The old book groans as I open it.
Dust drifts from the pages like falling ash. The smell is strange — not mold, not age — something metallic, like rust and blood mixed together.
The first lines are written in an uneven hand. The words twist around the parchment, spiraling as if whoever wrote them was afraid to let the sentences touch the margins.
It speaks of a cult that worships the Morjen.
But not like the others.
This one feels different — too personal, almost proud. The writer isn't talking about the cult. He is the cult. His tone bleeds with devotion and fear in equal measure.
And then I realize something else.
He never calls the Morjen a divinity. Not once.
He writes as if they are a people.
A race.
A community scattered across ages, existing somewhere between the living and the divine.
From them, there isn't one Morjen — but a multitude. An entire civilization hidden behind our reality.
My hands freeze on the page.
The ink seems to shimmer faintly under the light, like wet oil. I blink, and it's gone.
I keep reading.
The next part digs deeper, darker.
It says their true goal was never salvation.
Not redemption.
Not the return of a god.
Their purpose was knowledge — knowledge drawn from the "others."
From species beyond the human, from cursed bloodlines and forgotten beasts.
Knowledge of what makes power exist, and what lets it spread.
The writer describes rituals to study that power — to dissect, to imitate, to consume it.
"We learned from them, not to kneel, but to speak.
Not to pray, but to understand."
I stop.
My chest feels tight.
That means… they didn't worship the Morjen at all.
They tried to communicate with them.
Or maybe they served something else, something that even the Morjen feared.
A soft shiver runs through me. The room is cold, though no window is open.
I shut the book for a moment, fingers pressing into the leather. It feels warmer than before, as if it has its own pulse.
I stand, take a long breath, and walk toward the librarian's desk.
She's there, still writing, her quill whispering softly on parchment. When she looks up, her eyes catch the candlelight — golden for a second, then grey again.
"Can I borrow this book?" I ask, holding it carefully.
She studies it — no, she studies me.
Then she smiles. It's the same quiet, unsettling kindness as before.
"As long as you bring it back later," she says.
"Thank you," I answer.
"Of course," she murmurs, still smiling. "Knowledge finds its way to those who seek it. But it always asks for something in return."
Her tone lingers in my head as I leave.
The guild's hall is nearly empty now. Lamps flicker low, painting long shadows across the floor. I cross the marble, the sound of my boots echoing faintly.
Just as I reach the door, someone calls out.
"Izur!"
It's the receptionist — the young woman with the short braid and tired eyes. She waves me over.
"You forgot something?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "No. I just wanted to tell you — there's a rank-up exam tomorrow morning. If you don't take it now, the next one's in two weeks. Interested?"
A small pause. I glance at the book in my hand.
"Yeah," I say. "I'll take it."
"Good." She writes my name quickly in a ledger. "Be here at dawn. Don't be late."
"Got it."
She nods, satisfied, and waves me off. "Rest well, then. You'll need it."
Outside, the streets breathe a colder air. The mist has thinned since the attack, but it still curls in the corners like smoke that refuses to fade.
I head toward the market square — what's left of it. A few traveling merchants still set up under dim lanterns. I find one selling writing supplies: quills, glass bottles of ink, stacks of parchment, and thin leather-bound books.
"I'll take these," I tell him, choosing one of each.
He wraps them neatly. "You a scholar or a scribe?" he asks.
I hesitate. "Neither. Just someone who doesn't want to forget."
He chuckles. "Then you'll use them better than most."
The inn stands quiet when I return.
The lamps by the entrance flicker weakly, and the smell of stew drifts from the kitchen.
"Hey, Izur!" the innkeeper calls as soon as I step in. His voice is bright, familiar. "First time I see you coming this early. Something happen?"
I shake my head. "No. Just thought I'd rest a bit today."
He laughs - a deep, warm laugh that fills the room. "Hah! I thought you didn't even know the word 'rest.' Go on then, sit down. The chef's almost done cooking. You can eat soon."
"Thanks," I say, smiling faintly.
I climb the stairs to my room. The door closes behind me with a soft thud, muting the sounds of the inn.
I light a single candle on the desk. Its flame trembles against the shadows.
Then I take out the book I bought and set it down.
I open it to the first blank page and dip my quill into the ink.
The scent of iron fills the air again — memory or imagination, I don't know.
I start writing.
Page after page, I try to capture everything from my old notebook.
The sword forms. The runes. The fragments of rituals that still linger in my head. I draw each line, each sigil, careful not to lose them again.
Sometimes my hand moves faster than I think, sketching shapes I don't remember learning.
The candle flickers, bending the shadows into strange shapes.
I pause. For a heartbeat, I could swear I hear whispering –the faintest breath, like the sound of pages turning on their own.
I glance toward the window. It's closed.
Maybe it's just the wind.
I shake my head, breathe slowly, and go back to writing.
But even as the ink dries, the words on the page feel heavier than they should — as if they're remembering me instead.
When the candle burns low, I stop. The book is half-filled already, and my fingers are stained black.
I close it carefully.
Outside, the city is silent. Somewhere in the distance, the bell tolls once — a reminder of the hour.
Tomorrow at dawn, the exam.
But my thoughts stay tangled in what I read.
The Morjen weren't gods.
They were something closer and yet different.
And if they ever truly existed once…
then, as the book said, they still do.