Chapter [27] – The Keeper’s Gaze
It was noon in Vireth Tal, though the Fifth Level knew the sun only by rumor…the light that reached it came filtered and softened, a pale reflection of what burned above. Even so, golden shafts cut through the narrow arched windows, casting long patterns of serpent-carved stone across the empty corridor. Dust motes danced in the hush, like tiny spirits called to bear witness to the passing of time, and to the footsteps of those who walked there.
On that day, the dust had visitors…footsteps rang like chimes upon the polished whitestone floor.
The young man moved with the grace of one accustomed to attention. Not tall, but elegant in stature, with golden hair that caught what little light there was and held it, a halo woven by blood and fate. His eyes, clear and blue as mountain sky after snowmelt, missed nothing, he wore a robe of white silk, finely cut, with a golden serpent embroidered from elbow to collarbone, looping around his neck like a guardian, and descending in a mirrored coil to the opposite arm…a prince’s garb, tailored to whisper power.
He had just come down from the Sky chambers, where only the king’s word could open doors and silence tongues. Now he walked alone, save for the echoes of his footsteps, toward the great ironwood door of the Archive.
Prince Auren Malrion, eldest son of the Serpent Throne, bearer of his father’s hopes and the whispers of the court, the bright star of Vireth Tal.
He reached for the iron handle, but before his hand touched it, the door opened with a soft groan. A tall figure stepped out, robes rustling like dry parchment. The door shut behind him with the weight of centuries.
“High Archivist Vaun,” Auren said, offering a formal incline of his head, though the smile on his lips held warmth.
The man was startled for a second, as if waking from a dream…Mereth Vaun was older than most dared guess, his skin weathered like old paper, his hair thin and white, though his spine still stood straight as a rod. His deep-set eyes, gray as river stone, blinked twice before recognition settled in…
“Your Highness,” he said, voice gravelled by disuse. “I did not see you there. What brings you to the Fifth, on so fine a day?”
Auren tilted his head slightly, as if the question itself amused him. The silence stretched…far above, the bells of the Third Level rang the hour, their chimes falling like soft rain.
“I have come seeking your help,” the prince said, his voice calm, yet holding a thin blade’s edge…“You know my interests well, do you not?”
Mereth Vaun did not sigh, but his breath caught for the briefest moment. He nodded, slow and deliberate. “Yes, Your Highness,” he said. “All too well.”
He knew what the boy…no, not a boy, not anymore…was truly after. Alchemy, they called it in polite circles, the transmutation of matter, the blending of essences. The druids had opened a door in this regard, long ago, their art of binding flesh with wood, or stone with living root, weaving forms that obeyed their will, had drawn the eye of scholars since the elder days. What had been meant as communion, a shaping in harmony with the world, had been dissected, studied, bent toward design. And now the prince was, unfortunately, the one carrying that banner forward, but into paths twisted from their purpose, into directions that smelled of ash and ruin. The prince’s curiosity did not dwell in lead becoming gold, nor in poultices or elixirs. No, he hungered for more ambitious fusions...he dreamt of living designs, of claws filled with venom, of sinew spliced and organs replaced. The fangs of a viper grafted to a panther’s paw, wings borrowed from a hawk sewn into the back of a wolf, theories that bent toward horror and experiments whispered of behind closed doors.
The results were seldom viable…the body rejected what it did not know. Glands failed to take root, muscle memory fought new forms…death was the usual outcome. But that had never dissuaded Auren, in fact, it only seemed to deepen his fascination.
The prince regarded Vaun with an almost predatory patience, his blue eyes steady, unblinking. When he spoke again, his words carried the calm of a blade poised above its mark.
“I have heard rumor of a book… ancient,” Auren said, his tone even, but edged with hunger. “A book on transmutation, filled with chimeras, real notes and sketches. Some whisper it is bound in leather, painted red with blood.” His eyes did not blink, cold and intent. “I had no idea such things were hidden within our own Archive…you’ve been holding out on me, High Archivist.”
Vaun’s lips thinned to a line. “And who has been telling you all this, Your Grace?”
Auren waved the question away, irritation flickering in his eyes like heat behind stained glass. “That is of no importance,” he said. “What matters is whether you have it.”
The Archivist said nothing at first. Silence ruled the corridor, long and solemn, broken only by the faint shifting of old beams in the walls, settling like tired bones.
He was a man of the Archive, sworn to keep what was buried, buried. But this was the prince, blood of the throne…to lie could mean disgrace, or worse, the loss of all he had spent a life guarding. Yet to reveal such a book...
At last, he inclined his head, grave and slow.
“We do, sire. Let me point you in the right direction.”
He turned without further word and pushed open the great ironwood door. The weight of it sighed across the stone as it opened, and cool air spilled out, thick with the scent of dust, ink, and secrets long sealed.
“Follow me.”
They walked in silence, their steps muffled by centuries of dust and layered stone. The Fifth Level had seemed modest from without, no more than a wing of forgotten tomes and legal scrolls, but within it stretched deep into the mountain’s heart. Vireth Tal had been carved from the cliffside long before living memory, and what the world saw on the surface was only a fragment of its true breadth. Narrow halls branched out into yawning passageways, cold and lined with books older than the kingdom itself.
Stone lanterns hummed faintly with light, their orange glow throwing long shadows across the polished floor as Mereth Vaun led the prince ever deeper.
Shelves rose around them like trees in a dead forest, silent and watching.
