The last time the Guardian set foot inside the Bloody Palace had been nearly two-hundred years ago. A lot had changed since then; the hallways were lit with electric lights providing a steady glow and the leaky windows had been fixed, replaced with double-paned insulated glass.

It felt like a lie. Back then, the Butchers' manor felt ominous, befitting their grim occupants. Now it felt more like a hospital and they pretended they were healers. Only the hardwood floor that squeaked with every other step was evidence that it hadn't been a trick of his imagination.

Times changed, generations came and went, but they adapted. It wasn't that hard when everybody in the Big City already pretended the Sisters of Mercy didn't exist. Just when they were older and their bones were hurting and their lungs were rattling, they seemed to allow themselves to recall that there was an alternative.

It was not like that for the Guardian. Always on center stage. The mythical hero, the beacon of justice and objective truth. The Guardian. Everyone knew who he was. It was not a good thing or a bad thing, that was just the way. It was his calling.

And now, his calling led to him walking through the corridors and down the grand marble staircase in nothing but his underwear, accompanied by Elder Anne, the leader of the Sisters of Mercy.

At a distance that was deemed safe, a gaggle of sisters followed them. Even the Butchers were not above gossip and the famous Guardian treading the hallowed halls would surely send them into a chittering frenzy. Especially if said man's chiseled body was on display. They were Sisters of Mercy, not nuns.

Their procession led down into the underbelly of the Bloody Palace. There, at last, history seemed to have prevailed. The bare stone walls flickered with the orange glow of sconces. The arched ceiling was blackened from countless decades of soot.

It invigorated the Guardian. The deeper they descended into the heart, the more he felt the layers upon layers of magic baked into every stone. Not the clean, flawless power he drew upon but the Butcher's unique blend. Blood and pain and love and life and death and every other human emotion mixed together.

Walking down the staircase was like listening to an orchestra of humanity. The good and the bad. He reached out with his remaining hand, letting his fingertips graze the manually hewn limestone. The deeper they went, the warmer it got, nurtured by the fire inside the planet's core.

"Is everything alright, Master Guardian?" Elder Anne asked.

The Guardian blinked. They were already at the bottom of the staircase and he had just been standing there, listening to the sing-song of a housewife, laundering clothes in the spring. A breeze stirred the garments hanging on the clothesline, carrying the scent of mown grass and livestock. She had been so happy at that moment, entirely in the flow.

"I recalled why I do not like this place," the Guardian answered, scowling.

"And why is that?"

"Because you are keeping all these lives imprisoned here. Their memories. Trapped."

"And what would you have us do, Guardian?"

The argument was as old as time. Older than Elder Anne. Older than the Guardian himself, even. Is it okay to take a life to save many more? The sisters, at least, never took anyone who wasn't willing.

Not anymore.

The Guardian wondered how much of their own history Elder Anne knew. If anybody there did, it had to be her. He chose not to answer her question, for he did not have the answer.

At least, they reached their destination. Two Butchers were waiting for them at the heavy door, carrying lit oil lamps. Their eyes went wide at the sight of Elder Anne being trailed by a mostly naked man. The stench of magic was overwhelming. In a place like that, modern technology faltered.

Flanked by the sisters, they entered the cavern. The ceiling was low enough that the Guardian feared of hitting his head. Row upon row of sturdy oak bookcases, set into the rock itself. Ornately carved side panels inlaid with amber. One on each side, fifteen feet deep. Five rows were visible by the glow of the lantern, beyond that laid darkness. Records. Contracts. Last wills and testaments. The Butchers were meticulous in their bookkeeping.

A strange sensation overcame the Guardian. He felt something in the darkness but not anything he recognized. A sense of loss, almost.

They came upon a reading alcove, not much bigger than his room upstairs had been. A plain, wooden table with four chairs, standing on an olive carpet that looked to be well-worn. But what caught the Guardian's attention was what stood on the table. A bell jar, containing a gaunt, twisted limb.

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

It was his forearm. There was nothing familiar visible to the naked eye, but it yearned for him. Barely more than skin and bone. Waxy and sickly, stretched tightly over the skeleton. The flesh had been eaten away.

"Ah, I see you recognize it," Elder Anne said bemusedly.

"Why is it here?"

"It must be studied. We have yet to determine what caused the corruption, and... it is powerful. You have no idea what any of us give to be able to channel the blood of a Guardian."

"Ooh," sighed one of the lantern-bearers. "I'd be happy with just a fingernail."

One of his limbs used up for their magic? "I do not give my permission," he said gravely.

"Wouldn't do much good even if you did. We can't even touch it without suffering from terrible nightmares for days. Not your fault, of course."

Drawn to it, the Guardian reached out for the bell jar. His fingertips touched the reinforced glass.

A spike of pain jolted through his nervous system. Enormous, glowing eyes focused their intense gaze on him. Cold as ice, burning with the intensity of an entire galaxy.

YOU'RE ALIVE.

Each syllable hit his head like a sledgehammer, reverberating inside of his skull until he wanted to scream and stab his ears.

