A sacred bond, Turya had once told him, forged in the eyes of the Sky-Born and the dust of the earth. A pledge of unending devotion, until the sun consumed them both.
Levin stood silent, a quiet echo in the grand hall, when Lady Seraphina Volkov spoke of such things with a careless toss of her hand. Her laughter, bright and sharp, grated against the ancient stone.
“What a face! Just teasing, you dolt!”
“My lady, please…” Steward Kael’s voice rasped, a plea born of long service.
“Alright, alright. But the seat beside me remains cold, you know.” Seraphina winked, a glint in her eyes, then vanished down the shadowed corridor.
Steward Kael sighed, a sound like crumbling rock. He wiped a hand across his brow, his apology a low murmur, aged by a decade in that single breath.
---
Moments later, Levin pushed open the heavy, carved door to the heart of Ashfall Keep. This was Lord Valerius Volkov’s domain, a cavernous office filled with hulking, taxidermied beasts, polished timber, and the scent of old parchment.
Lord Valerius, a man whose presence filled the room like a looming mesa, watched from a chair upholstered in sun-bleached hide. His gaze was like the unblinking sun.
“Enter, young guest. My name, I assume, precedes me.”
“Levin.” His voice was a quiet tremor against the oppressive silence.
Two figures, clad in scaled leather and bearing scoured iron blades, stood like silent sentinels behind the Lord. Stone-Guards, he knew, their faces impassive as ancient monoliths. Yet, their presence felt less a protection for such a man, more a statement of power.
Lord Valerius leaned forward, a flicker of interest in his hard eyes. “Levin, is that all?”
“Those hostile to my lineage hold sway. I reveal no more.”
“Hmm. Which ancient animosities warrant such caution? The Obsidian Pact versus the Ironclad Marches? Serpent’s Coil and Ember-Eye? House Ashfall and House Sunstone?”
Mention of House Sunstone made Levin’s blood run cold. A prickle of unease spread through his skin, but he kept his expression flat, his breath even. He was merely a traveler, a quiet observer.
Lord Valerius watched him, a faint curl of disappointment on his lips as Levin revealed nothing. He snorted, a dry, dismissive sound.
“No matter. We hold no quarrels with noble houses, not currently. However, should the Volkov Bloodline ever seek your aegis, I trust we would receive the same courtesy shown to you now.”
“My pledge.”
His words carried weight, a silent promise. To accept hospitality in another’s territory was to acknowledge their dominion, to declare peaceful intent. To refuse, or to withhold respect, was an act of aggression, a challenge.
Turya had taught him this custom, etched it into his memory like glyphs upon stone. A sacred trust, even among strangers.
“The Scriptorium, you wish to use it? For what purpose?”
“Isolated upbringing left me lacking. I seek knowledge of this world through the written word.”
Lord Valerius snorted again, a dry, grating sound.
“Understand this: many come seeking ancient sorceries or forgotten paths to power within those walls. They find nothing. No such secrets reside there.”
“It matters not. I seek only understanding.”
Levin made his meaning clear. He simply yearned to learn, to fill the vast emptiness of his ignorance, having lived his entire life in the shadow of the forgotten hills.
Lord Valerius stared, a long, assessing look, then slowly shook his head. “If that is your desire, I see no reason to deny you. No Volkov secrets hide there. For now, rest. We begin tomorrow. Acceptable?”
“My lord, your generosity will be remembered.”
“Indeed. I trust it will.” Lord Valerius gave a small, meaningful nod, a faint, knowing smile playing on his lips.
---
Next morning, a Stone-Guard led Levin through the winding passages of Ashfall Keep. They emerged into the stark daylight, heading towards the Stone Scriptorium. This was no ordinary building, but a massive, cylindrical tower of cracked and weathered grey rock, a relic of an age lost to sand and wind.
Guard at the entrance, a different man from the Keep, examined the scroll bearing the Lord’s seal. A grunt of approval, then a nod.
“Entry confirmed. Welcome to the Stone Scriptorium, honored guest.”
Cool air, thick with the scent of aged paper and dust, embraced Levin as he stepped inside. A few simple desks and chairs sat on the main floor. Ahead, a spiral staircase, worn smooth by countless feet, snaked its way up the curving interior wall. No windows pierced the ancient stone, yet a soft, white glow emanated from a large, round orb set high in the ceiling, casting the room in an ethereal light.
Levin moved deeper, his steps quiet. A middle-aged figure, seated at one of the desks, looked up, eyes sharp behind thin spectacles. “A pleasure, Sir Levin. I am Keeper Elara. Lord Valerius instructed me to outline the rules for this place.”
The Scriptorium’s rules were simple, clear as desert light.
First, damage to books or structure incurred a debt, assessed by the House. Second, no volumes were to leave these walls. Third, she would observe from afar, ensuring compliance.
To Levin, these felt less like rules, more like obvious truths. Violating them was unthinkable.
He climbed the spiral stairs, his hand brushing the cool stone. Reaching the second level, bookshelves stretched, packed with hundreds of leather-bound volumes, a treasure hoard.
