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Awenar: Spellcraft
Shroud of Dust

Shroud of Dust

Hageawn stepped onto the bridge, the stream gurgling and splashing beneath it. He cocked an eyebrow; from where he stood, unless someone was gazing directly at the bridge, they wouldn’t see him. He didn’t want to be seen. The Archons were like pixies, hiding just out of sight, ready to spring the trap of miscellaneous tasks that had been piling up on their desks on some unsuspecting initiate. He knew their tricks all too well, and they no longer had any effect on him.

He crossed the bridge and smoothly entered the tower, hugging the wall. For this and every other time, Hageawn was grateful for his dusty robes, which allowed him to blend into the crevices of the unswept tower.

Quietly, he slipped past the guards on duty. Like him, they were mortal fae, their senses too dull to notice his presence. A grin tugged at his lips as he watched their eyes sweep blankly over the walls, oblivious. The temptation to toy with them surfaced—maybe a faint noise to send them scurrying like startled pixies—but he dismissed the thought. Unnecessary. If they were put on alert, his chances of being seen would only increase.

As he moved beneath the floating orbs of light, he adjusted his posture, shrinking into their glow to cast shadows that wouldn’t betray him as fae.

The atrium was quiet, its usual echoes softened by the late hour. Perfect. He moved through without slowing, his steps light, his breaths steady. The library wouldn’t be locked—it never was—and he couldn’t stop the rush of anticipation that bubbled up as he neared the corner. Just a little farther. With any luck, the place would be empty, and he could slip into his usual corner unnoticed.

It wasn’t long before he reached the door, his heart hammering as he pushed it open. The great wooden frame creaked, the sound splitting the silence like a sharp crack. His breath hitched, and he froze, listening. Footsteps echoed faintly in the distance, but he couldn’t tell if they belonged to the guards or if someone had heard the door scraping against the stone. He couldn’t risk waiting any longer. Slipping through the narrow gap, he pressed his back against the wood and heaved it shut, the muffled scrape setting his teeth on edge.

In this moment, it felt like the door had sealed him off from the rest of the tower, leaving only him and this sanctuary of knowledge. His body felt light, and he couldn’t help but bounce on the balls of his feet, energy bubbling beneath his skin. Tall shelves stretched endlessly, every inch packed with books and scrolls. His fingers trembled as he ran them across the spines, savoring the feel of leather, cloth, and the crisp rustle of parchment.

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He didn’t mind the dust that tickled his nose or the fine layer that settled onto his robes. Titles blurred past his eyes as he reached out blindly, grabbing as many books as his arms could hold. The weight didn’t bother him—he was already hurrying to his corner.

It was well hidden, a small hollow space between the farthest shelves. Only a child could squeeze through, and it had become his haven. The pendant around his neck glowed softly, casting its gentle light across the cramped space. He lifted it to his lips, kissing its cracked surface with quiet gratitude before setting it gently atop the open book in his lap.

The glow from the pendant cut through the gloom of his little nook, creating ripples of light on the pages. The confined space between the bookshelves was suffused with the warmth of the light, a quiet sanctuary amidst the dimness of the tower. The cool air, filled with the scent of dust and old parchment, seemed to shift around him as he held the pendant closer.

The words on the page seemed to pulse under its light, sharp and clear. Hageawn didn’t skim; he devoured them, his mind pulling together fragments of ideas like stitching pieces of a quilt. Names, places, spells—some familiar, others strange—wove into a tapestry of knowledge. Time melted away as he read. The hunger gnawing at his stomach faded into the background, a dull echo easily ignored.

When he finally turned the last page, a pang of regret twisted in his chest. He lingered on the book’s worn cover before placing it beside him. His fingers drifted over the titles on the next stack, his eyes scanning for something promising. His hands paused on a particular spine, a threadbare tome bound in faded green. He pulled it free and opened to the first page.

“The Lost Depths of Wyrlic Cave and Hold,” he whispered aloud. “Few records remain of its true nature, though stories of a hidden birthplace for the Great Wyrms linger in shadowed corners of history. Many have sought it, believing its secrets to be the source of their unmatched strength, but those who searched rarely returned. Of those few, many proved false, their claims unraveling under scrutiny.”

Hageawn tilted his head, his brow furrowing. Wyrlic Cave and Hold—it was familiar, though faintly. Hadn’t he come across the name in one of the tower’s older scrolls? Something about the Great Wyrm Wyrvos, and his warning to the world: Leave its secrets hidden.

His breath hitched as his eyes moved over the next lines. Even as Wyrvos rose to greatness, he spoke little of the cave’s true nature. What lay within its depths, and how it birthed such majesty, remains a mystery.

The words stirred something deep in his chest. Why would the library keep such an obscure tome? His fingers tightened on the edges of the book. It felt heavier in his hands, as if the pages held more than just words.

His thoughts spun. If the Wyrms had truly drawn their strength from this cave, what did that mean? Did it still exist, hidden somewhere in Awenar’s wilderness? And why had it been forgotten?

He exhaled slowly and shut the book for now. He didn’t need every answer tonight. For now, he just needed to read—absorb, learn, and prepare for the day the pieces fell into place.

Not long after he’d grabbed a nearby scroll on sigils, glyphs, and runes, a gentle rhythm of breathing began to fill the hidden nook. The soft sound mingled with the faint rustle of the pages as his head dipped forward. Moments later, quiet snores puffed against the open book near his face, the glow of his pendant casting a faint warmth over the words he had yet to read.