Daphne had always thought she could never love anything more than her own characters. They were like her children. She delighted in their idiosyncrasies and advocated fiercely for their welfare. Of course, the stories and characters of other authors took up plenty of space in her heart and mind, but the prime real estate always belonged to her own imagination’s offspring.

But the moment the owner of the Daydream stepped into the light of the cavern, Daphne knew she had been wrong. She had not created this character. Sure, it existed in her world, but that world had already provided ample evidence of just how far it had grown beyond her. She could take no credit for any part of this individual.

And she loved him, instantly, with her whole heart.

This was an ancient male griffin, the oldest Daphne had encountered thus far. The feathers and fur were a mottled patchwork of white and gray. His white head plumage seemed perpetually puffed out, making it seem like he had smoke coming out of his ears. He had a gleaming word-chain wrapped around its chest and wielded a basher in one gnarled talon. Even from across the cavern, Daphne felt the piercing gaze of keen eyes glaring at her through thick spectacles perched on the griffin’s nose. He looked like an absent-minded professor who had taken up war as a hobby, then gotten lost on the way to the battle.

It was, quite simply, the most gorgeous thing Daphne had ever seen.

“I love him,” she whispered.

“Aha!” The old griffin had spotted Bjarni, who was still struggling to get back on his feet after falling into the channel. The professor-warrior pointed his basher accusingly at the younger griffin. “Intruder! What right hast thou to enter these hallowed halls? Stand and give an account of thyself, miscreant!”

“Miscreant?!” Bjarni tried to stand, tripped over his own still-waterlogged wings, and fell back into the channel.

“And now thou hast the nerve to sully the Eloquent Water with thy foul hide?” The old griffin flapped his wings, actually lifting off the ground in his righteous wrath. “Intruder! Thou hast no right to —”

“What right?” Bjarni splashed about in the water, sputtering and indignant. “What right hast thou to lay traps, and make demands?”

The old griffin hovered over Bjarni, raising his basher. “Thou cad! I shall —”

“We were led by the Lore-light!”

Runar’s commanding voice rang across the cavern, stopping both the older and the younger griffin in their tracks.

“The Lore-light?” The change in the gray-white griffin’s voice was striking. It was still gruff with suspicion, but there was an undercurrent of wistfulness that went right through Daphne’s heart. “What dost thou know of the Lore-light?”

“The Wordsmith summoned it!” Bjarni finally managed to clamber out of the Eloquent Water. He stood at the edge, dripping and glaring up at his still hovering elder. “She called it forth with her bare hands, through the power of triunity. And thou darest to call us intruders?”

The ancient griffin soared across the cavern, landing with surprising agility by Daphne and Runar. His keen eyes were almost overwhelming at close range.

“Triunity?” he echoed, directing that inescapable gaze from Runar to Daphne, then back again.

“We three are on a quest,” Runar explained. “I am Runar, a Lorist. This is Daphne, a Wordsmith. My brother, Bjarni, is a Reader. We represent the restoration of triunity in Euloban.”

“A noble quest,” the old griffin muttered. “However hopeless.”

“We were traveling by ancient prose-shaft from the mountains,” Runar continued. “Our aim was to rejoin the Lorist Way, but we encountered a foe in the tunnels, and were driven off-course. The Wordsmith summoned Lore-light to defeat that foe. ’Tis a deed she hath accomplished many times. Euloban hath even rewarded her with a special skill.”

The old griffin’s gaze sliced briefly and inquiringly towards Daphne.

“Loresmith,” she squeaked. Then she cleared her throat and tried again. “My status book says it’s a Loresmith skill. I can sometimes pull word-power from carvings and such.” Impulsively, she gave a shy wave. “Also, hi. Nice to meet you.”

“She is not limited to carvings!” Bjarni flapped awkwardly across the room, soggy but determined to make this cranky old guard fully aware of Daphne’s accomplishments. “The Wordsmith pulled word-power from the stomach of a Rabid Daydream. While bound by the living dirt, she summoned fire from the very air, and it burned the monster away!”

“The Wordsmith drew upon our combined abilities,” Runar added calmly. “Her victory awakened a power that enabled my brother and I to defeat another dirt-creature. Immediately following that battle, the Wordsmith touched the bare rock of the tunnel wall, and light appeared — living light, carving itself across the stone. That light illuminated a way through the tunnels, and led us hither.”

“Led thee where?” the old griffin asked. “What was thy entry point into these halls?”

Runar turned, indicating the small cavern behind them. “The tunnel ended in a door, which opened into this room. The door hath vanished now. It was there, between those shelves.”

