Eskir's eyes shot down to hide on the floor.

The man wasn't holding a cane, he didn't have grey hair, and his skin was smooth and free of wrinkles. Anyone with eyes would think he wasn't old at all, but a middle-aged man still in the spry of his life. But there was something about him, some quality. I lowered my eyes too.

"It has been some time," he said. "A year, at least. I am glad to see you, even... not whole. And who is our guest?"

My name broke from my lips like a river bursting through a dam. Violent and untempered. "Xera."

"Kindred." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

"Ah, and that ring. Royal guard, too. I had heard that most of the others were lost. I am glad you have yours. It kept my friend alive. You kept my friend alive."

He stepped towards us. Every pace he made, I felt through my spine, some creeping unease. I half-expected him to slam me in the stomach with a hidden dagger, but he didn't. Instead, he rested his hand on my shoulder.

"Thank you."

"Hello again," murmured Eskir. "I'm sorry, it's been awhile. I'm n—not used to this anymore. Talking to you. And I've had some recent experiences."

I wasn't following the man's gaze, but his feet shifted. "Were you followed?" he said sharply.

"No." Eskir's voice was firm.

"Are you sure?"

"I am."

"She's here," he nodded towards me, then gestured to my ring. His eyes were grey, like frosted steel. He broke away from us, walking back to the threshold that connected our room to the rest of the sprawling maze.

"Well," he said, "welcome to the Athenaeum. I would assume Eskir intends to keep you here for a bit, until you've had a moment to look around."

The look he gave us was almost playful, like he was teasing Eskir for not being remotely subtle about his intentions. The man hadn't been fooled. He knew I was here for the truth.

I didn't even wait for him to leave. My eyes darted across the bookshelves, scanning for a pattern in the titles that might give away what they all had in common, but I found nothing. There were fairy tales and history books, books on road construction and others on the old war and its enemy. On the table, stacked on tomes and papers beneath it, an article in a newspaper was laid out facing the ceiling, 'The Fifty Two: Resource Analysis of Avengard's Linguistic Spellcrafting.' Another was titled, 'New Advancements In Magic Crafting Promise a Reinvention of Objective Wards.'

"Xera," said Eskir, "this is the Archivist."

"Fancy title," I said. "Bit of a giveaway outside though. Secret organisation. A man named the Archivist. And there's a giant blue gem on the door."

"Not when no one can find it," said the Archivist.

"We found it."

"You followed the lights. You never would have been able to do that if Eskir hadn't had one on him. Crafty, sneaking that out." He saw the look on Eskir's face and laughed. "Oh, I won't take it. I understand why they stole your voice, but I don't like it. And I gave them hell for it. None of them are allowed back in the archives, except to bring new collections."

Eskir's lip twitched. "They still stole it."

If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

"Maybe one day, you'll get it back." The Archivist gave a small nod and left, leaving us to the cataloguing room.

"Something's wrong with his eyes," I said as soon as I was confident he was far enough away.

"His eyes?" asked Eskir. He was half here, half lost in the books surrounding us.

"Tell me I'm not crazy. They just feel... off."

"I've never noticed anything," he said.

"You're hiding something."

He forced out a fake laugh. "Oh, obviously. Stolen voice and all that."

I looked back to the archway. "He's hiding something."

"We're all part of the same organisation. You know that out already."

"You do know what he's hiding," I accused. "Your voice is the only thing stopping you from telling me. You don't have to lie. You have the option of staying quiet. What, you never noticed those eyes? How off-putting they are?"

Eskir held back his breath. "... not this time, Xera. This time I do actually have a voice. But I won't tell you. Some things shouldn't be said. If it bothers you, just don't look in his eyes. I couldn't bring myself to even look in his direction for the first two years."

"You studied here?" I gaped. "For two years? In a sewer?"

"Five years," he corrected. "And I lived here. There are faster ways in and out though. We came in through the main entrance. You don't usually have to go through the sewers."

"Is that where we're going next? Out one of the back doors? Everywhere we've been, it never stops. Doesn't slow down, does it? Is the next stop more normal?"

"This was meant to be the first stop," he said. "I didn't expect to go through what we did to get here. No, there's nothing from here. Not until you find some sort of answer." He caught the dance of light in my eyes and corrected himself. "You won't find all the truth, Xera."

"You're telling me that in all this, there's no answer? How Senvia vanished? How your voice was stolen? Who you people are?"

"The answer is here. But look at these books. Just in this room, how long do you think it would take you to read them? The Archivist has spent decades here, and he's barely scratched the surface. Our goal is to research. We're looking for a truth too, and these books, the hope is that they hold pieces of it. You won't find any answers stated so bluntly, not here."

I scoffed. "So you're saying nobody's ever written down what you've found? All this research and what, you're passing it along by word of mouth?"

He shook his head. "It's written down. But you'll never find those pages. Some are written in code. Some are stated bluntly, but hidden. Even if you did find them, look at how many of these books are fiction. Would you believe it, if you really saw it?"

I pulled one of the books of fiction from the shelf. It was grimy, not dusty. A thin layer of oil taped a collection of muck to its outside, which had been smeared by dainty fingers plucking it from its former home. "If the fiction were removed."

"How? Do you know some make-believe spell that can whisk away everything fictional? And what about fables, or apologues, or stories written to reference reality?"

"I just mean, if it were. Would I know the truth when I see it? How big of a truth is this?"

He didn't answer.

"Damn it Eskir, I just want to know the scale."

"I can't."

"Why Senvia? You collect books, fine. What does annihilating a city do for you? Senvia had books in it too, millions of them. Are you saying that not a single one of them had value to you?"

Still, he didn't speak.

I pulled at my hair in frustration. "TELL ME! What did a single city do to you? What, because it was the capital of the empire? So this is against the empire, is that it? You're out here collecting books to overthrow an empire? Don't be so delusional, Eskir. A single Kindred sorcerer with a bit of magic, your wards won't hold up. This place would burn. So you keep it a secret, but all that knowledge is useless if you never share it, you—" I stopped, heaving my chest.

"And she realises," he mutters. "Finally, she realises what they did to me."

"You were planning on talking."

"If it stopped them from annihilating a city, yes. And you're right. This place would have burned. Not Kindred. They would have called in Deacons to make sure not a single page survived."

"That's..."

Eskir sighed. "You are the greatest threat to have ever set foot in these halls, Xera. You were one of the imperial guard. One word from you, and this place burns."

"So this place..." I looked up and stared out into the archives. Thousands and thousands of books, an uncountable, unfathomable number. Pages I wouldn't have been able to read if I'd had a thousand years to live. Government, religion, the old gods, all of it. "... it was a threat."

Eskir stepped up beside me and looked out at the archives as well. His voice sounded older, more tired than I had ever heard it before. "The Senvian Empire's oldest enemy."