A walk in the Nightside

Chapter 27: Into the Library

Michael stood before the towering obsidian doors of the Public Library, his heart pounding as he willed himself forward. Every instinct screamed at him to turn back, but his resolve hardened. If he was going to survive the Nightside and the escalating threat of the Pembrokes, he needed answers. The library was his best shot, even if it came with its own dangers.

He took a deep breath and stepped inside.

The moment he crossed the threshold, the oppressive weight pressing against him vanished. The air became light, crisp, and almost refreshing. Michael hesitated, glancing back at the now-closed doors behind him. Whatever had been gnawing at his mind outside, whispering doubts and amplifying his fears, had been silenced the moment he entered.

"Great," he muttered, taking a tentative step further into the library's grand foyer. "Already playing mind games."

The interior was breathtaking. Endless shelves stretched upward into an impossible ceiling, vanishing into a dim haze of floating lights and shifting shadows. The architecture was maddening, a labyrinth of twisting staircases, floating platforms, and corridors that seemed to shift as he watched. The scent of ancient paper and leather filled the air, mixed with something sharper, like ozone.

Librarians moved among the shelves, their forms shrouded in flowing robes that concealed their features. They moved with unnerving grace, their footsteps silent despite the vastness of the space. Occasionally, they paused to regard Michael with what he could only assume was disapproval—or curiosity—before continuing their work.

Michael shivered. Whatever the librarians were, he didn't want to draw their attention.

He approached a large, circular desk in the center of the room, its surface carved with intricate runes that pulsed faintly. A single librarian stood behind it, their robed figure motionless.

"Excuse me," Michael said cautiously. His voice echoed in the cavernous space, drawing the librarian's hooded head toward him. Though he couldn't see their face, he felt their attention sharpen.

"I'm looking for books or information on magic—specifically constructs, runes, and spells tied to animating things. Like puppets. Or proxies." He paused, then added, "And their creators."

The librarian didn't respond immediately. Their gloved hand extended toward a blank slate embedded in the desk. The surface glowed faintly, displaying lines of strange text that shifted and blurred before settling into something legible.

"Research fee required," the text read.

Michael winced, patting his coat. He pulled out a handful of Nightside currency, placing it on the desk. The librarian's hand hovered over the coins before they vanished without a sound.

The slate changed, displaying a single glowing arrow. It pointed toward one of the many twisting staircases leading deeper into the library.

"Thanks," Michael muttered, though he wasn't sure the librarian cared—or even heard him.

The arrow guided him through the library's maze, past shelves filled with books that pulsed faintly with their own energy. Some whispered as he passed, their voices low and seductive, tempting him to stop and open them. He resisted the urge, keeping his focus on the arrow that led him further and further into the depths of the library.

After what felt like hours, he arrived at a section of the library labeled Constructive Magics & Animative Runes in flowing script. The air here was heavier, charged with an energy that made his skin tingle. The shelves were packed with ancient tomes, their bindings cracked and their pages yellowed with age.

"Alright," Michael said, rolling up his sleeves. "Time to get to work."

Finding the right information proved harder than he'd anticipated. The books were dense, their pages filled with cryptic symbols and convoluted explanations. Some tomes required him to trace runes on their covers before they would open, and even then, their contents seemed to shift and change, forcing him to reread sections multiple times.

One book burst into flames the moment he opened it, vanishing in a puff of acrid smoke. Another emitted a low, guttural growl, snapping itself shut and refusing to open again.

"Great," Michael muttered, slamming a particularly stubborn tome shut. "Just great."

His swarm buzzed faintly, and he sent a few scouts to explore the shelves, their tiny forms darting between the books in search of anything useful. One by one, they returned, their messages vague and unhelpful.

Hours passed, and frustration mounted. Michael leaned against a table, rubbing his temples as his tired eyes scanned yet another page of indecipherable text. But then, finally, a breakthrough.

A thin, unassuming book caught his attention, its cover blank except for a single glowing rune. When he opened it, the text was clear—almost unnervingly so. It detailed the creation and use of animated proxies, including the exact method for etching runes to imbue them with lifelike qualities.

The diagrams matched what he'd seen on the puppet remains. The runes were intricate, requiring a level of skill and precision far beyond most magic users. Whoever had created the puppets was a master.

The book also mentioned a rare ingredient required for the process: Shadowroot, a magical herb found only in the deepest, most dangerous parts of the Nightside. Its presence confirmed something important—these constructs hadn't been made casually. The effort, resources, and skill involved pointed to someone with significant power and influence.

Michael's stomach churned as he flipped to the last section of the book. It described a failsafe built into the puppets—a self-destructive spell that could be triggered remotely, ensuring the creator's identity remained hidden.

