty, but comforting. It smells of stories lived and breathed, of lives that were, in their own time, immortal. This is not just a library, it is a cathedral to the written word, a shrine where every page holds untold truths. The walls seem to sigh with the wisdom of centuries as the stone pillars hold sentinels carved with history and stand as guardians of this treasure trove.
Beneath the vaulted arches of the grand ceiling, intricate murals twist and weave, a kaleidoscope of epics rendered in paint and dreams. The labyrinth of shelves spill boundlessly into shadowed alcoves, each one a haven for the rarest of volumes and timeworn manuscripts that have long since slipped from the world’s gaze. These shelves are not mere furniture, they are tombs of knowledge, sheltering stories that no longer see the light of day. And it is in these corners that I find my solace, my obsession. I come here not just to read but to touch the faded leather bindings and to lose myself in the ghosts of long-past stories.
This library, this temple, remains largely untouched by the polished modernity of the academy. Unlike the gleaming marble halls and shiny classrooms that now define the school’s renovations, Haven’s library was spared. It retains its character, its ancient rhythm—one that hums softly in the quiet, with the cadence of time itself. It’s as if the very atmosphere here beats differently, older, slower, in time with the heart of the building. From the shadowed corners to the flickering lamps that cast soft light across pages, there is nothing here that does not captivate. Every inch of it speaks in languages long lost to most, every crumbling parchment hiding more than just words—it hides worlds.
But there’s one thing that calls to me above all else, the gargoyles . Their stony, weathered faces are set high on the balusters that uphold the roof and cast a dark, brooding shadow over the library. They stand guard and grim, frozen in their grotesque beauty. They are the protectors, the silent watchers of this place, and I cannot help but be drawn to them. Their stone eyes seem to pierce through me, sharp and knowing, as though they see all that lies beneath the surface. Perhaps it is their darkness that lures me in, or perhaps it is the way they seem to live in their lull, their faces carved with both menace and wisdom. There is something macabre about them that hovers in the heart like gold in the veins .
It is within this place of scriptures and ink that I work, alongside Madgar, the librarian, one who is as mysterious as the library itself. She is a strange lady, with her odd-shaped mole on her cheek and her fiery ruby hair that shimmers like embers when touched by sunlight. Her presence here is as integral as the books she tends to, a living testament to the library’s rugged soul. And though our relationship may not be one of tenderness, there is something between us—an unsaid understanding that echoes in the silence of these ancient walls. We are like Darcy and Beth , before they loved one another.
I remember when I first started here, desperate for a few coins to pay for my mother's bills and my heart afflicted with her deteriorating self. The academy had put out a call for help in the library, and I leaped at the chance. But when I first met Madgar, her welcome was less than warm. “Get back ye child with the rest of thaim, ye presence innae needed here,” she snapped, her voice as sharp as broken glass. Her eyes were stone, filled with annoyance as if I were a nuisance to her, a disruption to the otherwise peaceful mayhem of her shelves. But strangely, I was not repelled by her harshness. No, instead, I smiled that small, defiant smile that only seemed to irk her more. I could see the faint crease in her brow, the flicker of confusion in her eyes. She was jarred by my reaction, unsettled by the warmth I showed her when she had only offered frost.
And over time, I began to understand her—every snarl, every dismissive word, every clipped sentence. I learned to read her like a book—a stubborn, tightly bound one that took great effort to pry open. Madgar is all hard edges, all prickly thorns, but beneath those jagged layers, there is something real—something raw and honest. In a place where smiles are painted on and the truth is hidden behind veils of politeness, Madgar is a breath of fresh air. She is the voice that speaks when all others remain silent, the one who tells you exactly what she thinks without pretense or polish. She is a jar of tough truths, and I find myself returning to her again and again, craving the reality she offers, even when it cuts deeper than I expect.
It took me a while to see it—at first, I thought the stories were nothing more than rumors too fantastic to believe. The academy is full of gossip, after all. But then, the pieces started to fall into place, each revelation a strike of lightning and each truth unfolding with terrifying clarity. Terrors that left scars deeper than the mind can comprehend. It’s like watching a tree burn, the flames consuming its core until only the remnants of its twisted branches remain. And those terrors, once planted deep, never truly leave. They dwell in the roots, in the very air we breathe, a foul taste that haunts every corner of this place.
