Chapter 8 Whispers in the Library
Whispers in the Library
The tavern doors swung open, warm air chasing away the chill. Mason and Drystan were already bickering over the first drink. Commander Nethran took his usual seat, ignoring the bunch. The rest of the Circle trickled in, visibly relieved.
Rhosyn greeted them with a knowing look. “I see you’ve started without us.”
Drystan replied dryly, “Time is ticking.”
Emry shot Drystan a look before raising his glass in a mocking toast. Drystan winked and blew a kiss at Emry, who pretended to dodge it.
“No way, philanderer! Gods know what company you’ve been keeping.
” Another round of laughter erupted, the day’s tension melting into shared humor.
Eirin smirked. “At least this place is quieter
than the library. Fewer chances for Drystan and Mason to trip over themselves.”
With drinks in hand, the Circle settled into simple conversation. Riona glanced around, shaking her head. She lifted her drink. “To ancient texts that say absolutely nothing.”
Drystan raised his in response. “And to the brilliant fools who read them, anyway.”
Mason muttered into his glass, “Speak for yourself.”
Rhosyn laughed. “We’re all fools.” She raised her glass higher, and Eirin smiled as he reluctantly lifted his in return. Sorcha leaned back, watching the surrounding faces. They weren’t just colleagues. They were her friends.
A serving girl passed by with trays of bread and roasted roots, the scents of rosemary and garlic chasing away the old must of scrolls and ink.
Emry hardly looked up, his charcoal scratching quick strokes across the page.
He angled his notebook toward Rhosyn, murmuring something about the strange twist of the flower’s petals.
She leaned closer, her dark braid sliding over her shoulder, debating whether the curl of its stem was natural.
Their quiet talk pulled in Mason, who offered a dry remark that set Riona snorting into her cup.
The hour slipped by in shared laughter and debate, food dwindling to crumbs between them. By the time they returned to the library, the exhaustion had settled deep.
Scrolls and books lay scattered across the tables. The occasional rustle of pages or the sigh of frustration broke the quiet hum of the room only.
By midnight, fatigue had gripped them all.
Drystan had fallen asleep with his head on a pile of ancient texts, a faint snore escaping him.
Across the table, Riona blinked heavily, chin propped on her hand.
Emry sat beside her, already dozing, his charcoal still clutched between his fingers.
Eirin, ever diligent, worked through his stack of scrolls, though even his focus wavered.
Mason had his head in a book as well, literally, drooling.
At the hearth, Sorcha flipped through yet another book.
This one was different. With its edges worn, it had no title, no author, no dates, the inside a guide to flowers and herbs.
But as she turned the pages, an odd hum began to resonate from it.
She looked around, checking if anybody else noticed, but no one stirred.
The words that had filled the pages began disappearing, replaced by script she had never seen before.
She rubbed her eyes, certain exhaustion was blurring the words, when Eirin leaned over her chair, his voice low, breath warm against her skin.
“Find anything useful, Sorcha?”
She looked down at the book, but it had returned to its original state, and before she could process it, his lips brushed the curve of her ear.
The sudden contact sent an unexpected shiver down her spine as she turned her head toward his touch.
Eirin was smirking as he placed his hands on her shoulders and pulled her gently back into the chair.
She exhaled, leaning back in the chair as Eirin’s hands began to work.
His thumbs pressed into the knots of tension, tracing slow, deliberate circles.
The weight of the day faded beneath his touch.
A book snapped shut.
Commander Nethran stood at the table, his presence cutting through the quiet. The faint glow of the runes on his forearms flickered in the firelight; his expression unreadable.
“That’s enough for now. There’s no sense in running ourselves into the ground. We’ll regroup after breakfast and split into teams for rounds.”
The Circle stirred, and Eirin returned to his seat, stacking the books he had in front of him. Drystan mumbled something incoherent, earning a jab from Riona.
“Wake up, Drystan. Lumora needs its heroes. It won’t save itself.”
Riona winked at Emry. He smiled in return, grabbing her books as he passed. Riona followed behind him, leaving Drystan slumped over the table.
Drystan groaned, refusing to lift his head. “Give it a few hours. Maybe it’ll sort itself out,” he muttered. Then louder, “Mason, get up.”
“After you, princess,” Mason mumbled. Ignoring the banter, Nethran continued. “Sorcha, you’ll patrol the woods near the Hollow. Take someone with you. Drystan or Riona. The rest of you will cover the surrounding areas.”
Sorcha nodded. “I’ll take Riona, sir. She needs more field time.”
Riona grinned, barely containing her excitement.
She shot Sorcha a quick smile.
The Circle dispersed, but Sorcha lingered, drawn by an odd pull toward the shelves. She groaned and stretched, rolling her shoulders to ease the tension.
Reaching for the books she had gathered, she began returning them to their places, her fingers hesitating on the last one.
It was the book that had shifted at her touch, its pages alive with changing text before Eirin had arrived.
The moment his presence settled beside her, the words disappeared.
Now, she opened it again, but the pages remained stubbornly still.
Footsteps murmured in the background as the others said their goodnights, their voices fading toward the doors.
Sorcha flipped through the pages again, finding nothing.
With a sigh, she closed it firmly. As she turned, a movement at the edge of her vision caught her eye: a shadow reaching for the shelf.
Instinctively, she spun around, but the aisle was empty, devoid of anything but scrolls.
Expecting to find that everything was still in its rightful place, she turned back, only to find the book was gone.
She shoved through the stack, pushing pages and tomes aside and searching under the desk and beneath the shelves.
There was no sign that the book had ever been there.
Then, slow, creeping footsteps echoed behind her, followed by a scrape that dragged along the wooden shelves, eerily like nails raking against them.
The footsteps stopped just beyond the nearest shelf.
Carefully, she crept toward the shelves, peering through the gaps in the books, searching for hands, feet, or eyes – anything.
Only shifting shadows met her gaze. Suddenly, a sharp pain shot through her temple, causing her to jolt back and knock her head against the corner of the shelf.
The sudden ache blurred her vision for a moment.
The footsteps had stopped, and breathing curled around her ears.
No, she wouldn’t entertain this tonight; whatever it was, it could keep its shadows. “Goodnight,” she whispered, not waiting for a response. Turning on her heel, she strode toward the front doors, resisting the urge to look over her shoulder.
Outside, the crisp night air hit her, and she exhaled loudly, tapping her feet on the cobblestones. Pulling her cloak tighter, she began walking through the empty streets, her thoughts tangled with the strange encounter in the library.