The
Library - Continuous
The Librarian works by
lanternlight, the soft amber glow pooling across the wide central
desk. Her fingers move in a practiced rhythm; type, stamp, slide.
Another book checked in. Another set aside. The quiet is complete,
the kind that settles deep into the bones of the building.
Keys click. Paper whispers.
She reaches for the next
volume, and a shadow stretches across the desk.
She looks up, startled for half a breath, then relaxes. “Instructor Korvin,” she says, surprised but smiling. “You’re up late.”
Korvin stands on the other side of the desk, broad shoulders filling the aisle between shelves. He holds four books tucked under one arm, their spines worn with use.
He returns her smile easily, the expression softening the hard planes of his face. “Well, I reckon I could say the same for you.”
She chuckles, taking the books as he sets them down. “Quiet night. Blessedly so. I’m finally catchin’ up.” She gestures to the neat stacks. “These new cadets… they’re devourin’ everything I put out. Feels like weeks since I seen the bottom of this pile.”
Korvin nods, watchin’ her work as she types in the returns. “That tracks. First years always thinkin’ the answers are in the books.”
“Ain’t they?” she asks lightly.
“Sometimes,” he says.
“More often, they’re in scars.”
She laughs softly at that, stampin’ the last book and slidin’ it into place. “You ain’t met ’em yet, have you? The new year.”
He shakes his head. “Not properly. Don’t usually see ’em ’til third or fourth year. By then, Academy’s had time to… sand ’em down.”
“Or sharpen ’em,” she offers.
“Or break ’em,” Korvin replies, without humor.
The Librarian pauses, glancin’ up at him. There’s somethin’ off, nothin’ obvious, just a tension she’s learned to notice after years in this place. Korvin’s gaze ain’t wanderin’ the shelves the way it usually does. It’s fixed, intent.
“Everything all right?” she asks.
Korvin blinks, the moment passin’. “Fine,” he says. “Just… restless.”
She nods, accepting that
answer the way one accepts weather. She returns to her typing. The
lanterns hum softly. Somewhere deep in the Library, wood settles with
a quiet creak.
Korvin and the Librarian
are mid-conversation when the sound reaches them. Heavy. Measured.
Armored. The thump of boots on stone carries through the Library,
slow and deliberate, utterly unlike the lighter cadence of
Praetorians on patrol. It doesn’t hurry. It doesn’t need to.
The Librarian falters
mid-sentence, fingers hovering above the keys. Korvin’s head turns
first, instincts honed too deeply to ignore the sound. His expression
tightens, not fear, but recognition.
The footsteps grow louder.
Closer. Then the shadows reach them before the figures do, stretching
across the floor between the shelves. Broad silhouettes. Too broad.
Too tall.
The Librarian rises from
her chair without quite realizing she’s doing it.
Two Vardengard step into
the lantern light.
They fill the aisle like
statues dragged out of a war memorial, towering, scarred, armor worn
smooth in places by decades of use. Each carries a stack of books
tucked with careful precision against their chest, the contrast
almost absurd against their size. One of them, 139, holds a folded
slip of parchment between two fingers.
Korvin straightens fully
now. His hand does not go to a weapon, but his posture shifts all the
same, respectful, alert. His eyes flick briefly to the books, then to
the men themselves.
“Oh! Saints,” the Librarian breathes. “I-I wasn’t expectin’—”
142 inclines his head slightly. “Apologies for intrusion,” he says, voice low, even. “Ve return zis on behalf of our Master.”
139 steps forward, setting the parchment on the desk with careful fingers. “General Aedinius Tiberius,” he adds, deliberate. “Zis name… it carries weight, ja.”
“These… these are extensive,” the Librarian murmurs. “And these are returns, you said?”
“Yes,” 142 replies, crisp. “And ze note… it lists vat he wishes to check out next.”
The Librarian sighs, long and drawn. “Of course it does.” She starts stackin’ the books neatly. Then she hesitates, glance driftin’ toward the stairwell leading down below the Library. “I’m surprised the General ain’t here himself.”
