The flagstones collapsed beneath her with a screech of splintered slate and shearing frost. Nimka felt the sudden lurch, a stomach-dropping plummet into frigid air. A shriek, raw and animalistic, tore through the chamber, followed by a thud that vibrated through the very foundations of the Frost-Hewn Citadel. She landed hard, not on ice, but on something surprisingly warm and yielding, yet undeniably solid, that instantly let out an injured growl. A cascade of snow and shattered ice followed, burying her and whatever she had landed on in a brief, blinding flurry. “My head,” Nimka mumbled, pushing aside a clump of ice. She felt a sticky warmth on her cheek. It smelled metallic, like a smithy. Peeling her eyes open, she found herself face-to-face with a thick, fur-clad shoulder, dark red against the white snow. It was moving, trembling with controlled agony. “Are you… intact?” Vorgoth’s voice, usually a deep rumble, was strained, a tight rasp against the echoing stone. He was beneath her, splayed across the jagged edges of the ice-trap, his broad back a makeshift bridge over the yawning chasm. Jagged shards of ice, sharp as broken teeth, jutted from his wolf-hide armor, each one oozing crimson that melted dark rivulets into the pristine snow. One particularly nasty spike had pierced his side, blossoming into a terrifying, wet stain. Nimka pushed herself up, blinking at the sight. “Intact?” She patted her silk-clad hip. “My spectacles might be bent. This is a highly inconvenient detour. You’re bleeding rather profusely.” She poked a finger at a gash on his bicep. “Are you quite finished with your dramatics? I need to get into this archive before that horrid howling begins again.” Vorgoth ground his teeth, blood sputtering against his chin as his knuckles dug into the rime-coated ledge. He struggled to push himself up, bracing against the treacherous ice. “The vault is forbidden!” he rasped, staring in horror as Nimka stepped past him and gripped the rusted handle. It squealed, a sound like a tortured spirit, and the heavy door gave way with a mighty *THUD*, revealing a cavernous, dust-choked darkness. “Oh, perfect,” Nimka said, stepping over Vorgoth’s groaning body as if he were merely a particularly inconvenient rug. She ducked into the gloom, a thin, ethereal figure swallowed by the shadows. “Nimka! It’s unstable!” Vorgoth bellowed, but she was already gone. He hauled himself out of the trap, wincing as fresh blood soaked into his furs. The scout, who had been staring with a mixture of horror and awe at Vorgoth’s self-sacrifice, now just looked utterly defeated. The air inside smelled of brittle vellum, dry cedar dust, and musky muskox tallow. Nimka squinted, trying to make out shapes in the oppressive darkness. Rows upon rows of towering shelves, overflowing with scrolls and bound tomes, stretched into the abyss. It was magnificent. And, judging by the faint gnawing sound coming from the base of the nearest shelf, inhabited. “Hello?” Nimka called out, her voice echoing strangely. The gnawing stopped abruptly. A pair of beady, intelligent eyes blinked at her from the shadows. A squat ice-badger, bristly and barrel-chested, waddled out. It had six stubby legs and a flat, grumpy face. In its mouth, it clutched a scroll, half-eaten. “Oh, you wretched beast,” Nimka sighed, striding forward. The creature froze, its beady eyes darting. “Do you have any idea how much effort went into making that? The ink alone would cost you a month’s worth of whatever tiny, crunchy things you devour.” She snatched the scroll, carefully peeling a sliver of damp parchment from its toothy maw. “And look at this! It’s a treatise on the migratory patterns of the Frost-Veil Gulls! Absolutely priceless!” The little beast let out a dry snort, puffing a jet of vapor toward her hem. It then did something entirely unexpected: it coughed. A small, metallic capsule, no thicker than her thumb, rattled onto the flagged floor. Tarnished silver gleamed beneath a coat of dried saliva and etched whorls. “Well, what’s this?” Nimka plucked up the metal tube. “An offering? To appease the wrath of the librarian you just offended?” She turned it over, examining the strange runes. The creature watched her, its head cocked, looking remarkably like a grumpy, oversized paperweight. “I’ll call you Pebble,” Nimka declared, tucking the cylinder into her sleeve. “Because you’re small, grey, and utterly devoid of charm, much like gravel. But you’ll do. You clearly have taste in bookrooms, even if your diet is illiterate.” Pebble huffed again, a tiny sound of resignation. Nimka’s lips twitched. “Welcome to the team, Pebble. Now, let’s see what trinket you just coughed up.” She twisted the capsule. It clicked, and a faint, ethereal blue light pulsed from within. A shimmering projection sprang into existence above her palm, a miniature, three-dimensional map of the Qol-Gar peaks. It wasn't a flat rendering, but a living, breathing landscape of ice-capped mountains and hidden valleys, all rendered in exquisite runic detail. At its heart, a massive, glowing citadel pulsed with an arcane energy. The sealed Qol-Gar runic library. Her library. This was the index ledger—a mechanical key to the deepest catacombs of the mountain. A deafening *CRACK* ripped through the air. The clerestory window high above, a slab of glacier ice carved into the granite, shattered inward with a cannon-crack. A dark, feathered shaft, tipped with a sickly green glow, shrieked through the air. It struck the holographic map with a wet thud, piercing the ethereal projection and embedding itself deep into the stone floor, directly where the glowing citadel had been. Nimka blinked, a fleck of ice clinging to her eyelashes. The projection flickered, then died, leaving only the poisoned arrow quivering in the stone. Through the shattered window, framed against the swirling snow, a colossal, scarred wolf with eyes like twin rubies stared directly at her. It was as large as a small horse, its fur a mangy patchwork of dark grey and frost-white. A terrifying grin stretched across its snout, revealing teeth like daggers. Karnak.

The Six-Legged Paperweight