Cira found herself in the Village of the First Mark, inside a small cabin made of filled bookcases, sitting on a stool which doubled as another bookcase with a frown on her face. With each book she skimmed through the grumbles escaping her lips only grew in severity.

  …and when sweeping a long hallway, it is important to take extra care with any corner downwind from an exterior doorway or window, as dust will collect in these places with a much higher propensity—

  “Why do these books keep getting worse?!” Cira set it down and audibly scowled.

  “Shhh!!” A man easily twice her age turned around from his spot on the floor with a nasty look on his face, “Some of us are trying to read.”

  The potency of his rage was enough to wipe the look off Cira’s face and she turned away feeling embarrassed as the others in the hut tried not to look.

  This village is larger than that damn archive, so why is every book more pointless than the last? There’s no way I’m the only one experiencing this. There were four others in this cabin besides Cira—the others she checked were even more crowded. Glancing across the crowd, Cira read the titles of their books.

  ‘Artists of the Early Modern Era’, ‘Basket Weaving Techniques to Teach Your Grandchildren’, ‘Mana Bereft Wildlife of the Sunset Skies’, ‘A History of Fire Magic’s Cultural Impact’.

  Two or three of those admittedly sounded pretty boring to Cira, but each person reading them was doing so as diligently as if they were tomes containing lost sorcery. While any one of those books sounded better than ‘The Immaculate Arts of Housekeeping’, Cira was beginning to think her approach was wrong.

  Okay… This next book, I will read cover to cover. No matter what. Last time she made an uncompromising promise to herself, she ended up face to face with a dragon and the island crumbled. She thought to herself, it won’t be so bad this time.

  She reached toward the ceiling and withdrew a book from its shelves, then took a step outside to read under the sun. It would be a long day, after all, so it was best to get comfortable. She popped up on a little cloud and checked the title of the book that was her destiny to read.

  “The Immaculate Arts of Housekeeping…” Cira deflated.

  She most certainly had not put the book away in the shelves above her. This book was being forced upon her by whatever mysterious power was responsible for this village’s workings. Fine then…

  Chapter one: Success or Failure as Dawn Breaks

  Any housekeeper’s challenge begins at the rooster’s first call. As light begins to seep in the shudders, every feather in your duster and bristle in your broom must be meticulously inspected. If anything is amiss with your tools, it is your responsibility to correct before the sun rests fully over the horizon. Even a single tear in your dampest cloth may wear down the strongest varnish unevenly if left in disrepair.

  Cira cleared her mind of negative thoughts and hunkered down. She would squeeze every ounce of wisdom from these pages if it was the last thing she did. And that she did until well after the sun went down, but Prismagora allowed her to continue. Some readers were upset as they wanted to sleep, but others used her light to continue their pursuits.

  Likewise, there were a few more groups like hers and those who needed rest ended up inside the bookshelf cabins. It seemed fire was not allowed here, but there was still a dotting of light mages. Many had bags under their eyes, but determination burned within them like flames. Moreso than those earlier in the day.

  These people wanted to sleep. As much was clear in the unsteady gazes, but Cira could see their desire for wisdom was stronger. Some faces, she could count the wrinkles and wondered just how many had formed in pursuit of the first mark. After so many decades, she couldn’t blame them for minimizing the amount of time they had to be unconscious.

  As she peered into one old man’s eyes, she was reminded of Yotan the artificer. He was nearing the end of his life, sure, as was this man. It was unclear if he would have time to find any further marks, and what purpose was a life spent buried in books if he died before using that knowledge?

  But the subtle joy she felt from him as his grin grew or fell following the text somehow resonated with Cira. He just looked happy to be here. It was a pursuit of wisdom in its purest form. Whether he did anything with it or not was inconsequential. He simply wanted to unravel the mysteries of this world. If anything, perhaps he could pass it on in his own words once he had enough of it.

  Would that book find its way into the archive too? I wonder, what would it say? Whatever would a man like that write about? Perhaps an academic textbook on his favorite subject, or would it be a collection of philosophical musings? Would there even be sufficient events to fill the autobiography of a man who lived his life with his face buried in one book or the other?

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  Cira put the third volume of ‘The Immaculate Arts of Housekeeping’ back on its shelf and started scanning the surrounding books to find her next when the entire village was bathed in an eerie purple light. The way it seeped through the shelves to illuminate the sleeping readers was almost like holy mana, or even Connie’s curse of Continuance.

  Most people seemed to have glanced up from their books with awe and excitement. Following their collective gaze, Cira found that same old man. He hovered in the air as the light coalesced around him, swirling in trails until disappearing into his chest. As he fell back to the ground, a whole heap of mages were there to catch him. Book in hand so as not to lose their place, countless readers surrounded him with cheers, even pulling bottles of wine out of storage rings and lifting the old man on their shoulders.

  Never letting his own book go, the laughter bubbling up from him was palpable with relief and a happiness so pure she would think he just earned his youth back.

  “What’s happening?” Cira asked the nearest person who hadn’t got up right away, a woman a few years her senior with just a couple gray hairs. “What was that light?”

