Page 129 of Magical Mischief

I ran my fingers along the nearest shelf. Dust clung to my fingertips like memory. Some books had been chewed at the corners by time, or something less poetic. Others had broken spines, their pages fanned out. Most were handwritten. Not meant for public consumption. Notes. Drafts. A few were wrapped in cloth and sealed with wax that had long since crumbled.

One book in particular caught my eye. It wasn’t the cover, which was plain and water-stained, but how it was wedged in tighter than the others, almost like it didn’t belong. I tried pulling it out, but it didn’t budge. I tugged harder, shifting the books around it, and heard a soft click.

A sound behind the shelf.

I froze.

Carefully, I stepped back and pressed my hand against the stone wall behind the bookcase. The click hadn’t been imagined. There was a small seam there, subtle but unmistakable. The wall wasn’t solid.

A loose stone.

My heart picked up its pace, not with fear, but with the sharp, breathless curiosity that always got me into trouble.

I pressed again. The stone gave slightly. I leaned into it and twisted. With a low groan, it shifted inward, revealing a hidden cavity no larger than a breadbox. Tucked inside were three slim books, bound in deep red leather so dark it looked black in the low light.

I glanced back at the door out of habit.

Still closed. Still locked.

I pulled the books out, one by one. They were cold in my hands. The spines bore no title, no author. Just smooth, dark covers with worn corners. I brought them back to the table and sat down, suddenly aware of how fast I was breathing.

The first book cracked open easily.

Handwritten. Of course. But the ink was different, shimmering slightly, like a beetle’s shell. The script was elegant and sharp, like it had been written by someone very precise, powerful, or both.

Study of the Internal Colonies: An Account of the Bonded Dragolies

Not just legends or whispered rumors passed down in the common rooms. This was a proper record. And not of far-off mountain flights or broken eggshells in caves. These werehereat the Academy.

I turned the page.

The opening line stopped me cold.

Only three remain.

My fingers hovered over the words, careful not to smudge them.

But we had more than three. I’d seen more than I could count.

I read on. The writing was dense, but not dry. Whoever had written this hadn’t just catalogued the dragons like specimens. They’d lived among them.

The descriptions weren’t just anatomical or magical. They were personal. Each dragon had a name, a temperament, and a role.

One of them,Noralis, was listed as the oldest and most intelligent. He’d communicated with certain scholars through dreams.

I stopped again, trying to swallow the lump in my throat.

Dreams.

I turned another page.

There was a map, hand-drawn, faded but detailed. A rough layout of a town… and beneath it, another level. A forgotten level.

Marked only asShadowick.

I closed the book and sat very still.

I had asked my grandmother about other dragons in other factions, and she said she didn’t know.