Both Vardengard shrug in near-perfect unison. Silence. No explanation, no apology.
“I didn’t think I’d ever see the General’s Vardengard here in person,” she murmurs, still surprised. “Especially not at this hour.”
142 tilts his head, scars catching the lantern light. “Ve prefer handle tings ourselves when possible,” he says quietly. “Our Master trusts precision.”
139 shifts the stack in his arms. “He is… very particular,” he adds, almost jokin’, gravelly voice rough. “Even small errors… zey can annoy him, ja.”
Korvin nods, eyes flicking to the note 139 holds. “I see he still keeps handwritten requests. Not much changed in all these years,” he says, quiet, almost to himself.
The Librarian exhales again, picking up the books. “And I suppose the General couldn’t spare the time to come down himself?”
Both Vardengard shrug,
silent save for the soft scrape of their boots as they shift in
place, the weight of their presence filling the room.
The shadows of the vaulted
ceiling stretch long over the stacks of books as Korvin studies them
for a moment longer, before stepping back. The Librarian carefully
sets the books onto her desk.
Korvin doesn’t comment
further, but his eyes linger on the Vardengard, noting their posture,
the quiet efficiency in their movements. He’s aware they’re far
more than mere bodyguards, they’re a presence shaped by decades of
war and discipline.
“The books are in the
Archives,” the Librarian says, already pushing her chair back. “I
can fetch 'em immediately.”
Both Vardengard nod at
once. No impatience. No surprise. They simply accept it as fact.
The Librarian steps out
from behind the desk and a scream tears through the Library.
Not long. Not
full-throated. A sharp, ragged yelp that echoes up from below the
stone, raw with pain and panic.
The Librarian freezes
mid-step, breath hitching as she startles violently. “What…?”
Korvin is already moving.
His spine straightens, shoulders squaring, every trace of casualness
gone.
The Vardengard snap to
attention in the same instant.
Their heads turn together.
Their eyes lock on the same place.
The iron-banded door.
“The Archives,” 139
says quietly.
142’s hand drops to the
grip of his weapon, thumb brushing worn metal. His jaw tightens.
“Below us.”
Korvin looks between them,
then back to the Librarian. “Has anyone been down there tonight?”
“No,” she says
immediately, shaken. “No one. The General was the last to access
it, and that was last night. It’s locked, no one enters without the
key.”
Korvin holds out his hand.
“The key.”
She fumbles at her belt,
fingers clumsy with nerves, and presses the heavy iron key into his
palm. Korvin turns and strides toward the door, boots silent but
urgent against the stone.
The Vardengard reach it
first.
142 grips the handle and
gives it a testing pull.
The door swings open.
Both Vardengard sniff the
air at the same time. The smell is unmistakable. It cuts through the
dust and old paper rot of a room rarely disturbed, sharp and coppery
and wrong. Blood. A lot of it.
142’s nostrils flare. His
jaw tightens. He murmurs it under his breath, “Smells of blood.”
139 doesn’t even need to
lean in. He confirms it with a low sound in his throat, eyes already
hardening.
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Korvin watches them for
half a second, then pockets the key without another word.
The darkness beyond the
archive door yawns wide and deep.
He takes the lead, boots
quiet but purposeful as he descends the spiral staircase. The stone
is cold beneath his hand. Each step feels heavier than the last, as
if the air itself thickens the farther down they go. The Vardengard
follow close behind, massive forms moving with disciplined restraint,
hands hovering near their weapons.
They reach the next door.
It stands wide open.
Chaos spills out to meet
them.
Voices, three of them,
grunt and hiss in strained, panicked bursts. Something crashes. Glass
shatters. Books hit the floor in dull, heavy thuds. One of the men
lets out a broken groan, pain ripping free despite himself.
Under it all, there is
another sound.
Smaller. Ferocious. A growl
that does not belong to any man.
Korvin presses himself to
the doorframe and peeks inside.
Blood is splattered across
the stone floor in dark, uneven arcs, barely illuminated by a fallen
flashlight rolling weakly on its side. He leans further in, eyes
adjusting, and the scene resolves.