  While it seemed she didn’t want to be interrupted, even this woman was overjoyed, “What you just witnessed was a bestowal of the first mark.” A hearty laugh left her lips.

  “Is it… always like this?” They lowered the man down and set him at a table, pouring wine for him and themselves while a team of light mages worked together to make a shimmering canopy for all to gather around.

  “To some degree, yes.” The woman smiled at her, “But they say Old Man Roberts has been here longer than anyone. He once told me, ‘I’ll never receive my marks if I’m not ready to die in this village.’”

  A smile found its way to Cira’s face too. His words perfectly matched that look in his eyes she witnessed. The old man was content to keep turning the next page even if he withered away right here.

  The mage beside her placed a bookmark and closed the cover, “If you’re new here, you should join in on the festivities. This only happens once every few months to a year.” The energy in this place felt completely different than Cira’s meeting with the arbiters. As fellows who pursued the first mark, everyone was happy to see their peer receive it. Perhaps it gave them hope, or they were just happy to see someone reaching that same wisdom they grasped for. “Come on, let’s go.”

  The mage pulled Cira by the bookless hand and led her to the table where wine poured like water from a spring. Roberts sat at the end of the table with a glass in each hand getting pat on the back by a small crowd.

  A stranger handed her a glass then wordlessly walked away pouring another.

  Hm… Don’t mind if I do.

  The wine was bitter and had a robust undertone that made her sinuses feel funny, but the flavor wasn’t so bad. It tasted refined, but also a little musty.

  “My, my. So, we have a new resident, after all.” She followed the silvery voice and came face to face with old man Roberts. “Didn’t I see you with Lady Eliza yesterday?”

  “You did indeed. I guess she was my dad’s friend.” She offered a slight curtsy because it felt appropriate after hearing the man speak. “Call me Cira.”

  None seemed to recognize that name, much to her relief. Apparently, these people hadn’t left in a while. Resident, huh?

  “My name is Roberts, but most just call me Old Man.” He chuckled and took another sip. “You know I wasn’t much older than you when I arrived here?”

  As absurd as it sounded that someone could spend upwards of eight decades reading from sunup to sundown, Cira sensed no lie in his words.

  “That’s… incredible.” She wasn’t sure what other word to describe it as, “And what book were you reading? You know, when you received the first mark?”

  At the very least, Cira thought it could point her in the right direction. Roberts thought the question comical and set down one glass to pull the book from his lap.

  “Take a look,” He laughed.

  “You’re kidding.” Cira went pale, “The Immaculate Arts of Housekeeping, Volume One…”

  The crowd all laughed, and one man even slung his arm over her shoulder dangling a bottle from his hand, “Haven’t you heard? Nothin’ and no one will help you succeed here but yourself.”

  She had actually heard that, now that he mentioned it. Gently removing his arm, she sipped down the wine.

  “You’re welcome to read it still if you like.” Roberts offered.

  “Just finished it this morning…” Cira let out a self-deprecating laugh, “But maybe I’m starting to get it.”

  I don’t have time to grow old in this place, but I need that first mark. I’m sure not everyone turns out like Roberts, but there’s something I’m not seeing. Did the archive place the mark in that book for him to toy with me? Interpreted otherwise, this could be a lesson.

  Cira didn’t know what a naturally occurring pocket realm was supposed to be—how it even made sense, rather. Furthermore, that such a location could hold trials beyond its bounds and lay marks upon people’s souls was beyond her.

  Even if she didn’t have decades, she could spare an evening to stew on it. In the meantime, she found herself wanting to celebrate Old Man Roberts’ achievement—or at least a lifetime of unfaltering effort.

  Cira conjured Prismagora and clacked it to the ground as two barrels appeared transfixed in the air, “Everyone listen up! To celebrate Old Man Roberts’ perseverance, I offer Elysian Draught. The finest ale from the second spring of Paradise!”

  Golden liquid flowed from their taps, shimmering with light as rivers flowed through the crowd.

  Another cheer ensued.

  “Paradise?!” One man cried.

  “Do you mean Eden Island?”

  “The true Elysian atoll?!” The woman from earlier asked, “You mean to say you’ve seen it?”

  “What was it like?” There were stars in Roberts’ eyes as a mug of ice condensed in front of him and filled with ale. After one sip, he looked up to the sky looking truly content.

  Cira regaled them with curated stories of her travels and heard tales of distant skies from her fellows of the village. The party prevailed long after the last bottle of wine emptied, and Cira ended up pulling out one more barrel of ale before the first spark of dawn arrived. Many were passed out with a book in their face and Roberts was in the same seat snoring like a dragon.

  She didn’t have all the time in the world to find the first mark, but she certainly had today. The bookshelves were looking a little wavy after such a long night, but Cira picked out her next book at random.

  “May these Bones Never Again See Light: Memoires of a Nameless Second Mark.”

  As if the archive had given her a gift, Cira found herself very interested in this book. The sun was hardly rising, and the lines would get straighter with time. Cira settled into her cloud with a nice big glass of water and turned the first page.