“Ah…” His breath hitched. Turya’s tales of 'thousands' felt like an understatement. Given the Scriptorium’s soaring height, tens of thousands seemed more likely.
Yet, as he ascended, the shelves grew sparser. By the tenth floor, dust lay undisturbed on empty ledges. Not a single book remained. Keeper Elara, who had followed his ascent, informed him no more books were stored beyond this point. Levin descended, back to the lower levels.
“Few books, for such a vast structure.”
“The Scriptorium rose during the First Dominion,” Keeper Elara said, her voice dry as parchment. “Many texts were lost. Ashfall Keep changed hands countless times during the Wars of Succession.”
The First Dominion. Turya had spoken of it, a whisper of a time when the Sky-Born Progenitors had unified the Sun-Scoured Lands. Then, their descendants, the noble houses, had splintered, turning on each other, fragmenting the world into its current, desperate state.
Levin turned, studying the densely packed shelves of the second floor, then looked back at the Keeper.
“As Keeper, you have read these?”
“Indeed. Guiding seekers is my duty.”
“I seek common knowledge. What would you recommend?” Levin chose his words with care, every syllable a potential echo back to the Lord.
Keeper Elara tilted her head, considering. Then, she began to move, pulling volumes from various shelves. Many trips she made, even to the upper, less populated floors. Finally, a dozen books sat upon a desk on the first floor.
“Many of these texts span centuries, millennia even. They may not align perfectly with contemporary understanding, honored guest. Still, I believe these will prove a foundation.”
“My gratitude.”
Levin sat, picked up the closest book. The cover, thick cowhide, felt rough beneath his fingers. Pages of finely cut parchment, filled with meticulously inscribed letters, flowed across the interior, each word a tiny work of art.
‘A book,’ he thought, a tremor running through him. Turya had yearned for such things, a hunger that had never been sated. Now, he held one. With mixed emotions, he opened it.
He had learned to read by scratching glyphs in the dust with a stick, stumbling often. Yet, the words on the page revealed themselves. The title: ‘Chronicles of the Sun-Scorched Wastes.’
Foreword praised an unknown patron, then the true journey began. The author, a minor noble from a city north of Ashfall, had journeyed east, chasing the edge of the world. Tales of wonder spilled forth.
A mountain pass, known as the Serpent’s Maw, open only at the sun’s zenith, allowing a single passage. Blind troglodytes lurking in the abyssal cracks, hunting the foolish. An endless desert, the Shifting Sands, where the sun boiled the surface by day, only for night’s frost to bind it solid. Jungle sprites, with skin like moss and eyes like emeralds. Merfolk, singing their siren calls from jagged reefs, luring sailors to watery graves.
His mind conjured images so vivid, so real, he felt the grit of sand, the dampness of the jungle air. Places he had never known, brought to life through mere ink and parchment. It was a subtle sorcery, perhaps more potent than any spell.
Hunger gnawed at him when he was halfway through the book. He committed the read passages to memory, then closed the heavy volume.
‘Remarkable.’
The eastern lands, once only vague whispers, now took shape in his mind. He saw the 'other races,' their forms, their strange ecosystems, their ways of life. All from half a book.
His heart thumped. What more could he uncover from the rest?
---
Days blurred into a routine. Each morning, Levin walked to the Stone Scriptorium. He read until the evening dust settled over Ashfall Keep, then returned.
Second day, he absorbed the lineage of the great noble houses, the alliances and feuds of lesser families, the intricate workings of the cities and outlying villages.
Third day, he learned the origins of everyday objects, their crafting, their source materials, the regions they hailed from. A simple pottery shard became a story of clay beds and ancient kilns.
Fourth day, a bestiary described the beasts of the Sun-Scorched Lands. He learned their awakened abilities, how specific markings signaled raw power, how the desert dwellers had adapted.
Fifth day, he discovered that relics of the First Dominion, crumbling fragments of a forgotten age, lay scattered across the world. The Scriptorium itself, a living example. The very stone road that had led him to Ashfall Keep, another.
As knowledge accumulated, the world, once a boundless, terrifying unknown, began to solidify, to take form. He felt himself changing, shedding the skin of an ignorant boy, evolving into something… more.
This wasn’t the visceral thrill of solidifying stone beneath his will or sensing the earth’s deep thrum. This was a deeper satisfaction, a quiet expansion of his mind.
---
Sixth day, on his way to the Scriptorium, a Stone-Guard intercepted him. Lord Valerius had summoned him.
He stood again in the Lord’s office. Valerius wasted no words.
“I hear the Scriptorium serves you well.”
“It does.”
“My generosity in granting access, understand, was a separate kindness. Not part of the noble courtesy. Now, I claim recompense.”
“State your terms.”
One could not simply take. Three, perhaps four days, was the customary length for hosting a guest. Levin had overstayed. A debt was due.
“North of Ashfall, near the Cinder Peaks, a beast preys on travelers. Four Stone-Guards sought to subdue it. None returned. Eaten.”
“You wish me to hunt it?”
Lord Valerius nodded. “It seems a noble will have to step in. A skilled hunter, perhaps, or a man of unusual… talents.”