The Enchanted Library
brIAR
M y hands shake as I close Ronan's office door behind me. His words echo in my mind. “The West Wing is forbidden."
But the anger in his voice can't mask something else I noticed. Fear .
The great and powerful Ronan Wolfe is afraid of something in his own home.
The corridor stretches before me, holiday decorations casting strange shadows on stone walls. I should return to my room. Should follow his orders.
But something about this place pulls at me, a strange pressure in the air that I can't explain. Maybe it's just the old heating system, or the way sound echoes off these stone walls, but each step deeper into the hallway feels inevitable.
A door stands partially open ahead—heavy oak with brass fittings, carved with symbols I've never seen before. Beyond it, moonlight catches the spines of countless books. My heart skips. This must be the library Alistair mentioned.
Snow taps against frosted windows as I push the door wider. The hinges creak, and cold air rushes past me, carrying the scent of old paper and something else—something that makes the hair on my arms stand up. The holiday music from downstairs fades, replaced by an expectant silence.
I step into darkness that slowly resolves into towering shelves. Moonlight filters through the windows, casting strange patterns across the floor.
Dust motes swirl in the air like tiny stars, moving in ways that make me blink and look again. Must be a draft somewhere. The shelves stretch up into shadow, their tops lost in darkness.
"Hello?" My whisper echoes strangely, bouncing back distorted, as if the room is larger than it appears.
No one answers, but the air feels thick, heavy with something I can't name. My skin prickles with awareness, like the moment before a thunderstorm breaks. Books line every surface, their spines a mix of leather and cloth, some so old the titles have worn away completely. The space feels... watched. I shake my head at the ridiculous thought. Old libraries always feel this way—it's just the weight of history, nothing more.
I move deeper into the stacks, drawn by my historian's curiosity. My fingers trail along the spines, and where I touch, the dust seems to vanish.
A trick of the light makes it look like a faint glow follows my hand. The air vibrates with what must be the building's ancient heating system, though the shelves seem to lean closer, as if studying their visitor.
Too many gothic novels, Briar.
A book catches my eye—bound in dark leather with silver clasps. When I reach for it, I could swear the shelf shifts, making it easier to grasp.
The cover is unexpectedly warm to the touch, probably from sitting near a heating vent. As I open it, the pages fall open to a section about folklore and mythology. My breath catches. The margins are filled with handwritten notes, diagrams of creatures I thought existed only in stories.
"Werewolves," I whisper, tracing the detailed illustrations. "Vampires, fae..."
The notes are precise, clinical like field observations rather than fairy tales. My fingers tingle where they touch the page, probably from the dry paper, and in this light, the words seem to shift and dance.
I really should have gotten more sleep last night.
The temperature drops suddenly, my breath visible in the air. A draft must have kicked up, it's making the shelves around me creak and groan, the old wood settling.
Books flutter open as I pass, their pages turning in the wind. Something tugs at me, urging me deeper into the stacks.
Professional curiosity, I tell myself. Just a historian's natural instincts.
Before I can press him for answers, a deep rumbling draws my attention—the building settling, surely. When I look back, Alistair has vanished. The old butler moves like a ghost; I never even heard his footsteps.
The air feels different now, heavier. A section of wall that I could have sworn was solid stone seems to shift before my eyes. Exhaustion must be making me see things, but when I blink, there's definitely a hidden compartment revealed.
Inside lies a journal bound in dark leather, its cover bearing the same strange symbol the compass pointed to. In the dim light, the symbol almost seems to pulse.
When I lift the journal, it's unexpectedly warm, as if someone had just set it down. The first page bears an inscription in elegant script: "To those who would understand the Veil, beware the price of knowledge." The words blur and refocus as I try to read them. I really need to get more sleep.
The candles flicker violently. Another draft?
The strange vibration in the air takes on an urgent quality, like a warning. Time to go. I clutch the journal to my chest and hurry toward the door, trying not to notice how the bookshelves seem to move behind me, closing off the paths I'd discovered.
Just shadows and tricks of light, I tell myself.
In the corridor, the holiday music returns, along with the normal sounds of the gathering below. But everything feels different now.
The air tingles against my skin like static electricity, and the journal's weight against my heart feels significant. Like I've stumbled onto something bigger than my research could have prepared me for.
I hurry back to my room, mind racing. The journal, the compass, the strange phenomena in the library. None of it makes sense.
But one thing is clear: there's more to Frostspire Keep than Ronan wants me to know. More to my being here than coincidence.
As I close my bedroom door, I swear I can still feel that strange vibration in the air like the castle itself is holding its breath. The journal feels warm in my hands as I settle onto my bed, and in the darkness, I could swear the symbol on its cover gleams.
Whatever secrets this place holds, whatever I've stumbled into, I know there's no turning back now. Tomorrow, I'll return to the library. But tonight, I have reading to do.
Even if I'm imagining half of what I experienced, my historian's instincts tell me I've found something extraordinary. Something that might explain Ronan's fear, the staff's strange behavior, and why this castle feels so much more than just an old building.
I run my fingers over the journal's cover, trying to convince myself the warmth I feel is just my imagination. But deep down, I know better. Something is happening here at Frostspire Keep.
And somehow, I'm part of it.