Not polished white or artificial white—bleached, like old bone. Its spine had faint lines that looked like cracks, though the material didn't seem damaged. And there was no title. No author. No category tag. Not even a scan code.
Books in Creisleigh Hall always had scan codes.
Isadora frowned and reached her hand toward it.
Isadora frowned and reached toward it.
The moment her fingertip brushed the spine, a strange unease settled in her chest.
The shelf lights flickered once.
And the book gently clicked out of place, sliding forward into her hand with almost too much ease.
"…Okay," she whispered. "That's not creepy at all."
It was heavier than expected. Warm, too—like someone had just been holding it. She turned it over, checking for any markings, symbols, anything—
Nothing.
But when she opened it, the first page wasn't blank.
It held a single line of text, handwritten in ink so dark it looked like it had been carved:
But before she could make out the words, a soft echo drifted from deeper within the library.
At first she thought it was normal chatter. Students always wandered in and out. But this… wasn't wandering. The voices were sharp. Urgent. Close.
She snapped the book shut and pressed herself gently between two tall shelves.
Footsteps. Slow at first—then quicker, like someone pacing.
"…I told you it wasn't here," a male voice hissed. "How can you be so sure it's even in this wing?"
"I'm positive," another snapped back. "The archive logs were altered. Someone moved it."
Isadora's pulse spiked.
Moved what?
The footsteps stopped right at the mouth of her aisle. She held her breath so tightly her chest hurt.
"Check again," the first voice muttered.
Pages flipped somewhere beyond the shelf. They were searching the shelves. The books. Her aisle.
She pressed further into the shadows.
Then, abruptly, the language shifted—hard consonants, rolling vowels. Nothing she'd ever heard before. Not Lyria. Not anything from her coursework.
It felt ancient. Heavy. Like the kind of language used in rituals or forgotten oaths.
The voices grew more frustrated.
More books slammed shut.
"They'll notice soon," the second one said—this time in English again, voice tight with panic. "If the Head Archivist checks the logs—"
"Then we finish quickly," the other cut in. "Before anyone else realizes what was hidden."
Hidden?
Isadora's fingers tightened around the strange white book.
Were they looking for… this?
A soft thump sounded—like someone striking the shelf out of anger.
"Fine," one of them muttered. "Let's check the east alcove. If it's not there, someone's already taken it."
Their footsteps faded, swallowed by the library's vast silence.
Isadora exhaled shakily, stepping out only when she was certain they were gone.
Her hand trembled as she opened the white book again, turning to the second page.
This time the page held a symbol—simple, circular, like a crest or a seal. It wasn't any emblem used by Creisleigh Hall. It looked older. Out of place.
Under it, a single sentence curled in neat handwriting:
"Every myth is a warning. Every warning belongs to someone forgotten."
A chill slid down her spine.
This wasn't just an old fairy tale.
Someone was hiding something in the library.
Something people were willing to argue—and lie—for.
And the worst part?
Whatever they were looking for…
She was now holding something connected to it.
Isadora swallowed and turned the page again, careful, quiet.
Something slipped out from between the pages — a thin sheet of vellum, yellowed at the edges like it had survived centuries tucked away.
She crouched and picked it up.
A single word was written across it, bold and dark:
"Varenthal."
It wasn't a name or place she recognized.
But the moment she whispered it under her breath, she froze.
Because she had heard it.
One of the men, when they switched languages—
right before they stormed off—
had said something that sounded like:
"Va-ren-thal."
Her skin prickled.
What were the odds?
She angled the vellum toward the holo-light, noticing faint ink strokes beneath the word, like erased diagrams or runic shapes. Something hidden. Something someone hadn't wanted discovered.
But before she could study it—
Footsteps.
Not fading this time.
Returning.
Closer.
Her breath hitched. She shoved the vellum back into the book, slammed it shut silently, and tucked it under her arm.
The voices drifted into the aisle just behind her.
"…I told you we missed this section—"
"No. Someone was here."
A pause.
Her heartbeat skittered painfully.
"Check the end of the row," the second one murmured.
They were coming her way.
Isadora backed up slowly, clutching the strange book to her chest. Her shoulder brushed a loose ladder, making the metal creak—soft but deadly in the silence.
The voices sharpened.
"What was that?"
They were only a few shelves away.
With no choice, she slid sideways into the narrow maintenance gap between the back shelves—dark, dusty, barely wide enough to stand. The smell of old paper and metal filled her nose.
She held still.
Footsteps stopped right in front of her hiding place.
"I swear someone was here."
"Then where are they?"
A hand pushed books aside two shelves down. Another shelf rattled.
Isadora clenched her teeth, praying the pounding in her chest wasn't loud enough to hear.
She took one slow step back, then another—until her heel hit the small service door. She pushed. It slid open just enough for her to slip through.
She stepped into the archival corridor and quietly shut it behind her.
A final voice carried through the shelf gap
"If anyone took it… the Head will know."
Isadora didn't wait to hear more.
She ran.