The metallic clang of the knocker against the heavy oak door echoes through the silent courtyard, shattering the stillness that clings to the Library. Zech pulls the collar of his camo jacket tighter, casting nervous glances at the shadows stretching between the stone columns.

  On the other side of the threshold, Master Silas flinches. His quill skids across the parchment, leaving a jagged blot of black ink. He rises slowly, his joints protesting with every movement, and crosses the central hall. Around him, the towering bookshelves loom like sleeping giants.

  The bolt slides back with a heavy thud. As the door groans open on its hinges, the warm glow of interior lanterns spills out, washing over the two young men.

  ?You’re late!? Silas snaps, skipping any greeting. His voice is thin but sharp, like a tightened violin string. His spectacles glint, reflecting the rain falling behind the boys. ?General Valerius sent one of his men over an hour ago. Said I have two new "apprentices." Looking at you, you seem more like two confused boys who failed their scout exams. Books are not lifeboats, but they are a journey far more treacherous than anything you’ll find outside the Castle walls.?

  Elian meets the old man’s gaze. He takes in the patchy, ill-shaven beard and the dust coating the grey sweater, but most of all, he notices Silas’s eyes. He doesn’t look at them with Inspector Cortez’s disdain or Giada’s pity. He looks at them with a clinical focus, as if trying to decipher a faded title on the spine of an ancient tome.

  ?I am Elian Serpieri. And this is Zech Murphy,? Elian replies, forcing his voice to remain steady despite the chill. ?It’s true. The General assigned us to you because we are deemed unfit for any other role in the colony—scouts included.?

  Silas steps aside, gesturing them in. ?Serpieri, hm? A name that tastes of sheet music and discipline. Get inside before the damp ruins the nineteenth-century bindings. Murphy, shut that door and make sure the world stays out. Time flows differently in here.?

  Zech obeys instantly, relieved to be under a roof. Elian, however, stands frozen for a moment, overwhelmed by the scent. It isn’t the oil and gunpowder of the training grounds. It is the smell of parchment, animal glue, vanilla, and decomposed time. Thousands of volumes spiral toward the vaulted ceiling—a forest of paper that feels just as alive as the woods beyond the walls.

  ?The General gave you instructions, I presume,? Silas says, heading toward his desk without looking back. ?He likely told you I’m an eccentric old man and that you are to... "monitor" my work. Or perhaps he used kinder words, like "assisting with the cataloging."?

  A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

  Elian trades a quick look with Zech. Valerius’s suspicion is well-founded: Silas is a man who reads between the lines even before they are written. He clearly senses the General’s lack of trust and the true nature of their presence. Yet, as Silas studies them, he realizes that if they have been discarded by the system, they aren't so different from him.

  ?He told us to be useful,? Elian says, omitting the part about spying.

  Silas sits and reclaims his pen. ?Useful. A dangerous word in a colony of soldiers. In here, utility is measured in patience. Murphy, in the East wing, there’s a crate of chronicles recovered from Cortez’s last expedition. They’re caked in mud and mold. Take a soft brush and begin cleaning them. If you tear a single page, consider yourself out.?

  Zech nods frantically and hurries off, glad for a manual task that takes him away from the Master’s probing eyes.

  Silas turns his focus back to Elian. ?And you, Serpieri... you can’t shoot, but you have the eyes of someone looking for something not found on a tactical map. Come here. Leave the dust for now. There is a book on the leggio at the end of the nave. It is written in a language the colony has forgotten. Tell me what you see when you look at those pages. Not what you see... what you feel.?

  Elian walks toward the lectern, feeling the weight of Valerius’s secret mission pulling against the strange lure of the room. As he reaches the open volume, candleflame dances over the illustrations: creatures of impossible colors and boundless forests. Vast cities that look like a starlit sky mirrored on the earth. The world before the Fire Avalanche?

  ?It’s incredible! I’ve never seen anything like this,? Elian exclaims in awe.

  ?I imagine not,? Silas says. ?In the colony, the brief training they give you relies only on "essential" books: grammar, math, a bit of biology and physics, and a brief narrative of human history—interpreted in a rather... twisted way,? he adds, his voice laced with bitterness. ?The lucky ones are promoted to be doctors, farmers, craftsmen, or engineers. Those on Valerius’s blacklist are sent to the mines. And those like your family, with a gift for music, are taken into the Artists' Guild. Musicians only, of course. Other forms of art tend to give people strange ideas, so they are left to rot in here.?

  ?Yes, but since I have no talent for music or the life of a soldier, I ended up here. Master Silas, it is an honor to be in the Library, it’s just... I had different plans in the beginning,? Elian admits, a sharp pang of grief hitting him as he thinks of Giada, now unreachable.

  ?My boy, I had different plans and expectations for my life once, too. But the High King’s Castle leaves little room for human aspirations. Life, both inside and outside these walls, almost always shatters our expectations.?

  Elian listens in stunned silence. No adult in the colony has ever spoken to him with such empathy. It is clear that Silas, too, carries his own burden of disappointment, regret, and humiliation. For the first time, Elian stands before someone who isn't trying to fit a "role" imposed by the Castle's hierarchy, but who is simply himself.