Without a word, the gray-white griffin brushed past them. He scampered into the cavern, examined the smooth stone wall where the door had been, then scampered back to Daphne and Runar.

“I knew it!” He actually danced in his glee, talons clicking against the rocky ground. “I knew the ancient tunnels connected to these halls somehow! By all the Legends, I was right!”

Bjarni was now staring at the older griffin, his beak hanging open. “Who art thou?” he asked.

The ancient creature did one more jig, accompanied by a raucous, very undignified crow of triumph. Then he spread his wings, smiling broadly at the trio.

“I am Gjurdok. Lorist, scribe, guardian of the Under Library.” The Daydream ambled up to the group, having taken a leisurely walk around the edge of the cavern. Gjurdok ruffled the tiny monster’s ears affectionately. “And this is Torfinn, my faithful companion. We have served Euloban together for many a long year, have we not, my friend?”

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Torfinn bleated contentedly. Daphne felt like her heart might combust from an overload of cuteness.

“Served Euloban?” Bjarni’s voice was incredulous. “What service couldst thou render here?”

“Forgive my brother,” Runar said, shooting Bjarni a reproving glance. “He is young. But I must confess my own amazement at thy presence here, and my curiosity. We have always been told that our kin fled these halls after the failed assault on the Wordmaster’s fortress. I thought no one remained in the Under Library.”

Gjurdok snorted. “It is true enough. Even before that disaster, our numbers were shrinking. Not many had the stomach to linger in these halls once the first Devouring Winds began tearing through. When news of the resistance’s failure reached us, the few remaining guardians took to the Lorist Way, fleeing to the mountains and wailing like a pack of infant Daydreams.”

Torfinn gave an indignant bleat.

“No offense intended, my friend.” Gjurdok bowed to his pet. “Thou art braver far than many griffins of my acquaintance.”

“Yet thou didst not flee?” Runar prompted.

“How could I leave the Under Library to the ravages of that scoundrel?” Gjurdok’s smoke-cloud head plumage puffed out even further in outrage at the very idea. “Someone had to stay behind. Torfinn and I knew this, even if my craven kin did not.”

“How hast thou survived?” Bjarni asked, his anger melting to hero worship before Daphne’s eyes. “What about the Devouring Winds?”

“Barricaded myself in the oldest sections, of course,” Gjurdok replied. “The enemy forces are, indeed, abroad in the Under Library. Not only the Winds, but the accursed Wordmages. They have taken many whole sections, and are constantly searching, but they have not yet discovered half the secrets these halls contain. Even if they found the way down to these parts, I would have ample warning of their approach.”

“The alarms.” Runar looked at the arch by which they had entered the main cavern, wincing at the memory of the noise-deluge Bjarni’s passage had unleashed. “Thou hast them set at every entrance? What is their mechanism?”

“Variation upon the shield guarding the prose-shafts,” Gjurdok said. “This kind allows anyone to pass through, but gives an alert if the entrance words are not used. ’Tis easier than the traditional shield, and thereby more sustainable in great quantities.”

“So thou hast guarded the oldest, most sacred lore of our kin for over a year?” Bjarni’s voice was full of wonder. “Alone?”

Torfinn gave another bleat.

“Not alone, young one.” Gjurdok patted the Daydream’s head, then gazed around the large, peaceful cavern in satisfaction. “Torfinn and I have made peace with our lot. If we can keep Euloban’s secrets out of the so-called Wordmaster’s tainted grasp, ’tis worth all our effort. It is worth any sacrifice, no matter how great.”

“Thou said his forces were searching,” Runar said. “Dost thou know why, or for what? I thought the Wordmaster sought only destruction.”

“That fluff-headed cretin?” Gjurdok’s tail cracked like a whip, the sound echoing sharply around the cavern. “Conquest is all his puny imagination can conceive. He seeks not to destroy Euloban, but to dominate it. Therefore, he is reluctant to waste anything that could aid his cause, and terrified of missing something that could harm it. Hence the Wordmages. They appeared after the first vanguard of Devouring Winds drove out my kin. I spied upon them for a while in those early days, before retreating to the older sections. They would only unleash a Devouring Wind upon a cavern after carefully inspecting it themselves.”

Runar’s face was grave. “They seek power. The might of the Great Story, preserved in the lore of Euloban.”

“Like the Cleansing Flame!” Bjarni’s plumage brightened, as it always did when he discussed his favorite subject. “They seek the greatest legend of our kin, that they may use that power against us.”

Daphne sighed. “So they had the same thought we did.”

