I push open the library door.
The air inside feels heavier, dust and incense. The faint scent of old paper and candle wax clings to the shelves.
Behind the counter, the same woman who welcomed me the first time looks up from her desk. Her smile is polite, almost too gentle.
"Welcome," she says softly.
"Do you have any books about history, and the church?" I ask.
Her gaze lingers on me longer than expected. Then she nods.
"Not many,"she says. "But if you wish to see them, go to the second floor. To the back right. You'll find what you seek."
I thank her and climb the stairs. The wood creaks beneath my boots.
The shelves up here are different – darker, older, the air colder.
I start reading.
Old scriptures. Records of the Church's rise and collapse. Nothing new, just rewritten truths.
Then, one book catches my eye.
"The Fall of the Old Church."
The leather is cracked, the ink faded.
I open it.
It speaks of the Church's decline, how pride led to decay, how faith turned to obsession. And then… an incident.
The descent of a celestial being.
A Titan, they said. The first since the fallen king's age.
But the book ends not with history –with philosophy:
"If something exists once, it will always exist."
I close it slowly. The words echo inside my head like a riddle that refuses to die.
"Did you find what you were searching for?"
The voice makes me flinch.
She's standing beside me – the librarian, or maybe something else.
I didn't even hear her steps.
"Yeah," I say, forcing a small smile. "But I'm not satisfied with the answer."
"Then you should keep searching," she says. "The left side of this floor is for the heretics — old and new. Every cult ever recorded."
"Really? Thanks, miss."
I dive back into the shelves.
Day after day, I return. I read until nightfall, take small quests, come back again.
Four days pass in a blur of ink and parchment.
I find dozens of cults — all venerating the Morjen in one way or another.
But one catches my attention. An old one, almost erased.
They didn't kill without reason — only those with faith, they said. "Faith cannot coexist with comfort."
"This one is strange, isn't it?"
Her voice again. She's behind me, close enough for me to feel her breath.
I nearly jump. "Since when are you here?"
She smiles faintly. "Long enough to see you drown in questions."
Then her eyes darken. "Do not call faith absurd, young one. Not all faiths are kind but all are true to someone."
There's a strange sorrow in her tone, like she's scolding herself more than me.
"I'll let you continue your research," she whispers.
I nod, still uneasy. "Yeah… and thanks. For the advice."
I shake the thought away and reach for the last book on the shelf.
The cover is ancient, the leather nearly crumbling, corners eaten by rust.
No title. No author. Just a faint mark on the spine, the same symbol I saw once before, in the tower of the Empty city.