The City Grand Library was not a skyscraper, but its immense footprint sprawled across a city block, dwarfing even the Adventurer's Guild Hall. A three-story monument of polished granite and veined marble, it stood with an air of serene, unshakeable knowledge. The grounds before it were a meticulously curated garden, with sculpted hedges and quiet fountains—a prelude to the silence within.

  A librarian at the entrance, a woman in a long blue skirt and a crisp white blouse with a fan-shaped brooch, instructed them to leave their bags and weapons in a secure cloakroom. As they stepped inside, the scale of the place revealed itself. A vast, circular hall soared upward, dominated by a magnificent crystal chandelier suspended from a domed ceiling high above. A grand, sweeping staircase of dark, polished wood led to the upper floors. The ground level was a hive of quiet activity, with rows of sturdy wooden tables and chairs occupied by scholars, mages deep in research, and casual readers lost in novels.

  Eira, though she remained silent, could not contain her excitement. She practically vibrated on the spot, her eyes wide as saucers.

  “Whoaaa…hmmmmpppppffff…!” She forced the squeal of delight back down her throat, clapping her hands over her mouth. “This is beautiful.”

  “It is impressive,” Dain agreed in a hushed tone, steering her toward the main information desk.

  Eira’s feet itched to sprint up the grand staircase, but Dain caught her by the elbow. “Eira,” he said, his voice a low but firm warning that drew a few glances from nearby readers. Flushing, Dain offered a quick, apologetic bow to the room.

  “This isn’t your personal study,” he whispered sternly. “You can’t just run wild. There are rules here. Follow my lead.”

  “Sorry,” Eira mumbled, properly chastised.

  They approached the central desk, where a young librarian with her hair in a neat ponytail was taking a sip of hot tea, fogging up her round spectacles.

  “Welcome back, Mr. Monslayer!” she chirped before focusing on them.

  She paused, blinked, and then took her glasses off, wiping them clean on a small cloth. “Areeehh…? My apologies,” she said, her voice fading with embarrassment as she got a clearer look. “I thought you were someone else. You have a very similar… silhouette.”

  “Pppfffftttt!” Eira clapped a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.

  Dain’s ears turned a brilliant shade of red. “It’s… quite alright.”

  “Is this your first time here?” the librarian, whose nametag read ‘Emma,’ asked, recovering her professionalism.

  “Yes, Ms. Emma,” Eira said, beaming.

  Emma processed their library cards using their adventurer badges for identification. She then gave them a brief but thorough rundown of the library’s rules, the cataloging system, and the process for borrowing books. Dain, who knew it all already, listened with feigned ignorance, determined to maintain the charade that he and the mysterious "Monslayer" were not the same.

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  As they walked away from the desk, Eira leaned in close. “So this is where you stole all those books you used to bring me… Mr. Monslayer?” she teased, her voice a singsong whisper.

  “I am not a thief,” Dain hissed, his blush returning. “I borrowed them properly.”

  “What an upstanding citizen, Mr. Monslayer,” Eira continued, grinning wickedly.

  “Please. Stop.”

  They headed to the second floor, the domain of magical theory and spellcraft. They found an unoccupied table, where Dain sat with a thick, dusty tome, pretending to read while Eira flitted between the towering bookshelves like a hummingbird, occasionally whispering for Dain to reach a volume on a high shelf.

  A couple of hours later, Dain had succumbed to boredom, his head pillowed on his arms and a book laid over his face like a tent.

  “Dain, wake up!” Eira’s voice cut through his nap.

  He jolted upright, hope gleaming in his eyes. “Are we leaving?”

  “Not yet,” she said with a mischievous smirk. “But isn’t sleeping here against the rules? And you were the one who said we have to follow them.”

  “I… got dizzy,” Dain said weakly. “I hate reading a lot of words. You know that.”

  “Invalid excuse,” Eira retorted, though her eyes were kind. “Anyway, let’s go to the third floor. I want to look into medicine crafting and medical sources. Maybe we can find a clue about that illness. Help me search?”

  “What a pain…” Dain whispered under his breath.

  “It’ll be quick, I promise. We’ll be back at the apartment before dark.”

  “Alright, alright.”

  The third floor was quieter, the air smelling of old paper and dried herbs. As they turned into an aisle dedicated to advanced alchemical medicine, they nearly bumped into a familiar, slumped figure.

  “Mr. Zowell?” Eira gasped.

  The apothecary was sitting at a small table buried under a small mountain of books. He looked utterly drained, his eyes bloodshot and shadowed by deep, purple bruises of exhaustion.

  “Eira? Dain?” he said, looking up as if surfacing from deep water. “What are you two doing here?”

  “You look exhausted, Mr. Zowell. Are you alright?” Eira asked, her voice full of concern.

  “Yes. I’m fine,” he answered with a gentle smile, but the fatigue in his voice betrayed him.

  “How long have you been here?” Dain asked, his tone direct and serious as he stepped closer.

  “About… four hours ago?” Zowell replied with a strained smile.

  Dain placed a hand firmly on the table, his gaze intense. “You’ve been here since yesterday, haven’t you?”

  The forced smile finally crumbled from Zowell’s face.

  “What’s wrong?” Eira asked softly, pulling up a chair. “Is there anything we can do to help?”

  Zowell slowly closed the heavy book in front of him. A single tear traced a path through the dust on his cheek, then another, and then he broke. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking with silent, ragged sobs.

  Thinking quickly, Eira made a subtle gesture with her fingers, casting a faint, shimmering barrier of silence around their small corner to contain the sound.

  She gently placed a hand on his back, rubbing slow, comforting circles. Dain stood by, a steadying presence, his hand on Zowell’s shoulder. They didn’t press him with questions; they simply let him cry, offering the silent support he so desperately needed.