My eyes snapped open to reveal a scene that defied all logic. I stood rooted to a circular stage of polished marble, surrounded by towering pillars that stretched upward in every direction as far as I could see. Hundreds of them, perhaps thousands, formed a perfect circle around me, disappearing into a hazy distance that my eyes couldn't quite see past.
Curious and more than a little traumatized, I tilted my head back to gaze at the ceiling of this impossible place. What I saw made my breath catch in my throat.
Suspended above me was the book—the very same one I'd seen in my visions and later on on the podium, now enormous, floating in midair. Its brown leather cover, the golden spine and lettering shining with golden light that seemed to rain down on me.
The words on the cover shimmered into focus, each letter burning itself into my retinas:
Order of Scribes.
"Order of Scribes?" I whispered, my voice echoing strangely in this vast space. I attempted to move, to step forward and investigate, but discovered my feet were firmly anchored to the ground. Looking down, I saw delicate golden threads wrapped around my ankles, securing me in place like some rare butterfly pinned to a display board.
"Welcome, Felix Serendipity," a voice called out, smooth and charming, I didn't know a fair comparison but if I had to choose the voice of an incubus that would be it.
I jerked my head toward the source, my eyes finally focusing on a figure seated atop one of the nearest pillars. A man with silver hair that cascaded down his shoulders to the edge of his back, golden eyes that mirrored my own, and a staff of polished brown wood clenched in one hand. His robes seemed to be changing colors constantly, never quite settling on one hue.
My gaze darted to another pillar, where another figure sat watching me with the same golden eyes. Then another, this one a woman with flowing black hair. And another—a man with a closely cropped beard. And another—a woman whose skin seemed to glow from within.
Pillar after pillar, figure after figure, each with those distinctive golden eyes that marked them as... as what, exactly? I spun slowly, counting as I went. At least four hundred, perhaps five hundred in total, split nearly evenly between men and women of all ages, all races, all time periods judging by their varied attire.
"Who the hell are you guys?" I demanded, finding I could still move my arms freely despite my tethered feet. I gestured wildly, feeling panic begin to bubble up in my chest.
The silver-haired man tilted his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth that could only be described as unsettling. "Why haven't you figured it out?" he asked, his voice carrying effortlessly across the impossible distance.
"No, I haven't," I snapped, frustration momentarily overriding my fear. "So could you tell me?"
"We are Scribes," the silver-haired man announced, his voice swelling to fill the chamber, "just like you, Felix. We are the Order of Scribes!"
"Uh huh," I replied skeptically, "and who are you exactly?"
The man's smile widened, revealing teeth that seemed too perfect, too white. "I'm Merlin, the strongest of all Scribes."
"Debatable," called another voice from a distant pillar, drawing a flash of irritation across Merlin's face.
"Merlin?" I echoed, the name sending a jolt through me. It couldn't possibly be the Merlin, could it? The legendary wizard from King Arthur's court? Maybe just someone with the same name?
"No, no," Merlin replied, his smile returning with double the intensity. "I'm the very same you are thinking about."
Great, they can read my mind, I thought, feeling my stomach drop.
"Indeed we can," chimed in a woman with fiery red hair from another pillar. "The grimoire only protects your mind from being tampered with by regular wizards, like that Dumbledore guy, seriously he tried it three times, talk about invasive."
Dumbledore tried to read my mind? Yeah that could be a problem, I needed to learn occlumency and legilimency quick.
"Well, this is great," I sighed, resisting the urge to roll my eyes despite my rising anxiety.
"Indeed it is, Felix," Merlin said, his eyes glittering with an enthusiasm that was becoming increasingly unnerving. "For you see, hundreds of thousands of years ago, the first Scribe was born—the first wizard. You are this age's Scribe, a wizard who appears every few hundred years with the ability to will magic into existence, as long as he understands it, that is."
I digested this information, trying to make sense of it all. Was this why my magic worked differently? Why I could simply say "I Cast" and make things happen? Why I could sense the magic in objects, in creatures, in people?
"Well, that doesn't really explain much," I replied, hoping to prod more information out of him.
As I spoke, I tested the golden threads binding my feet, wondering if there might be a way to break free. The threads merely tightened in response, sending a tingling sensation up my legs—not painful, but certainly a warning.
"Of course it wouldn't," Merlin conceded with a dismissive wave of his hand. "All you need to know is this, Felix, just think of this spellbook," he pointed to the massive book floating above us, "and it will reveal itself to you. As for the Room of Requirement, take it as a gift from one Scribe to another."
The Room of Requirement? Was that what Tillery had called the Come and Go Room? Questions crowded my mind, each more urgent than the last.
"Finally," groaned another voice from the assembly—an elderly man with a silver beard that rivaled Dumbledore's. "Seriously, keeping this connection with the land of the living is unnecessarily hard."
Several murmurs of agreement rippled through the gathered Scribes. It seemed their patience was wearing thin, though for what, I couldn't say.
Before I could ask another question, I felt the golden threads begin to move again. They climbed up my body like living things, encircling my legs, wrapping around my torso, snaking up my neck. I tried to struggle, but it was futile—the threads moved silently and quickly.
No matter my protests, no matter my magic I could do nothing but watch, this time slightly less horrified than the last.
My head was forced upward, compelled to look once more at the grimoire hovering above. My mind remembering every detail I could see.
Through the rising panic, I heard Merlin's voice one last time, clear as a bell despite the chaos.
"Learn all you can, young Scribe. I want to see how many new spells you can add."
The threads reached my eyes, hovering there for one terrible moment before plunging forward. Pain lanced through my head as they pierced my golden irises, and darkness crashed over me like a wave.
The last thing I said were two simple words.
"Fuck migraines."