At last, after what felt like an age, they came upon a door unlike the rest. It gleamed, golden and tall, with carvings that shifted subtly in the light. Serpents intertwined with vines, eyes worked in hammered copper. The prince tilted his head, amusement curling the corner of his lips.
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“I did not know there was another section to the Archive,” he said. “So this is where you keep the good stuff…easy to remember, golden door and all.”
Vaun stopped short. “A misdirection,” he said, without turning “And a trap that still works… every time.”
Auren gave him a look that could have flayed skin, but said nothing.
The Archivist knelt with the stiffness of age and pulled at the edge of the thick carpet beneath them. With a nod, he gestured for the prince to step aside. When the path was clear, he lifted the corner to reveal a square trapdoor of dark iron, almost black, its hinges set flush with the stone.
From his belt, Vaun produced a ring of keys, wrought iron, each one carved with old runes. He found the right one by feel and turned it in the lock. The door creaked open, exhaling cool, dry air. Without another word, he descended the narrow ladder into the chamber below.
Prince Auren followed, his robe whispering against the stone.
The chamber beneath was circular, broad, and low-ceilinged. The walls were lined with tall black cabinets, each one etched with warning glyphs that shimmered faintly in the crystal light. Orange stones pulsed gently from sconces along the wall, their glow too soft to dispel the sense of dread that hung in the air like old incense. No titles, no labels, the secrets here were not meant to be browsed.
Vaun walked straight to one of the cabinets, placed his palm against its surface, and spoke a string of words so quickly they blurred into one another. The runes flared for an instant, then dimmed and the door opened with a reluctant groan.
Within sat a single book, its binding was thick leather, dyed red so dark it might have been soaked in blood. Chains had once held it closed, cut long ago. Vaun lifted it with care, as if it might bite, and turned to offer it.
Auren took it, his fingers brushing the ancient cover like a lover’s cheek.
“This place,” he said, eyes not leaving the book, “is full of treasures like this, isn’t it? Hidden away from mortal eyes…I would like to read them all.”
Vaun’s face remained unreadable. “Some of these texts are forbidden, my lord. Even touching them requires sanction from the Crown.”
Auren glanced up, his gaze like frost. “A formality, I’m sure. I’ll speak to Father later, no need to trouble him now.”
The Archivist gave a small smile, dry as old vellum: “As you say, shall I escort you to a reading desk, Your Highness?”
“No need,” the prince said, already turning. “I’ll find my own way.”
A word of advice, my prince,” Vaun said, his voice low, measured. “Tread carefully in these waters. They may give the impression of calm, but it is in calm waters that men most often let their guard down… and drown.”
The prince scoffed at his words. Without another glance, he climbed the ladder, the red book pressed tight against his chest as if it might vanish with a breath. His footsteps echoed once, twice, then faded into the dark corridor beyond, leaving only the hush of the Archive and the weight of what he carried.
Mereth Vaun lingered a moment longer in the circular room, staring at the now-empty cabinet.
Then he ascended, locked the trapdoor with practiced ease, and smoothed the carpet flat once more.
No dust stirred…no trace remained.
Auren walked alone through the Archive’s long corridors until he reached the main chamber once more, where columns stretched like ancient trees into a vaulted ceiling high above. The air smelled of old parchment and polished stone, quiet as a tomb and twice as heavy.
The central floor was dotted with desks, wide and worn smooth by generations of scholars, scribes, and secret-keepers. Light streamed in through narrow stained-glass slits high along the far wall, painting serpent shapes across the floors in red and gold. No footsteps echoed here…no voices stirred.
He chose a desk near the center, away from the doors, away from the corners where shadows gathered thickest.
He settled into the chair and laid the red-bound tome before him. The leather cover seemed almost to breathe, light glimmering faintly along its ridges as if the blood it had once drunk had never truly dried. He let his fingers linger across it…three shallow indentations marred the surface, set in a small triangle, like eyes half-closed in watchfulness. Slowly, his hand slipped into the pocket of his white robe. From within, he withdrew a small wooden box no larger than his palm. The lid bore the markings of a Resonance Box, its surface traced with clusters of burnished runes, each one part of the old courier seals, known only to nobles and whisperers of war. He glanced around the chamber, his blue eyes scanning every arch and corner…no movement, no witnesses, only the cold stone.
With practiced fingers, he opened the book and flipped through its pages in swift, silent turns, stopping on the nineteenth. The script was cramped, scrawled by a hand either mad or genius, perhaps both. Diagrams danced across the parchment in ink that had faded to rust. The prince slipped off one of his bracelets and with a pin pricked his finger, letting a single drop of blood fall upon the page. It vanished the instant it touched the parchment, and the diagrams began to stir, shifting as though alive. Auren read only a moment before pulling a slip of vellum from beneath the desk. He scribbled quickly, eyes darting back to the page once, then twice. No more than a few lines, no more than what was needed.
He folded the slip, pressed it into the wooden box, and closed the lid with a faint click.
For a heartbeat, nothing, then the runes on the clasp glowed, a soft silver flash, and faded.
Auren opened the box again.
Inside was a new slip, folded once, a curl of smoke still trailing from the corners.
He snatched it, unfolded it, and read.
His eyes narrowed, lips parting in a silent exhale. There was no surprise in his expression, only hunger, and something colder beneath it…anticipation.
He folded the new slip and tucked it into the inside of his sleeve.
The red book remained open on the table, its diagrams sprawled like entrails waiting for interpretation.
