Wispyria Hollow
Wispyria Hollow Library was unlike any other.
No.
There was a reason why only one existed in this land. Like its name, there had been murmurs. Mixed tales of wonder from those who had taken the time to visit this sanctuary of stories. Yet, Amarion wondered if it was truly worth the hype.
“The library knows your soul,” many who had gone there claimed.
And yet, he had also witnessed how many entered with an intended book in mind, only to leave with something entirely different. Some seemed happy with their find, while others looked lost, even broken.
This was not Amarion’s homeland, but he was a traveler at heart. An adventurer and a dreamer who let the echoes from the East draw him here for he too, longed to see if the rumors were true. More than anything, he was eager to read 'The Vixen of the North.' The tale of a woman who made her career out of her...multiple partners.
It was a story told in every corner, yet stories had a way of changing with each telling. The mouths of men could add and remove, twist and reshape. So when Amarion heard there was a personal diary, one written by the Harlot herself, his hunger for truth led him here.
To the doors of Wispyria Hollow Library.
The Wispyria Hollow Library stood like a dark dream woven into reality. Its ivory stone and obsidian walls etched with glowing celestial runes. Stained glass windows cast prismatic light, while twin ebony doors adorned with shifting vine carvings, guarded the entrance. Copper spires, crowned with crystal orbs, hummed with an invisible energy. Enchanted braziers flickered with eternal blue fire. A winding cobblestone path, lined with softly glowing wildflowers, beckoned seekers of stories into its mystical embrace.
But there was a warning engraved upon the archway:
“Only the heart drowned in ink shall wake to wander where a thousand souls break.
Amarion moved to enter when a devastated figure stepped out of the building. He did not know the man, yet he could read the pain, the weariness not to forget the heartbreak an horror etched across his face.
“Be warned, do not go in,” the stranger advised, his voice hollow with something Amarion couldn’t quite name. But the warning only fed his curiosity, made it burn even brighter.
Ignoring the words, Amarion stepped inside.
And he could have sworn the library sighed, like it was tired of this curious minds.
The air carried the rich, unmistakable scent of old parchment, ink, and the lingering essence of stories both told and forgotten. Towering bookshelves, carved from ancient wood, stretched nearly to the ceiling, their tops vanishing into a haze of golden light filtering through arched stained-glass windows. The shelves bowed slightly under the weight of countless tomes. Some bound in cracked leather, others wrapped in delicate silk, their spines etched with faded gold lettering.
Despite the sheer volume of books, the library did not feel overwhelming but rather alive, humming with something like ancient magic. Not that he knew what that felt like. The floorboards whispered underfoot, their grooves worn smooth by generations of wandering souls. Dust swirled lazily in the air, catching the light like tiny fireflies, while chandeliers of entwined iron and crystal flickered with warm, golden luminescence.
Amarion took another step, then another, his breath catching in his throat, heart hammering between exhilaration and trepidation.
“Um, excuse me, I-” he started, only to be immediately silenced by a sharp, deliberate shush.
The sound came from a stout, elderly dwarf woman perched atop a rolling ladder, her thick brows knitting together in disapproval. Her deep-set eyes magnified absurdly by enormous round spectacles, peered at him with the scrutiny of someone who had seen too many fools disturb the sanctity of her beloved books.
Her long, silver-threaded dreadlocks were piled atop her head in a crown-like bundle, adorned with beads and tiny trinkets. Keys, quills, and what looked like a miniature hourglass. Her ink-stained robes draped over her compact frame, and though her face bore the wisdom of years, there was a fire in her eyes, a knowing mischief beneath her stern exterior.
“I just-” Amarion tried again.
Another more forceful shush followed, accompanied by a glare so piercing it could have turned parchment to ash.
With a dramatic huff, the librarian slid down the ladder, landing with the quiet precision of someone who had spent a lifetime navigating these shelves. She studied him over the rim of her glasses, pursed her lips, and after a long moment, reached into her pocket. With a surprising amount of force, she pressed a smooth, bronze plaque into his hands.
Then, without so much as a whisper, she turned on her heel and vanished between the towering shelves, her robes swishing like restless pages.
Amarion sighed, confused and lifted the plaque to read the words engraved upon it.
“THE STEPS REMEMBER; FOLLOW WHAT’S ALREADY WRITTEN.”
And before he could fathom the meaning of the words, he found himself turning right, slipping between the towering bookshelves. Shrugging off the strange feeling, Amarion decided it was best to explore.
Truly this place lived to it’s name. Every corner seemed to hold a mystery; hidden alcoves with velvet reading chairs, staircases winding into unknown levels, and ladders that have seemed to move on their own, waiting for the next seeker of knowledge. A hush, reverent yet expectant settled between the shelves, as if the library itself has been waiting for him.
By the time Amarion realized it, he was already ascending one of the ladders. And before he could blink, a book was already before him and his hand reaching or drawn to a worn leather spine.
He hadn’t even looked at the title.
The moment his fingers brushed the leather-bound tome, a sharp jolt surged through his hand. So sudden and searing, that his mind spun for a second. He felt an invisible force shoving him back. Or was he imagining things? Anyway, his balance wavered, the world tilting as the shelves stretched impossibly high, their edges blurring like a fever dream.
Then he was falling.
The ladder lurched away, or maybe it had never been steady. His breath hitched as he tumbled on the floor, the bookshelves warping around him, whispering in a language just beyond comprehension.
The book...that book...had fallen with him, landing just beside his outstretched hand. Its cover gleamed under the dim light, humming with something he swore he could feel.
He could swore that something pushed him or was it all just his mind playing tricks?
“Be warned, do not go in,”
The words of the heartbroken stranger rang in his mind. His breath came faster, his pulse thrumming in his ears but fear did not seize him. Curiosity did. Instead of runing away scared, he looked back at the book laying just an inch away from him and moved to pick it up. Only that this time, instead of feeling the zap, the tome had turned as heavy as a rock in his grasp.
Amarion swore under his breath as he strained his fingers, curling tighter around the ancient leather, yet it refused to budge. It was rooted to the floor like an unmovable relic. Exhaling a frustrated sigh he let his gaze drift across the book’s dust-laden cover. Barely visible beneath the dim library glow, the title shimmered into focus, as though surfacing from the depths of time.
“The Vixen of the North.”
The moment his lips formed the words, the book shuddered. The crushing weight lifted, the leather softening under his fingertips, no longer a burden but an invitation. As if it had been waiting for him to acknowledge it.