I had heard the name before, To Spiti Tis Frikis , the house of horrors. Before the academy was built, this place was a slaughterhouse, a home to atrocities that still loiter in the halls—that still pervade the rooms in the dead of night. They say the souls of the victims of the Stamatoties Clan roam these very walls, restless and angry. And though the truth of these rumors are difficult to pin down—no one speaks of it, no one dares—I have heard enough to know that there is a darkness here, one that has bled into the bones of this building, staining it for all time.
At first, I did not believe it. I was a skeptic, just another fool caught up in the thrill of a good ghost story. But then, I started to hear it. The creaks in the floorboards and the gloom that moved on their own. And when I found myself standing in the library, late at night, alone with Madgar, I could not shake the feeling that something was watching me. Something old, something hungry .
“Blow away thae clouds floating in ye head, daydreaming is for fools,” she said to me one evening, her voice gravelly with the weariness of years spent in this very place. “Only thae that hope are foolish to think dreams can be more than thoughts.”
I wanted to tell her that hope was not foolish, that daydreams were the seeds of something greater. That without them, we had nothing to strive toward. But I held my tongue. Instead, I placed a hand on my chest, trying to calm my disheartened heart. “And daydreaming is hope,” I countered quietly.
And like a violent rain called upon, she materializes from nothingness, as if the thought of her brought her into being, slipping from the corner and gracing my sight as she glances at me. Her eyes narrow as she drops a case of books into my cart. “I need thir put away before ye clock strikes”
And then, without warning, she softens. For the briefest moment, her tough exterior slips away, and a glimpse of something more human, more vulnerable, flickers across her face. It is almost imperceptible, but I see it.
“Alright”
Her expression hardens again, but I catch the faintest trace of a smile hiding behind her lips. She is guarded, such that I have yet to learn even a fraction of her life. But in time, I would. I knew that much.
And as I continue to work, as the days slip by in the company of dust and olden tales, I realize that, perhaps, it is not just the books that hold all the secrets in this place. Perhaps it is Madgar , too.
“My da was a priest, wrapped in holy words and all that pious shite, but me—I was the priest’s daughter, raised under the dim glow of stained glass and the sins no one dared to speak off. While he was off preachin' about salvation, me ma was back home, entertainin' fellas, her laughter spillin' through the thin walls, louder than his sermons ever were. He talked of light and grace, but our house was chokin' on murk, and there I was, stuck between the pulpit and the poison, learnin' quick that even the holiest of 'em carry their darkness
"How's yer ma?" she asks, her voice light, but there’s a ladenness beneath it, a shadow stitched into the words. She pauses, her eyes locking onto mine, searching deep like she’s trying to dig up something I’ve long buried. The silence between us grows like a smothering haze, and in that lonely chasm space, a heaviness settles inside me, battering against my ribs, clawing at the edges of memories I’d rather leave to rot.
"As she was the last time," I mutter, my voice barely more than a breath, brittle and distant, as I tear my gaze away. My fingers fumble for a book—any book—just something to anchor me in the moment. I slide it back onto the shelf with a soft thud, the sound too small to drown out the silence stretching between us.
Her stare holds, worried and knowing, burning into the side of my face like it could break down the walls I’ve carefully put together. Then, without a word, she pats me on the shoulder, a gesture too gentle to comfort, too final to ignore, and turns, her footsteps fading into the distance. I stand there, the ghost of her touch still clinging to my skin, the space she left behind feeling colder than before.
And just as the emptiness starts to sink in, Naseria and Miro walk through the door, a much-needed destruction , a stark contrast to the affliction that hangs in the air. They wave at me, oblivious to the storm churning beneath my skin, and head toward the back .
I quickly tuck away the casebound books, my fingers brushing against their smooth ends, before grabbing the file I’ve kept hidden, carefully, like a secret hidden away in the folds of my mind. With a practiced motion, I follow them down the dim corridor, the world outside fading away and the lull growing heavier. This room, tucked in the back, away from prying eyes, is where the walls seem to listen, and where truth waits to be uncovered.
“So l dug, and found something,” Naseria says, her voice slicing through the haze just as I lower myself into the chair.
“No, hello then?”
