Bernt carefully picked through the pile, looking for any useful or valuable writings. Jori, meanwhile, was trying on one of the kobold helmets, which immediately slipped over her eyes. She panicked, tripped over herself and fell with a clatter. The helmet fell off her head in the process, and she followed it as it rolled away, kicking at it with a hiss.

Many of the books and scrolls were in languages he didn’t recognize, though most were in the common language of the realm, and others in dialects of Dwarvish and Elvish that he recognized, but couldn’t read. Still, he could tell that the majority were old letters, ledgers, and other worthless texts. But he’d also found a few scrolls containing spell diagrams—mostly for simple and familiar spells that he’d learned in the academy.

One more complex spell scroll looked interesting, but he couldn’t tell what it was for because it was written in a language he’d never seen before. He slipped it into his bag. There was also a spell scroll for something called “cold fire.” He wasn’t sure what the point of that might be, but he kept it anyway. If he wanted to become a powerful pyromancer, he needed to learn everything he could about magical fire, even if it didn’t seem obviously useful now. In the end, he also packed up most of the other spell scrolls, though he knew they weren’t valuable. Maybe a self-taught hedge mage would buy them.

He was almost through the entire pile when he finally saw something more promising.

The leather-bound book wasn’t in great condition, lying open and face down on the ground, pages bent awkwardly underneath it. The cover was inscribed with an odd spell diagram almost like two spells laid on top of one another. It didn’t have a title.

But that spell diagram…

Bernt’s fingers trembled as he picked it up. He’d never seen anything like it.

Smoothing the bent pages, he flipped through, wanting a clearer description of the diagram on the cover. The book was handwritten haphazardly and without clear organization, like a notebook.

There were maybe thirty pages, covered in scrawled notes, most of which he couldn’t really make out at a glance. Curious, he flipped to the pages around the diagram, looking for a description. A few pages behind it, he saw a heading in an unfamiliar, archaic form of Beseri. It read, “Transmutaeren.”

Bernt didn’t know much about older dialects, but he could guess what that meant. Some aspiring wizard—someone with deep theoretical knowledge, if the diagrams were any indication—had tried to invent a spell to transmute matter.

Transmutation was an alchemical discipline. No one, as far as he knew, could transmute with magic directly.

He tried to read the first line and it was… work. The words were spelled strangely, and some were entirely unfamiliar.

“Transmutaeren, theagh it be arduous for to cast, giveth mihtige forthdæde un to that caster, wilchan those unmihtigan, lytel folkes can niht dreamen.”

It certainly sounded like a wizard—a mage researcher who developed new spells and explored new applications of magic. Many of his more advanced textbooks at the Mages’ Academy were written in a similar tone. Wizards were always self-important types who thought they were single-handedly going to find the key to godhood. It was irritating, but that didn’t make their knowledge any less valuable.

He flipped back to the diagram, trying to make sense of it.

It really was two spells layered on top of one another, but they were supposed to be cast simultaneously as a single spell.

It was ridiculously complex. A mage would need both hands to keep just one layer of the spell straight. Who was this person? Did they have four arms?

Casting multiple spells wasn’t too difficult—many mages could do it. But usually it was done in sequence, maintaining one while casting the next. This spell was a theoretical exercise, at best. It probably didn’t even work. The writer of this thing had tried, but if they’d succeeded, this book wouldn’t have been buried in a scrap heap. A knowledge-obsessed dragon wouldn’t leave something like that lying around, right?

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Disappointed, Bernt put the book in his bag anyway. It wasn’t lost or secret magic, but it was written by a mage with far more skill, theoretical knowledge and spellcrafting experience than himself. He could probably learn a lot from it, if he ever found the time to analyze it.

He shook his head and leaned back against the stone wall, frustrated. He didn’t know what he had been expecting. This was probably a dump or an abandoned storage room. Neither the dragon nor the kobolds would have considered anything here valuable.

Jori scampered up to him and chirped inquisitively before plopping herself down on the ground next to him.

“I need to take a break,” Bernt told her. “We can keep tunneling up from here in a few hours, until we make it out. We can’t be that far down, right?”

