With a painful groan, Mousey rose from his cot in the barracks.

He’d barely heard the wake-up bell. The alarm’s tone had been chosen specifically to wake bats, creatures with far better hearing than Mousey had.

As he looked around the barracks at the other trainees, he couldn’t help but wonder how so many of them seemed unaffected by the many weeks of arduous training they’d all gone through together. Perhaps it was the way they all hung upside-down at night, while Mousey was curled up on his cot. The cot itself was an uncomfortable thing that the other recruits had begrudgingly made for him.

Every night they got up at the crack of dusk, while just a hint of golden light still peered over the western sky and jumped into their physical exercises.

On the positive side, those first few minutes did allow him to see the sunlight, even if it was only briefly. How he missed blue skies.

Like the rest of them, he was up and into his training uniform by the time Lieutenant Nycht entered the barracks, his paws folded behind his back.

The Lieutenant stood five paw widths shorter than most of the recruits. All except Mousey, actually. Still, not one of them dared eye him as he passed by. Even fur-less pups knew that could lose them a day’s rations.

Lieutenant Nycht walked by each of the recruits, looking them up and down. He stopped at one, leaned up, and shouted in his face. “Recruit, you were denied rations yesterday. Why do I smell fish on your breath?”

“I do not know, lieutenant,” said the recruit. All the while he stared straight over Nycht’s head.

“Don’t lie to me, pup!” shouted Nycht, his saliva speckling the recruit’s cheeks. “Who shared their rations with you?”

“I’d rather not say, sir,” said the recruit.

“Well, you are about to, pup!” said Lieutenant Nycht, “Or I am about to deny this whole unit their rations!”

“It was me!” Mousey cried out. He glanced back and forth at the other recruits. Though none looked at him, he could tell that a few of them had winced, knowing the fate that likely awaited him. “I mean… it was I, Lieutenant.”

Lieutenant Nycht stomped over to Mousey and glared down at him. He lifted the visor off his nose and snarled. There was a rage in those eyes. Mousey felt as if he were staring into an avalanche, about to crush him.

“Did I address you, recruit?” Nycht yelled.

“N-no…” said Mousey, struggling to keep his gaze away from Nycht’s face.

“I can’t hear you, recruit!” Nycht shouted again.

“No, sir!” Mousey squeaked, a little louder this time.

The other recruits stifled their giggles, clearly all amused by Mousey’s small voice. All too often he’d heard their mixed jabs and adoration. At best, his voice was simply “cute” or “funny,” at worst it reminded them that he was not truly one of them, and it was reason enough to bully him.

“You will speak when spoken to, recruit!” Nycht yelled. “Do you understand?”

“I do, sir!” squeaked Mousey again.

More stifled laughter from the recruits.

Nycht turned back to the rest of them, “Even so, this recruit’s honesty is to be admired. For his sake I will not confiscate anyone’s rations today. However, since none of the rest of you were loyal enough to your comrade to sacrifice any of your meals for his sake, I will make everyone fly an extra lap before breakfast. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, lieutenant!” the recruits all said in unison.

“Fly an extra lap.” Mousey thought he’d never see the day when flight was considered a punishment. One more thing he knew separated him from his peers; since they’d been able to fly most of their lives, it was nothing special to them. But, as a mouse, he could enjoy experiences the other recruits took for granted.

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At least, that was how it used to be. He flew four laps around the tower that night before breakfast. That many times in such a wide circle, he felt he could begin to understand why this was punishment.

How much easier would this be with an airship?

Furthermore, there was the humiliation of being so far behind any of them, out of breath by the time the third lap began.

Worst of all, flight was such a tease. Flying around the outside of the tower was a cruel reminder of how free he should have felt. There were no walls between him and escape, but he knew the woods were full of archers, lying in wait, who would shoot any attempted deserter out of the sky.

Then came breakfast itself; always fish. Mousey hadn’t minded fish when he first arrived at the tower, but after so many weeks he’d grown so sick of it, and longed for fruit, nuts, or honey. He’d even settle for cheese, terrible as that stench was.

All day he trained, improving the strength of his muscles, though he was far behind the other recruits. He sparred with wooden swords, which usually meant he was on the receiving end of a terrible beating from his fellows. He climbed ropes, and over walls, ran on an enormous wheel, and all the while every other recruit was so far ahead of him.