----------------------------------------

The Guardian blinked. He was on the ground. It was cold. Five women stood in front of him, looking down with concern in their eyes. Their mouths were moving but only a buzz reached him. The young woman was there, too. Lia. When had she arrived? She clutched a stack of clothes to her chest.

Dazed, he reached to inspect his ear, remembering to use his left hand. It was wet to the touch and came back stained with crimson. With the help of two of the sisters, he stood up.

"Are you okay?" Elder Anne asked, muffled but comprehensible.

"Yes."

"What happened?" Lia asked.

"What did happen?" Elder Anne asked.

All the other faces seemed to ask the same question. What did happen? The Guardian did not know. Had it really been Hress? "Keep that thing safe," he said, nodding at his former arm. "Don't let anyone touch it."

"What did you see?"

Their conversation was interrupted by a flock of terrified, pale Butchers. They looked worse than he felt.

"Elder Anne, they're gone," the leading sister blurted out, bracing herself for a blow.

"What is gone?"

"The books. The Aaken Cycle. All of it. They're gone."

"What do you mean gone?" Elder Anne asked, rushing off toward the darkness with a speed that surprised even the Guardian.

All the Butchers looked around with fear in their eyes before rushing off after their leader. Even Lia, curious as always, turned to investigate the commotion.

"Are those for me?" the Guardian asked, placing a hand on her shoulder to keep from her darting off.

"Yes, Master Guardian," Lia said, proffering the pile of clothes. They were far from anything he was used to. A pair of jeans, red plaid shirt, and sneakers. "I'm sorry, it's the best I could do on short notice. We never host anyone of your stature."

It was better not to ask where exactly the clothes had come from, though he had a very strong suspicion. Doing it one handed was a struggle but he refused Lia's offer of help. Sooner or later, he would have to dress himself anyway and he welcomed the challenge.

Always conquer your shortcomings. The Guardian did not cut and run.

"What happened to your ear?" Lia inquired, showing not even a pretense of modesty.

"What do you know of that?" he deflected, gesturing at the bell jar.

"Ooh, isn't it fantastic?" Lia squealed with eagerness. "It's so powerful, isn't it? I don't know if you can tell, can you? I get all tingly inside just looking at it. The spells one could cast with it..."

The fervor with which the Butcher spoke reminded him of an addict in the middle of a high. It was fascinating to watch. The woman seemed to have almost forgotten him, staring longingly at the bell jar. She leaned forward and one her hands slid up her body to cup her breast.

He cleared his throat and Lia jumped so high she nearly hit her head on the cavern's ceiling. Her face turned as red as her hair.

"It's... powerful," she mumbled.

"It's dangerous."

"It's worth it," Lia countered, grinning.

"Ah, the folly of youth, little Butcher."

Lia's smile was instantly wiped off of her face. She scrunched up her nose and glowered at the Guardian, advancing toward. "Do. Not. Call. Me—"

"Guardian," Elder Anne spoke loudly, interrupting them. She walked on steady feet and her face portrayed no emotion. It was only through the Guardian's lifetime of experience that he could read the deep and profound fear in every one of her actions. "It seems as though the matter is much more serious than I anticipated."

"The books?"

"They're gone," the proud woman admitted and her shoulders sagged. "Irreplaceable tomes. Notes. Studies by Sisters of history. Taken by... someone."

It was only the slightest of hesitations before the word but the Guardian knew what she had meant. Taken by a Sister. Someone who knew what was in the archive, acting at a critical moment in history. There was a traitor in their midst.

"It is now more important than ever that you recover quickly from your injuries. You must go and lie down, we need you healthy," Elder Anne continued, putting on a calm tone.

"I must defend the city," he said, jaw locked.

"And how are you going to do that?" she snapped, her veneer of composure eradicating.

"I am the Guardian."

Elder Anne whirled around and snatched a heavy, leather-bound tome off the shelf. She hurled it at the Guardian, putting her entire body into the action. It was not a move he had anticipated but he had defended himself against worse.

Calmly, he reached for the book, snapping it out of the air. It thumped against his chest anyway, knocking the wind out of him. It was the wrong arm.

"Is that the kind of protection you offer Big City?" Elder Anne derided.

"I don't think the citizens are in any danger of flying books."

Elder Anne's eyes bulged and she looked like she wanted to strangle him. In his current condition, she might even have been able to accomplish it. The anger faded and she massaged her temple. "I will not let you leave here vulnerable as a lamb. Give me five minutes and I will prepare a delegation of the finest Sisters to keep you safe."

There was no possibility of the Guardian leaving the palace in tow with a gaggle of doting wannabe wizards. Yet Elder Anne might just have been the one person in all of Big City stubborn enough to do that whether he wanted it or not.

"Fine. I'll take the pipsqueak," the Guardian said, pointing at Lia.

While Elder Anne still spluttered and Lia looked around wildly, trying to figure out what just happened, the Guardian turned on his heel and strode in the direction whence they arrived.

Ten seconds later, he heard the pitter patter of a young woman's feet, hurrying to catch up.