Sometimes, I wonder where I would have been if it weren’t for these two. We’re a mismatched conundrum, with idiosyncratic pieces that look nothing alike. Each of us is our own brand of strange, chaotic, and beautifully flawed. Yet, together, we’re something beautiful, something that makes sense in a world that often doesn’t. It’s that uniqueness that binds us, I suppose . Our clashing beliefs that stitch us closer, weaving something fierce and unbreakable. It’s not always pretty, but it’s real. The fights we have for one another, not against —that is what makes us who we are. Or at least, that’s what I tell myself.
Naseria was born in Greece, while Miro and l moved here for somewhat similar reasons — our families’ careers. Naseria was my neighbor and Miro was the kid we happened to sit with at lunch one afternoon, and, well, the rest is what they call history.
“So boorish, don't you think Essa,” Miro signs. Ever since the incident that happened when he was young, his mutism has only grown to be a part of him.
“Her buried ancestors will surely turn and roll”
The Inachus were considered royalty, true royalty , far more revered than the so-called Royal Family ever was. Their name bore influence, the kind that could bend spines and silence rooms. And Naseria is a descendant, bloodline pure, legacy intact . You’d expect her to walk around with her nose in the air, draped in the kind of elegance and decorum drilled into her ancestors. After all, the Inachus were infamous for their rigid adherence to etiquette and culture, their lives choreographed to perfection like some grand, unending performance.
But Naseria, she’s a hurricane in human form. Miro and I love to pull at that thread, teasing her mercilessly about how she’s the walking antithesis of her esteemed lineage. Instead of grace, she moves with wildness, teetering somewhere between a near-neanderthal and a feral creature loose from its cage. Her laughter is loud, her temper louder, and the way she slouches in chairs or snarls at authority would have her ancestors spinning in their gilded graves at how far their bloodline has fallen.
But honestly, I wouldn’t have her any other way.
“They were prudish,” she voices, “moralistic too.”
And indeed they were. She pulls out a book from her bag and places it on the table with a thud, and the dust coating it clouds around us.
“You just happen to keep dusted books now?” l arch my brow.
“Among other things,” she grins.
Naseria flips through the worn-out pages until she lands on one, with a lot of red highlighting.
“This,” she murmurs, her perfectly manicured nail pressing hard against the marked map, the paper crinkling beneath her certainty. Miro and I exchange a glance, a flicker of soundless conversation passing between us as we wait for her to unravel whatever revelation she’s stumbled upon.
“Circles, circles, and more circles,” she mutters, almost to herself. “It wasn’t an unknown message, it was so clear that I missed it at first. It’s been sitting on the edge of my realization this whole time.” Her voice trails off as her eyes drift into the distance, glassy and far away like she’s staring straight through us. For a brief moment, I wonder if she’s even talking to us anymore, and judging by the crease in Miro’s brow, I’m not the only one thinking it.
“It wasn’t hidden,” she finally breathes, snapping back to the present, her voice sharper now. “It was out in the open.” Her nail jabs at the page twice, a soft but insistent thud-thud against the parchment. “This is where it all started. And just last night, I think— I think —I put the pieces together. But I can’t be sure unless…unless we go there. Tonight. ”
Her hand drags through her hair, fingers knotting at the roots like she’s trying to ground herself, but it’s no use. The tension in her voice, the way her eyes flicker with something close to desperation—it’s clear. She’s on the edge, dangling over some dark precipice we can’t yet see.
“I need answers,” she says, her voice barely holding itself together, and for the first time, I’m not sure if she’s looking for the truth or trying to outrun it.
“ We need answers.” I reach for her hands, squeezing them gently, trying to anchor her spiraling thoughts. “Those answers mean just as much to you as they do to us.”
Her franticness, once hidden beneath that cool exterior, is starting to slip through the cracks, and I hate seeing her like this—unraveled, uneasy. She sighs, the tension in her shoulders loosening just a bit, though her eyes still blink with that restless feel .
“I know,” she breathes, the words fragile but steady.
“Now,” I say, nodding towards the map, “let us in on those .” My finger taps the red markings smeared across the page like wounds.
She takes a breath, gathering herself before speaking. “This thing is much more complex than we thought. It’s not just a solid picture, it’s a polyptych , multiple layers, each revealing another beneath it.” Her fingers trace the symbols with a kind of reverence, as if the map itself is alive. “It’s like each symbol makes up another.”
“It’s one in many,” I add, the old saying rolling off my tongue, echoing the articles I’d buried myself in earlier this morning. The words feel heavier now, more than just theory.