One man in black sits
slumped against a shelf, both hands clamped to his inner thigh, blood
pouring through his fingers as he whimpers and swears. Farther in,
two more figures are piled atop something on the floor, grappling
desperately, trying to pin it down as it bucks and snaps beneath
them.
The Vardengard inhale
again.
139 leans just enough to
murmur, barely audible, “Smells of the pup.”
142 answers immediately,
voice low and certain. “Yeah. It is her.”
Korvin doesn’t ask how
they know. He doesn’t hesitate. He rounds the corner in a smooth,
lethal motion, pistol already unholstered, the weight of it steady in
his hand as he moves to end whatever is happening in his Archives.
He moves like a blade drawn
too fast, boots skidding on blood-slick stone as he slams into the
nearest man in black and rips him backward by the collar. The weight
comes away in his hands, and that’s when he sees what’s beneath
them.
Pinned to the floor. Blood
soaked through her uniform, pooling beneath her ribs. Her teeth are
bared in a feral snarl, hands clawing weakly at the man straddling
her, knife gone, strength gone, will alone keeping her fighting.
Korvin’s breath leaves
him in a sharp, silent rupture.
“No—” It almost slips
out. Almost.
He swallows it whole. There
will be time for horror later.
He drives an elbow into the
attacker’s spine and wrenches him off her, hauling him up just in
time to take a fist to the jaw. The blow lands hard. Bone rings.
Korvin stumbles, stars bursting across his vision as he slams
shoulder-first into a shelf and barely keeps his footing.
The man grins behind the
balaclava.
Then the wolves arrive. 142
hits the second attacker like a battering ram, armor crashing into
flesh, lifting him clean off Lucille and slamming him into the stone
with a sound like a dropped carcass. 139 is already moving, a blur of
steel and muscle, driving a knee into the leader’s ribs hard enough
to crack something wet and vital.
It is not a fight. It is a
slaughter halted only by intent.
Korvin recovers fast. He
snaps his pistol up and cracks the leader across the skull with the
grip, sending him sprawling. Between them, the three men are
overwhelmed in seconds, arms wrenched back, wrists bound with brutal
efficiency, faces forced into the cold, bloody floor.
139 plants a boot between
one man’s shoulders and keeps him there.
142 looks to Korvin. “We
call our Master.”
“Yes,” Korvin says,
voice tight. “And the Praetorians. Now.”
142 is already moving, hand
to comms.
Korvin turns back to
Lucille.
She’s tried to sit up.
Made it to her knees. That’s as far as she gets.
One hand is pressed to her
side, fingers slick and shaking, blood seeping through despite the
pressure. Her breaths come shallow, uneven, each one thinner than the
last. Her eyes struggle to stay focused, pupils blown wide.
“Lucille,” Korvin says,
dropping to the floor beside her.
She blinks at him, slow.
Confused. Relief flickers, and then guilt, sharp and immediate.
“I… didn’t mean…”
she whispers. “I just wanted to—”
“Don’t talk,” he
snaps, already tearing fabric, pressing hard against the wound. His
hands come away red. Too red. “Stay with me.”
Her knees buckle. Korvin
catches her before she hits the stone, lowering her carefully, one
arm braced behind her shoulders.
Her vision tunnels. The
world tilts.
She frowns faintly, like a
child scolded for staying up too late. “I almost made it,” she
murmurs.
Korvin’s jaw locks.
“Yes,” he says, low and
fierce. “You did.”
Her eyes flutter. Her
breathing stutters.
Korvin presses harder,
calls her name again, louder this time, command, plea, prayer all
tangled together, as the Vardengard stand over the bound traitors
like execution statues, and the Archives reek of blood, smoke, and
the terrible price of curiosity paid in full.
Lucille stares up at
Korvin, taking a deep, shuddering breath. Her chest rises and falls
unevenly, the shallow rhythm betraying how close she is to passing
out. She watches the Vardengard as they finish tying up the two men,
their brutal efficiency leaving no room for argument.