“Thou ventured hither in search of the Cleansing Flame?” Gjurdok asked.

Runar nodded. “The plight of Euloban is dire. We are seeking anything that might help turn the tide. It is only too sensible that the Wordmaster would be bent on the same quest.”

“But we shall forestall them!” Bjarni’s talons began their excitement-drum against the rocky ground. “And we shall find it first!”

“Thou cannot find it,” Gjurdok said, his voice suddenly sad. “Or, rather, thou can. I know where it is and shall show thee. But thou will not be able to reach it. No one is.”

For some reason, Daphne’s stomach turned to ice. “What do you mean?”

“Come.” Without another word, Gjurdok turned, setting off around the cavern at a brisk pace.

“Wait!” Daphne hurried to catch up, Bjarni and Runar hot on her heels. “You’re going to help us, just like that? You trust us?”

Gjurdok’s pace did not waver. “Should I not?”

“No — I mean, yes, you should, but —” Daphne’s mind filled with visions of that long, anxious Lore Council meeting. Even in memory, the wariness in Vyth’s and Mynna’s eyes was painful. “I guess I’m used to griffins being more… suspicious.”

Torfinn, trotting at his master’s side, gave a bleat that sounded like a laugh.

“Ah, my kin.” Gjurdok shook his head. “I pity them. And thee.”

“The Wordmaster’s treachery hath corrupted noble hearts, and deceived wise minds.” Runar’s voice was full of grief, sending Daphne’s icy stomach into a tailspin. “How dost thou know we are not in his service?”

Gjurdok snorted. “Hath the wisdom of our kin fallen so far?” He halted, turning to them and pinning each in turn with his lethally keen gaze. “When thou hast breathed in the lore of Euloban as long as I have, thou learns to recognize it. I can discern a Wordsmith from a Wordmage.” Turning, he resumed his march around the cavern. “So couldst thou, and all our kin, if they would but remember and receive.”

Daphne could think of no response to this. Runar, too, was silent. Only a vague sadness flowed from him along their emotional link, but this sent another stab through Daphne’s already churning stomach. She hurried after Gjurdok.

They passed several archways leading into smaller rooms like the one through which they had entered. Each doorway was shaped differently and bore a different label, carved into the threshold. Daphne noted the Chamber of Eloquence, with a completely circular door, and a pointed arch leading into the Chamber of Phrases. The Prism buzzed coldly in her pocket, aggravating the icy whirlpool her stomach had become. This was all seeming more and more familiar…

Over halfway around the cavern, Gjurdok halted in front of a triangular door. Despite the Eloquent Water channel flowing into and out of the doorway, the room beyond was lost in shadow.

“Behold, the home of our oldest legends,” he said. “All records of the Cleansing Flame are held here, in the Chamber of Triunity.”

Chamber of Triunity.

Yup, this was definitely the room Amelia had visited in the dream-memory — the place where she had first encountered the Wordmaster, through a powerful Word planted in a scroll.

The ice in Daphne’s stomach leaped up to her heart.

“You’re sure?” she stammered. “How do you know that’s the right room?”

“No one has explored these ancient halls more than I,” Gjurdok replied. “Even before I made them my permanent abode.”

Runar was staring at the doorway in wonder. “He is right,” the golden griffin whispered. “I sense…” His eyes clouded, and he turned to Gjurdok. “The lore is there, but faint.”

“It is as I said!” Bjarni yelled, wriggling with joy. “The light-way led us aright. Euloban is guiding us. We are meant to find the Cleansing Flame!”

“Alas, ’tis in vain.” Gjurdok pointed a wing at the doorway. “Look through. Try to enter. Thou shalt see.”

The trio moved as one, Daphne pulled along by the will of the griffin brothers. Together, they peered into the darkened doorway.

This was not the small, triangular cavern Daphne remembered from her dream. They were looking at a large, modern library, well-lit by sunshine streaming through vaulted windows. Row upon row of bookshelves stretched away into the distance. In the foreground was a small nook containing a small writing desk, illuminated by shafts of sunlight from a particularly large window nearby.

The ice consuming Daphne’s insides crawled up to her throat.

“Thou canst not enter,” Gjurdok said sorrowfully from behind them. “I have tried. It is as if the door is guarded by a shield, and I do not know the entrance words.”

“But…” Runar’s voice was hushed. “Where is the Chamber of Triunity? What is this place?”

The Prism gave a violent lurch, as if it wanted to leap out of Daphne’s pocket. She held it tightly against her side and swallowed down.

“That’s my library,” she said, barely managing to keep her teeth from chattering. “It’s where I go to write. This… this is my home.”