Andreas knew something was wrong ever since he opened the book, the feeling of getting drawn in is unbearable
The book was older than the shelves that held it, its spine cracked and softened by time. The symbols inside were not written in any language Andreas knew, or should have known. They twisted like insects frozen mid-crawl, uneven and deliberate. He had been told to copy them exactly, nothing more. No understanding was required. No curiosity encouraged.
Yet as his eyes moved across the page, the meaning arrived.
Not slowly. Not painfully. It did not demand effort or interpretation. It simply settled into his mind, as if the words had always been there and he was only remembering them.
Andreas froze, charcoal hovering above the parchment.
This was not how reading worked.
He looked away at once, heart pounding, half-expecting the symbols to rearrange themselves or vanish. They did neither. When he looked back, the meaning came again—calm, structured, terrifyingly clear.
He swallowed and continued copying, more carefully now.
The archive occupied the lowest level of a half-collapsed chapel, its stone walls permanently cold and damp. Andreas slept there with permission—if one could call it permission. More accurately, he was tolerated. In exchange, he cleaned, copied texts, fetched ink, and kept his questions to himself.
He was good at that last part.
When his fingers cramped, he ignored it. When hunger crept in, he pushed it aside. The book mattered more and always did.
Other boys his age spent their days chasing coin or playing heroes. Andreas chased patterns. Causes. Explanations. He had learned early that knowledge was lighter to carry than hope.
A cough echoed down the corridor.
Master Ellion appeared between the shelves, his robe stained with ink and age. His eyes flicked to the book Andreas was copying, then to Andreas himself.
"You're still on that?" Ellion asked.
"Yes, sir."
Ellion frowned. "That script is not meant for children."
"I'm only copying," Andreas said. It was true. Mostly.
Ellion hesitated, then waved a hand dismissively. "Be quick. And don't strain yourself. Some texts… take more than they give."
When the man left, Andreas exhaled slowly. He had not lied. He had simply not explained.
Later that day, the bells rang.
A crowd gathered near the outer square—scholars, laborers, a few desperate families. Andreas followed at a distance, drawn by raised voices and the sharp scent of blood.
A man lay on the ground, unmoving. A healer knelt beside him, hands glowing faintly as flesh knit together where it had been torn. The wound closed. The bleeding stopped.
The man did not breathe.
The healer's face paled. She tried again, pouring more strength into the spell. Andreas watched closely—not the glow, but the healer herself. Her shoulders sagged. Her hands trembled.
Something invisible was being drained.
When it was over, the healer collapsed, alive but empty. The man on the ground remained dead.
Magic, Andreas thought, was not mercy. It was exchange.
No one else seemed to notice.
By evening, the square buzzed with a different kind of noise.
Posters had been nailed to the stone walls, freshly inked and heavily guarded. Andreas read one from a distance, memorizing every word.
The Lazarus Institution Of MagicEntrance Examination — Seasonal SelectionLineage verification required.Preparation recommended.
People laughed. Others scoffed. Some didn't bother looking.
"That place isn't for people like us," someone muttered.
Andreas didn't respond. He read the requirements again, slower this time. There were gaps. Assumptions. Things left unsaid.
Those were always the most important parts.
That night, back in the archive, Andreas reached for a different shelf.
The book resisted him.
Not physically—but something about it felt wrong to touch, like pressing against a thought that refused to be finished. A warning was scratched into its cover, uneven and hurried.
Do not pursue comprehension beyond capacity.
Andreas' pulse steadied.
Capacity, he thought, was a measurement people used when they were afraid to test limits.
He opened the book.
For a brief moment, he thought he saw another word beneath the ink, something crossed out so violently it had torn the page.
A name.
It meant nothing to him.
And yet, his hands did not shake.
Much later, long after the candles burned low, Andreas sat alone between the shelves.
He understood now that knowledge was not granted. It was taken, or it took you. The difference was subtle, and it decided everything.
The Lazarus would never want him.
That was fine.
Andreas folded the notice away carefully.
Not as a promise, but as a future problem.