139 moves toward the third
man, the one who had been clutching his inner thigh when they
arrived. His fingers probe the wound, checking for a pulse, and his
face tightens. The man is no longer moving. No longer breathing.
Blood still pours freely from the torn artery, pooling on the stone
floor. 139 snorts, half in disgust, half in admiration. “Dead,”
he mutters. “Severed artery.”
142 kneels before Lucille
and Korvin, his massive frame dwarfing her slight form. His eyes
sweep her carefully, noting the shallow rise and fall of her chest,
the tremor in her hands, the pallor creeping across her skin. A
small, almost imperceptible smile tugs at his lips. “Did good for a
pup,” he says quietly, his voice rough yet gentle. He leans in
slightly, asking, “What happened?”
Lucille swallows, gathering
the strength to speak through the haze of pain and adrenaline. She
whispers, “They were stealin'...” Her weak hand gestures toward
the scattered books and artifacts still piled near the doorway to the
deeper archives.
139 immediately moves
toward the stack, flipping through the tomes with practiced
efficiency, scanning titles and skimming pages. His eyes widen, a
spark of recognition and disbelief crossing his face. He says
nothing, but the weight of his reaction hangs in the room.
142’s gaze returns to Lucille. He places a heavy, reassuring hand near her shoulder. “Focus on your breathing. Stay calm. Slow your heart… und you will slow ze flow.” His voice is steady, commanding, yet soft enough to soothe. “Ze medic is on ze way. You vill be okay, pup.”
Lucille nods faintly at
142’s words, though it costs her. Drawing breath hurts. Every
inhale feels shallow, like her lungs refuse to fully open, and every
exhale trembles out of her in a thin rasp. She tries anyway. In. Out.
In. The world swims at the edges.
Korvin crouches closer, one
hand hovering uselessly near her shoulder, afraid to touch her wrong,
afraid to make it worse. His jaw is tight, eyes hard with a fury he
keeps leashed by sheer discipline. “Stay with me,” he murmurs,
voice low, steady. An order disguised as reassurance.
“I—” Lucille starts,
then swallows, tasting iron. “I tried to run.”
“I know,” Korvin says.
“You did enough.”
142’s brow creases as he listens again, fingers brushing lightly near her wrist, not quite touching skin, counting by sound and instinct. “She is tough,” he says to Korvin. “But zat cut… it is ugly. Blade go in deep. Missed heart. Missed lung. Lucky.” His smile fades. “Still… bad.”
139 looks up from the stack of books near the lower door. His expression has changed, gone is the easy humor, replaced by something cold and sharp. “Zese are not just relics,” he says quietly. “Zese are command measures. Old ones. Pre-Concordance.” He glances toward the bound men. “Someone wants wolves on chains.”
142 exhales through his nose, slow and controlled. “Master… he is going to love zat.”
Lucille’s vision blurs.
The ceiling above seems impossibly far away. She blinks, fighting to
keep Korvin’s face in focus.
“Hey,” he says sharply,
catching it. “Eyes on me. Don’t you dare drift.”
Her lips twitch, the ghost
of a smile. “Told you… I wasn’t afraid.”
Korvin huffs a breath that
might almost be a laugh, if it weren’t so tight. “Stubborn little
menace.”
“Easy, pup,” 142 rumbles. “You did good. Rest now.”
“Pup,” Korvin says quietly, calm but firm, his Southern drawl softened with worry. “What were you doin’ down here past curfew?”
“I… I was lookin’ for a book,” Lucille whispers. Her teeth chatter as she speaks. “I didn’t mean nothin’ bad by it.”
“You could have asked me,” Korvin says softly, a gentle reprimand riding under the warmth. “I’d’ve fetched it for you. Wouldn’t have had to risk—”
“Then we never would’ve known about them thieves,” she interrupts, weak but stubborn.
“You think this proves something?” the bound leader snarls, straining against the ropes. “A pup. A child, playing at cleverness.” He laughs, sharp and humorless. “You will pay for this. All of you.” He spits toward Lucille. “And you—little brat. Pretending to be soldier. Crawling like rat into places you do not belong.” His voice drops, cold and certain. “You will rot for this.”