After physical training, they listened to a higher officer drone on about how some groups of rebels were meeting in secret. The teacher reassured everyone that the rebels were no real threat, but that this could change at any moment, and the Nocturnal Patrol needed to be ready to deal with that threat when the time came.

Then there was dinner.

Fish.

Again.

Mousey wished he was training in a tower with fruit bats rather than vampire bats.

But there was his one solace of the night: study time. The bats were each sent to the library to spend time poring over the books.

Technically, they called that room “The Archives,” but Mousey preferred to call it a library.

Most of the books there were tomes on tactics, or the dull writings of previous Nocturnal Patrol commanders. Every now and then, though, Mousey would find one about older history.

Most such books had simply been forgotten somewhere in the library. Mousey knew that if the archivist learned of these older books’ existence, he’d have them replaced by newer editions right away.

But the history was so different in the newer editions, and certainly nowhere near as exciting. Only the older versions of these stories told tales of heroic knights standing up for the weak, or famous artists changing society. Only the older texts told stories of the brave knights Sir Charles the Bold, Sir Xerus the Quick, Dame Prevosti the Fearless, and Lord Cingulata the Unstoppable. Certainly, the newer books were replete of the most interesting of tales: that of a book that could teach one the secrets of immortality.

Mousey had been careful to keep his reading choice a secret, but Lieutenant Nycht still caught him one night.

To Mousey’s surprise, the lieutenant only smiled at Mousey and whispered, “Be more discreet.”

That same night, Mousey found a hollowed out, newer edition book in the library. From then on, he hid the books he was truly reading in the larger book’s gaps.

But there was one such night in this library that proved to be far more precious than any of the others.

Mousey had just finished reading the history of the Bear King. When he set the book down, he looked out the window and saw gold peering over the eastern horizon. “Dawn… I have to get to bed…”

He closed the book and crouched down in the aisles. So often he’d hidden his more valuable finds in this way. Bats had such a natural tendency to look up, to the books on the top shelf. They barely even noticed anything around their feet.

As Mousey crawled under the bookshelves, searching for a place to hide his new favorite history, he spotted a book he’d never noticed before.

It was strange that he’d somehow missed it, for the book’s cover was gold in color, as were the edges of each page. Glancing back

and forth, to be sure no one was near, he pulled the gold-colored book closer to himself. He slipped it open and found himself nearly blinded as the white pages inside the book began to glow.

“Mousefred Souris,” said a female voice from the book.

But there was no echo. Underneath that bookshelf there should have been an echo when the book spoke.

Now that he thought about it, books typically didn’t speak.

“Only you can hear me, Mousefred,” said the voice from within the book.

“Who are you?” Mousey thought. If the book could speak directly to his mind, maybe he could do the same back to it.

“My name is Sopher,” said the book.

Mousey gasped and smiled widely. “Well, you are a rare find indeed! I have read about magic books, but I never truly believed…”

“You believed something, otherwise you wouldn’t hear me,” said Sopher, her voice starting to sound desperate. “Mousefred, you need to take me with you! If the archivists find out about me they’ll burn me!”

“Why would they burn you?” Mousey asked.

“Is it really such a wonder?” came an almost sarcastic reply. “Mousefred, you know they replace old books that say things they don’t want you to read. You cannot be so naïve, you must have noticed.”

Mousey stared at the book in puzzlement. He’d never really stopped to consider why the archivists were so adamant about getting rid of the old books.

“You’re just now realizing?” the book said, her voice sounding a touch sad. “Oh, dear… I’ve much work to do…”

“Work to do?” Mousey asked, raising an eyebrow. “What exactly are you trying to accomplish?”

“I’m rescuing you!” said Sopher.

Mousey paused for a moment, considering her words. “I thought it was you who wanted rescue from me?”

“Rescue me so I can rescue you,” said Sopher.

Before Mousey’s eyes, the book shrank until it was small enough to fit on the pad of his paw. “Put me in your pocket. Get me out of this library, and I will save you from this tower!”

A distant alarm sounded, the signal that all recruits had only minutes to be in bed or they would be punished severely. He shoved the tiny book into his pocket and rushed off to the barracks.