Chapter 40
“Under the proclamation of His Majesty, Acaelar Bloodborne, first of his name, a new sect of soldiers will be instructed with a specific directive.
The Order shall be charged with protecting the sanctity of faith within the realm, and falls under the direct command of the king.”
Ever since I first saw the tome in the library, it haunted me—slipping into my dreams and whispering through my thoughts. Its presence lingered in my mind, and I felt its sharp pull. Perhaps it was King Acaelar himself reaching from the grave, or the goddess Elspeth urging me toward destiny.
The library doors loomed ahead. My palm hovered over the handle, slick with sweat despite the coolness of the hall. I drew a breath deep enough to steady me and ran through the plan again.
The librarian was a creature of habit—rigid, predictable. Even without seeing him, I could conjure the image: his narrow shoulders hunched like a crow over some book, listening carefully for any threat to his domain.
Which was why I needed a diversion.
Something that would get his attention and force him to leave his desk—keys unguarded. But I had to be careful. I couldn’t make him suspect my true agenda.
Pushing open the doors, I slipped inside. The scent struck me first—patchouli. The librarian loved burning incense, and the cloud of it was thick today.
I scanned the area, but no one else was there, per usual.
The librarian sat at his desk near the entrance, nose-deep in a book. His head did not move when I entered, but his eyes—sharp as a hawk’s—tracked me.
“Back again?” His voice was low, brittle with suspicion.
“I am,” I said lightly, forcing a smile I didn’t feel. “There isn’t much else for me to do now, is there?”
“I suppose not.” His hand twitched, a flick of his wrist as if dismissing a servant. “Enjoy.”
“I will.”
The word tasted like a lie.
I drifted deeper into the library, past towering shelves. The silence pressed in, broken only by my labored panting. My trembling fingers grazed the spines of the many forgotten works. All this knowledge, all these secrets, buried under frozen Ground where no one could see. No one could learn.
But only one book mattered right now.
Every nerve screamed caution, but hesitation was a luxury I couldn’t afford. I stopped before a tall stack near the back corner and placed both hands on its edge. The plan was simple.
I pushed.
The shelf groaned, swayed, and then toppled. The crash was thunderous, a symphony of cracking wood and tumbling books. Dust exploded into the air in thick, choking plumes.
A shout ripped through the stillness.
“WHAT HAPPENED?!”
The librarian came charging, his face contorted in panic. He dropped to his knees among the fallen texts, fingers trembling as they traced torn bindings and ripped pages. His voice rose, cracking with grief:
“What happened?”
“I’m so sorry!” I stammered. “I tripped—I didn’t mean to—”
“Get out.” His tone cut like a blade.
“But—”
“I said GET OUT!”
His roar shook the dust from the air.
I backed away, head bowed, feigning shame while my pulse beat wildly like a drum. My eyes flicked to his throat. No chain. Good.
Once I made it to the front entrance, I opened and closed the door, hoping it was enough to fool his ears. I moved quickly then. The keys were hanging on the hook, and I silently grabbed them. They were heavy in my hands. Their weight was both a promise and a prayer.
I didn’t linger long. Every moment felt stolen as I ran to the door at the far end of the library, careful to evade the librarian still cataloging the destruction. I sorted through the ring of keys, trying each one in the lock, until I heard the click of the latch.
Slowly, I pushed in.
Inside, the air changed. Stale, untouched, laced with the sweet rot of aging parchment.
The only illumination came from a flickering light that turned on when it sensed me.
Tomes lined the walls in regimented rows, their spines dull with centuries of secrets.
And there in the center, a glass case glimmered faintly in the gloom.
Inside lay the book that had called to me.
My breath hitched as I wrestled with finding the right key to unlock the case.
Once I did, I lifted the lid, and the faint scent of old leather and iron ink wafted over me.
My fingers brushed the cover—scarred, dark, whispering of hands long deceased.
I gently picked it up, and the weight startled me.
I opened it.
The first page greeted me with words etched in a hand both regal and severe:
Journal of His Majesty, Acaelar Bloodborne, first of his name.
This was it. The lost journal. Not lost, but hidden. Buried away, and hoped to be forgotten.
The first prophecy was eerie and foreboding:
The Old Book speaks true:
Ascend from ruin, and be made anew.
I saw a vision of eyes flecked with gold.
Tests shall not break them,
nor Death condemn them,
for both man and god have chosen them.
But it was the next prophecy that stole the breath from my lungs:
From bone and ash, one will rise
with eyes that pierce death’s guise.
The Sky shall watch, the Ground shall claim.
The kingdom will fall to those once shamed,
marking the end of Bloodborne’s reign.
I stared until the words blurred, burning them into memory. Acaelar had foreseen the fall of the monarchy. No wonder this book had vanished into the shadows. It was dangerous.
A sound snapped me out of my trance—a faint scrape beyond the door.
Approaching footsteps.
Panic clawed at me. I shut the journal, easing it back into the case. My eyes darted for cover. But there was none. There was only the cold glass and the silent shelves.
The latch rattled.
“Who’s in here?” The librarian’s voice was low, venomous.
I knelt, heart hammering against the floor, praying my hair concealed me.
The door opened.
“I know someone’s here,” he hissed. When he spoke next, it sounded as though he were right on top of me. “My keys are missing.”
I let out a shaky breath I had been holding. It was over.
I rose slowly, hands lifted.
“You.” His eyes blazed with fury as he stalked toward me.
“I just wanted to look,” I whispered.
“Do you take me for some fool?” His voice dripped with menace.
“Of course not.”
“Did you touch anything?” His eyes were glued to the case, inspecting the journal inside.
“No,” I lied, pulse roaring in my ears.
His eyes flicked back to me, expression carved from stone. “You are banned from this library! If I see you in here again, I’ll hand you over to Marcum myself. Is that understood?”
The name hit like ice down my spine.
“Yes,” I breathed.
“Good. Now leave.”
He snatched his keys from my hand, and I ran out the chamber door. I fled the library as quickly as I could, my breath coming in short pants. When I reached the hallway, I leaned against the cool wall. Its temperature licked at the heat of my skin.
The entire plan felt like a waste of time and too large a risk. I didn’t know why my dream had suggested the journal held the answers I sought. It had revealed nothing about Willam, but it shifted my perspective.
Marcum and the Guild surely knew about Acaelar’s prophecies. So what was their actual goal?
One thing was certain, though: I could tell no one what I read. If Marcum or any other member of the Guild found out, then there was no way I was leaving the facility alive.