“Pathetic,” 142 growls, kicking him hard in the side. Bone cracks. The scream cuts short. “A child bested three of you. Zat is what you are. Worthless traitors. You never were warriors.”
“Bested by a child?” a new voice cuts in, rich and cold, German precision edged with steel.
All eyes snap toward the
doorway. General Tiberius steps through, long coat swaying slightly
with his stride. He’s calm, effortless, as if the short dash from
wherever he came was nothing. Not even winded. The Praetorians
haven’t arrived yet, the hall remains silent except for the gasps
and grunts of those still struggling against their bindings.
Tiberius’ blue eyes sweep
the scene, lingering briefly on the restrained men, then on Lucille,
whose chest rises and falls unevenly, drenched in sweat and blood. He
says nothing yet, but the weight of his gaze presses down like stone,
and even the Vardengard stiffen at his presence, muscles coiling like
drawn wire.
Both 142 and 139 drop their
heads to their Master, shoulders stiff, muscles still coiled. Even in
their presence, the weight of Tiberius’ scrutiny presses down like
iron. He remains silent, eyes sweeping the room, taking in every
detail, the overturned tables, the scattered artifacts, the bindings
on two men, the dead man, and finally, the small, bloodied figure of
Lucille leaning against Korvin.
“Master, we heard scream,” 139 clears his throat, speaking first. “Instructor Korvin and we came down to investigate. We found pup fighting zis three traitors.”
Tiberius doesn’t shift.
His gaze flicks briefly to Lucille, noting the sheen of sweat and the
blood streaking her clothes, before returning to the bound men.
“The pup said they were stealing items,” 142 continues, voice low, precise. “Books. Artifacts. Records. She pointed to pile still stacked near lower-level door.”
“Some of these,” 139 steps forward, picking up one of the books and holding it out, flipping through pages, “are records of old Vardengard controls. Protocols. Failsafes. Things… even I have never seen before.”
Tiberius takes the book,
fingers brushing the worn edges. He flips through the pages slowly,
reading, absorbing. His expression remains unreadable, yet there is a
faint nod when he finishes a section. “I suspected as much,” Tiberius finally says, voice calm but carrying weight, thick Teutonic accent. “I intended to locate zis documents myself.”
Both Vardengard exchange a
glance, surprise flickering behind their stoic masks. Their Master
had kept the purpose of his visit hidden from them, even from his
closest warriors.
The distant echo of heavy
boots reverberates through the Archives. The Praetorians arrive, a
squad of four led by Captain Caepio, moving fast but controlled. A
Praetorian medic hurries behind them, eyes scanning the scene as they
take in the chaos.
Tiberius straightens,
slipping the book under his arm. His gaze briefly meets Lucille’s.
Even bruised, bloodied, and trembling, she meets it without
flinching. For a long, measured moment, he simply observes, the room
holding its collective breath under the weight of his authority.
“Stand down,” Tiberius commands, voice sharp, halting even the rustle of Vardengard, Praetorians, and Korvin. “We handle zis from here.”
142 and 139 relax slightly,
yet remain poised, ready to act instantly on their Master’s
command.
Korvin lets Lucille lean further against him, murmuring
softly, “You did well… stay with me.”
The Praetorian medic kneels
beside Lucille, assessing her wounds with practiced efficiency, while
Caepio and his squad move to secure the scene, taking in the chaos
with professional precision.
Tiberius steps fully into
the room, silent and commanding, a shadow of lethal grace that even
the fiercest Vardengard defer to without question. His eyes sweep
once more over the three captured traitors, the strewn books, the
damaged artifacts, and finally rest on Lucille again, unflinching.
“Explain everything,” he says, voice low, calm, but carrying weight of absolute authority. “Every detail. Begin with zis pup.”
142 inclines his head. “Master, she was brave beyond her years… she engaged them before we arrived, ja.”
Tiberius nods slightly,
silent, letting the words settle in the room. He turns his gaze to
Lucille, and though he says nothing further yet, the sheer weight of
his presence is enough to command respect, fear, and awe all at once.