“Exactly,” Naseria nods, her eyes lighting with a flicker of recognition, “Like a tree with many roots, all tangled beneath the surface.”
"Well, when you find a moment, I would appreciate it if you talked fewer parables and more constructed sentences, for my sake, of course”
“How unfortunate. This is probably because you —” he cuts her off.
“Sounding like Shakespeare is not something to puff your chest about, so swallow back whatever you were about to say and speak properly.”
“Well, are you done huffing and puffing?” I ask, biting back a laugh that threatens to slip past my lips.
“The clan is built on what they call the blood rituals ,” she begins, her voice low and certain, like she’s reciting something forbidden. “Four circles, to be exact, and each one happens at a different location.” Her finger hovers over the map, again , tracing invisible lines between the markings. “Neither the time nor the date was mentioned in any of the readings, but this —” she jabs at the page with a sharp, deliberate motion, “shows the locations. Well… only three out of the four.”
Her words hang in the air, ponderous with what’s missing.
“Now, that was not so hard, was it?”
“A man of literature can easily woe a woman Miro, it’s words that make her we?—”
“Then he must have been sore to look at. I do not need words nor a fucking voice when l can have a pair of legs spread for me just fine with my —”
“Looks?” Naseria arches her brow like he possibly could not stand on his admiration.
“Charm,” he smirks
“Moving forward—” I playfully roll my eyes, a smirk tugging at the corner of my mouth. “The rituals are nothing short of their titles then, blood is shed,” I add, letting the words dwell, their gravity sinking into the space between us.
“Wait, so you want us to visit one of the locations tonight?”
Naseria nods
“As in the time you do not go searching for the boogeyman, because that’s when shit goes south?” Miro’s face is riddled with concern that is creepingly blooming in me.
“Yes, tonight,” she says.
“Any reason it has to be tonight ?” l ask because Miro does have a point. When you go searching for the things that stalk the shadows, you will find them baiting you with hungry teeth.
“There’ll be a full moon—and I know, what are the chances will find anything. But it’s worth trying.”
The rituals are rumored to unfold beneath the crimson glow of a red moon or, in plainer terms, a full moon. But with only twelve full moons gracing the sky each year, the alignment feels less like chance and more like an omen carved into the fabric of time. What weighs heavier is the lore that clings to that blood-soaked moon. Across faiths and philosophies, it is a symbol of malevolence, a celestial warning draped in shadow, heralding the arrival of something dark, something inevitable.
Yet the Pagans, with their ancient eyes and earth-bound hearts, saw it differently. To them, the red moon was no curse, but a beacon of change, a harbinger of transformation. But standing at the edge of this unraveling mystery, I can’t tell which is more terrifying, placing fragile hope in their misplaced beliefs, or surrendering to the creeping dread that reality is far more monstrous than myth.
“Right, that right there should be a red flag. A full moon and shit like this will lend us on the news,” his hands move berserkly.
Yes, yes, and yes, and perhaps I too am not quite ready to die. But the truth beckons us, and chasing it is never a graceful pursuit. The things long buried beneath ages of time are hidden for a reason, their silence a warning rather than an accident. Secrets perched on the tips of tongues stay unspoken for the same purpose—they bear the burden they carry. And those who dare to unearth these truths, to pull back the veil and stare into the abyss, rarely return whole, if they return at all.
“The severity of the purpose outweighs the fear, Miro,” Naseria pleads, her voice a thread pulled too tight, fraying at the edges.
But when is it enough? When does the hunger wane and the thirst still? Or do we, like the very monsters we chase, prowl forward, blind to the line between hunter and hunted. How long before the pursuit drives us deep into the woods, to the foot of the prey’s gate, where the air is stifling with something primordial and waiting.
My gaze moves to the file on the table, a trace of unfinished thoughts. Fingers ghosting over its surface, I reach into my bag, drawing out a collection of blotting papers, their ink bleeding like veins through brittle pages. The ends are jagged, torn from a journal, a relic of words never meant to be found. I had spent the day sifting through dusted books and chasing shadows in the archives, searching for a clue to unravel.
“I found these today,” I say, setting them between us like an offering. “And something about them…feels as though they hold more than we understand. I’ll read.”
June 1980, Zakraion
The witch killed them
Behind the woods, the Oracles of Gryclusm massacred her family.