He tried to work out a rough estimation of his current depth, but he didn’t know the gradient of the tunnels, or how far he was from the entrance. The tunnel he’d just made was relatively steep and rose maybe twenty strides up. If there were more chambers and tunnels up here, though, he couldn’t be close to the surface yet.

***

Jori yawned, stretching back to try to reach an annoying itch between her wings. She was exhausted. They’d been down here for a long time, and she wanted to go home and curl up next to the warm oven with something tasty. Instead, they were stuck down here in this dusty hole that smelled like stupid lizards. She’d found a pretty big chunk of molted scaly skin in one of the corners, and it tasted even worse than it smelled. Bah!

She knew it might be a long time before she got her wish. Bernt was running from the bad lizards, the ones that took all of his friends. He needed help. She didn’t understand what he wanted with all this paper stuff. Before, he wanted to get outside. He’d thought they were outside, she knew, but then they were here instead.

And then he’d started digging around in the mountain of paper. He was looking for something. She was pretty sure he didn’t find it. Now he was just sitting around. He felt tired, just like she did.

But she could smell something there, in the papers.

It smelled good. Familiar, even.

It smelled like home.

***

Bernt watched, smiling to himself as Jori chittered and dug herself into the pile of books and loose scrolls as if she were making a nest. He let her. Better than when he caught her chewing on some ancient-looking hide, or when she was trying to get into those old potions earlier. He didn’t know what they were, exactly, but expired potions could have dangerous and unpredictable effects.

A scroll hit Bernt in the face as Jori began flinging things behind her, out of the pile, making an odd cackling sound.

“Jori,” Bernt grumbled at her, “what in the nine hells are you doing?”

With a grunt, the little imp dragged something out of the pile, pulling at it with all her strength. It was a heavy tome, bound in leather and scratched up badly. Even closed, the pages were visibly damaged and yellowed.

Taking pity on Jori, Bernt leaned over and picked it up. The cover had a pentagram and a title written in an unfamiliar dialect of Dwarvish. Worse, the symbol on the front clearly marked it as a demonology text.

It didn’t really matter if it was a ritual spellbook or a historical text—there was no way he could sell it without drawing unfriendly attention from both the City Guard and the Mages’ Guild. Both were required to keep track of all warlock-related activity for the king, and selling this would automatically make him a suspect every time anything remotely infernal happened anywhere in the region. Some of the temples might even take notice. He didn’t want that kind of attention—especially not if word got out that he had a demonic familiar.

He moved to toss it back on the pile, but Jori hissed at him, putting a clawed little hand on the book to keep him from moving it. She jumped up and down excitedly, chittering. She wanted him to look at it. He felt her focus on the bond. There was something in there for him. For her.

Bernt sighed. Was she trying to get him to form a demonic pact? He wouldn’t do it. Any sane mage was suspicious of any demonic pact, and the stigma associated with warlocks would effectively kill any hopes for becoming a real adventurer. Most quest givers wanted nothing to do with warlocks, and no one in their right mind would form a party with one.

He tried to communicate his feelings to her through the bond, but she wasn’t having it.

Jori radiated indignation and chittered at him some more, talking now. As usual, she only talked in general impressions. She was telling him that it wasn’t about any contracts. She wanted to learn for herself. Secrets about the other place. From before.

Bernt sighed. Surely, there was no way that could go terribly wrong.

Jori huffed, putting her hands on her hips as she glared at him. She looked comical and cute, more than anything, but he had a direct line to her thoughts, so he understood that to her, this was serious.

She chittered at him angrily. She had a right to know what was in there!

He hesitated for another second, then put the book in his bag.

Jori was his familiar. As far as the Mages’ Academy taught, that made her a tool—specifically, a tool for a warlock, but that was neither here nor there. She’d been there, working the sewers with him for years now. He would have already died down in these tunnels without her.

Admittedly, she’d also eaten a creature’s soul, but nobody was perfect, right? She wasn’t just a tool—she was a friend. She deserved a little trust.