The Scholar's Quarter was a calm island in the middle of the busy Port Varrick sea. Its streets were narrower, quieter, and paved with worn, uneven stones instead of rough cobblestones. It was hidden behind the grand Merchant Guildhalls. The air here didn't smell like fish and brine; instead, it smelled like old books, ink, and the faint, sharp smell of alchemical reagents coming from the windows of the upper floors, where reclusive scholars worked.
The loud, busy energy of the port was replaced by a quiet, scholarly respect. But I could still feel the same watchful, calculating current that ran through the whole city. People still traded secrets here, but they did it in whispers instead of shouts.
The book's short description made it sound like it would be easy to find "Faded Tomes," but it took longer than that. The store wasn't on a busy street; it was on a winding side street that was almost hidden behind a taller, more prosperous-looking mapmaker's shop.
The windows were covered in years of dirt, making it hard to see inside, and the sign was a faded, hard-to-read script that said "Tomes." It looked like it had been left behind on purpose and was completely unremarkable. It was the perfect cover for a business that thrived on privacy.
We had debated the approach for hours the night before. Garrick, ever the protector, had argued vehemently for accompanying me inside, his imposing presence a deterrent. Seraphina, surprisingly, had supported him, worried about hidden traps or magical wards her Life Sense might detect. Rolan had simply volunteered to follow me anywhere.
But I overruled them. A minor lord browsing for rare books with a hulking bodyguard, a nervous servant, and a woman who radiated an unusual Aetheric signature was suspicious. A single, serious scholar seeking a specific text was just another Tuesday in this district.
Reluctantly, they agreed to my plan. Rolan and Garrick took up positions in a small, dingy tea house across the narrow street, its steamed-up windows offering a decent, if partially obscured, view of the shop's entrance. They looked utterly out of place among the stooped scholars and ink-stained apprentices, two wolves trying awkwardly to blend in with sheep, but their presence was a necessary, if hopefully unused, safety net. Seraphina remained at The Grey Anchor, her anxiety a palpable weight even across the distance.
I took a breath, settling my mind into the steady rhythm of the Two-Heart Cadence, and pushed open the bookshop door. A small, tarnished bell above tinkled mournfully, the sound swallowed instantly by the oppressive silence within. The interior was even more cluttered and labyrinthine than I had imagined.
Towering, crooked shelves crammed with books reached towards the shadowed ceiling, leaning at precarious angles, creating narrow canyons of parchment and leather. The air was thick and heavy, smelling strongly of decaying paper, mildew, and the faint, sweet scent of binding glue. Dust motes danced in the few shafts of weak sunlight filtering through the grimy windows.
At the very back of the shop, perched on a high stool behind a massive, scarred wooden desk piled high with open ledgers and even more books, sat the proprietor. He was exactly as the novel, and my memory, had depicted him: ancient, frail-looking, with a cascade of untidy white hair that fell into his face, and thick spectacles perched precariously on the end of his long, thin nose. He looked up slowly as I approached, his movements deliberate, almost creaky.
"Good day," he said, his voice a dry, reedy whisper that seemed to stir the dust. "A rare visitor. Can I help you find something specific among this chaos, or are you merely… browsing?" His eyes, magnified disturbingly by the thick lenses, were surprisingly sharp, intelligent, and held a weariness that spoke of centuries rather than decades.
"I am looking for a specific volume," I said, keeping my voice calm, respectful, projecting the demeanor of a genuine, slightly obsessive scholar. My heart hammered a steady, powerful rhythm against my ribs, the cadence my only anchor in the sudden, intense scrutiny. "A rather obscure text, I fear. I was told you might possess a copy. It is called 'The Mariner's Lament'."
The old man's expression didn't change. Not a flicker. He simply blinked, a slow, reptilian motion, his magnified eyes never leaving mine. "A sad tale," he rasped. "But a common one in a port city like ours. Tales of loss at sea… they fill half these shelves." He gestured vaguely with a thin, ink-stained hand. "Do you happen to know the author? It would help narrow the search."
This was it. The first part of the script. The test of legitimacy. He was probing, checking if I was merely fishing or if I possessed the true key. "I do not know the author," I replied, holding his gaze steadily. "My apologies. But I was given a line from it, by a colleague who recommended your esteemed establishment. A particular phrase, he said, to ensure I located the correct, unexpurgated edition." I paused, letting the silence stretch, feeling the weight of his assessment. Then, leaning forward slightly, as if sharing a scholarly confidence, I delivered the words. "Does the shadow still drink the tide?"
The old man didn't do anything for a full second. He just stared at me, and his sharp eyes seemed to peel back the layers of my carefully built facade to see what I really meant by what I said and the power that was humming under my skin. The air in the dusty store got thick and heavy with a professional threat that went unspoken, even though he looked weak. He was judging me, trying to figure out how strong I was, what my purpose was, and if I was worthy of the knowledge he was protecting. My Artisan-level Aether, which was usually a quiet hum that I kept under control, felt like a roaring bonfire when he looked at it closely. I could almost feel him writing down my Path, how strange it was, and how much it could do.
Then, almost imperceptibly, he gave a slow, deliberate nod. The corner of his thin lips quirked upward in something that might have been a smile, or perhaps just a twitch. "Ah," he said, his reedy voice taking on a new, harder, more business-like edge. The harmless scholar vanished in an instant. "That particular edition. Extremely rare. Highly sought after. It is kept in our… private collection." He slid off his high stool with surprising agility. "Follow me. And do try to keep up."
He led me not deeper into the chaotic maze of shelves, but towards what appeared to be a solid wall lined with identical, faded leather-bound volumes – likely false fronts. He ran a thin, bony hand along the spines of a specific row, his fingers seeming to count invisible markers. With a soft, grinding click that echoed in the silence, a section of the bookshelf swung smoothly inward, revealing a dark, narrow staircase descending into shadow. The air that wafted up was cool, sterile, smelling faintly of ozone and something metallic, utterly devoid of the shop's dusty, organic charm.
He gestured for me to precede him, his sharp eyes watchful. I descended into the darkness, the hidden door swinging shut behind me with another soft click, plunging the stairwell into near-total blackness before magical lights flickered to life along the stone walls. The staircase ended in a small, perfectly square, windowless chamber. The walls were smooth, featureless grey stone, emanating a faint Aetheric dampening field. The only furniture was a simple, heavy wooden table and two plain, hard chairs bolted to the floor. The transformation was complete. The jovial, harmless bookseller was gone. The man who gestured for me to sit was the Silent Hand, a broker of secrets, his eyes, now free of their magnifying lenses, as cold and calculating as sharpened steel.
"The fee for accessing the private collection is steep," he said, his voice now crisp, devoid of its earlier reedy quality. He sat opposite me, his posture erect, professional. "Information is not without cost, especially information that prefers to remain hidden. What is it you truly seek, Lord Ashworth?" He knew my name. Of course he did.