No Date / Archived 7801
The members were never caught, but their sigma, a snake wrapped around a demon Krampus mask, was left on the burned bodies, and a letter that stated:
Each full moon, a body will be found,
Lying cold beneath the cruel, unblinking sky.
Every full moon, a life must be offered,
A sacrifice to the archaic gods that spoke in the dark.
Every full moon, blood shall stain the earth,
A crimson tide to wash away forgotten sins.
Every full moon, the ritual shall unfold ,
Shadows stretching as the air grows thick with dread.
He shall come, as inevitable as the tide,
A creature of fury, wrapped in moonlight’s curse.
He shall slaughter, a requiem sung in the language of death,
For the sins of the many, the price to be paid.
For the greater good, they say,
But the truth is a thing lost to time,
A twisted belief forged in blood and torment,
Where guilt and sacrifice are indistinguishable.
As the moon rises high and the winds howl low,
The ritual will be done,
And the world will quiver,
For the price of salvation is always steep,
And the darkness is always waiting to collect.
Naseria snatches the paper from my hand, her eyes darting across the text as she reads it again, slower this time, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less ominous.
“Look at that, another reason we should notbe out in those fucking woods,”
“This—” Naseria snaps, waving the paper in the air like a battle flag, “Is why we should and are going into those damn woods.”
Miro exhales silently, slumping back in his chair, the fight draining from his eyes, leaving only the wistful shape of reluctant defeat.
Mama had a peculiar obsession, one that consumed her in the quiet hours of the night. She would sink into the depths of crime shows, lost in the dark intricacies of investigations and documentaries. The glow of the TV screen became her constant companion, drawing her into a world of human depravity and unspeakable truths. It was as though every crime scene, every haunting mystery, was a puzzle she longed to solve, to untangle the twistedness of the human psyche.
Papa and I would joke about it—laughing under our breath as we playfully mused, “She must know how to hide a body with all the hours she’s spent watching this stuff.” But she never found it funny. There was always a sort of understanding that this was not just a passing fascination. For her, the darker corners of the human mind weren’t just curiosities, they were an uncharted territory, a realm to be studied, understood, and dissected. And yet, every now and then, when her eyes would wander toward the screen, I’d find myself inadvertently watching, catching fragments of the macabre truths she’d uncovered.
Mama was a psychiatrist, one who had spent years unraveling the labyrinth of split human minds and emotions. Her love for the darker side of humanity was not some fleeting fancy, it was part of her very passion. Her ability to understand the fragile intricacies of the mind gave her an almost reverential interest in the cruelty humans were capable of. But she never indulged in the acts themselves. No, Mama was a scholar in this wicked dance, she studied the minds of monsters, probing them with the precision of a surgeon.
It was in those fleeting moments, when I’d catch a glimpse of the television’s eerie light in the darkness, that I’d start to understand the deeper connection between her work and the things she watched. It was then that I began to see the twine that tied all those gory tales together, and the reckless, often suicidal fools who ventured into haunted places, seeking answers to questions that were far better left unasked. Those souls who, in their naivety, did not realize that their curiosity would lead them to a fate worse than death. They sought out the unlawful, unaware that in doing so, they were inviting the very horrors they never dreamed they could find.
And as I watched those tragic characters on screen, a shiver would crawl up my spine. For I knew, deep down, that in a world full of untold abominations, some questions should never be asked, because the answers are always more sinister than we could ever imagine.
We’re those suicidal morons.
“Please, Miro,” Naseria clasps her fingers around his arm, her eyes doing the pleading her voice couldn’t.
He tips his head up while rubbing a hand down his face. Then, with deliberate movements, he slumps deeper into his chair and signs, “ Fine. But I’m stopping by my place first. I need my stash.”
“You’re gonna be high?” I raise an eyebrow, the absurdity clawing at my patience.
“ It’s either that, ” he shoots back, “ or I stay home and hope you two nitwits make it back alive. Your pick. ”
“Being incoherent while we’re getting chased through the woods might not land in your favor.”
“ Incoherent and blissfully unaware of danger sounds way more promising, ” he smirks.
No, it sounds like a powder keg waiting for the tiniest spark.
“Problem solved,” Naseria cuts in, already on her feet. “We’ll grab your crap and be on our merry way.” She shoves the papers into her backpack, zipping it up with a finality that leaves no room for more arguments.
Merry way, my as–, this is like a walk to our graves.