"Of course," he muttered, closing the book with a sigh.

His swarm alerted him to movement nearby, and he froze. A librarian stood at the edge of the aisle, their hooded head tilted as though observing him. Michael straightened, clutching the book tightly.

"Do you require further assistance?" the librarian asked, their voice a soft whisper that seemed to echo from everywhere at once.

"No," Michael said quickly. "I think I've got what I need."

The librarian lingered for a moment before gliding silently away, disappearing into the maze of shelves.

Michael exhaled, tucking the book under his arm. He had what he came for—answers, or at least the start of them. But as he made his way back toward the exit, he couldn't shake the feeling that the library wasn't finished with him yet.

As Michael left the library, the oppressive weight that had settled on him the moment he entered started to lift. The ancient, sentient space had given him what he needed, but there was still so much to uncover. The knowledge he'd gleaned was just a start—he had pieces of the puzzle, but not the full picture. His thoughts drifted to Madame Yelza, the Crone who controlled so much of the forbidden knowledge in Dead Town.

She was always one step ahead, always a bit too elusive, and always tied to the very things he needed to survive in the Nightside. Shadowroot—the rare and dangerous ingredient that fueled the Pembrokes' puppets, and possibly their whole network—was within her reach. If anyone knew where to find it, it was her.

Michael paused on the library's doorstep, glancing back at the looming structure. The path before him seemed endless, but at least the library's dark presence no longer clung to him. He'd left the heart of the Nightside's secrets behind for now, but he still had to figure out where the hell Madame Yelza was hiding.

He already knew where to find her—Dead Town, the heart of the city's decay. A fitting home for someone like Yelza. The whole area was a graveyard of sorts, where life and death blurred together. Only the dead, or those who trafficked in forbidden powers, felt at home here.

Michael had been there a few times before, passing through the shambles of abandoned homes and crumbling buildings that had once stood proud. But Yelza's place was different—it stood dark and imposing, surrounded by a network of wards and curses that kept most people out. Those who weren't welcome didn't tend to leave alive, and those who tried to outsmart her usually found themselves at the mercy of her formidable magic.

He had a lot of things to figure out—how to confront the Pembrokes, how to deal with the threats they posed, and how much of the Nightside's darkness he could survive without losing his mind. But Madame Yelza could help him with one thing: information.

The walk to Dead Town felt longer than it should have, though Michael knew the area well enough to navigate its streets. The Nightside always had a way of making every step feel like an eternity, especially with the shadows pressing in from every direction.

As he neared the edge of Dead Town, the air grew colder. The streets here were littered with broken cobblestones, and the scent of decay hung thick in the air. Abandoned cars lined the edges of the roads, their glass shattered and interiors empty, a ghostly reminder of a time before the Nightside's grip on the world had taken full hold. In the distance, the silhouette of Madame Yelza's home stood like a monument to something long dead—a dark fortress of stone that seemed to absorb all the surrounding light.

Michael stood outside the house for a moment, feeling the familiar sense of dread creep up his spine. The house itself seemed to pulse with a strange energy, as though the very walls were alive. The windows were boarded up, and the door was a massive, weathered thing, covered with runes that Michael could feel even from the street.

He reached for the vial he had taken from the library. The cool glass felt heavy in his hand, and though he didn't fully understand its purpose yet, he knew it was important. It could be the key to finding Shadowroot—and the key to understanding who was really pulling the strings behind the Pembrokes.

Taking a deep breath, he walked up the creaky stone steps to the door. The moment his foot touched the first step, a feeling of unease washed over him—something was watching him. He glanced around, but the streets were still, empty except for the usual haze of fog that clung to Dead Town.

With a steadying breath, Michael knocked on the door. The sound echoed through the silence, far louder than he'd expected. For a long moment, nothing happened. Then, with a low creak, the door opened just a crack. Michael couldn't see anything through the gap, but he could feel a presence on the other side, waiting.

"Come in," a voice rasped from within, and Michael didn't hesitate. He stepped through the door, his eyes adjusting to the dim light inside. The room was cluttered with ancient artifacts, scrolls, and books, all stacked in haphazard piles. The air smelled of incense and something older—something powerful.

Madame Yelza stood before him, her appearance as unsettling as always. Her face was shrouded by shadows, but her eyes glinted with an ancient light, cold and calculating. She watched him closely, as if measuring every move he made.

"You come asking for something," she said, her voice thick with age and power. "I know what you seek. But everything has a price in Dead Town, Michael."

He stepped closer, unfazed by her presence. "I need information," he said. "I need to know about Shadowroot and the ones who trade in it."

Yelza's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, Michael thought she might refuse him. But then she smiled, a sharp and knowing grin. "Shadowroot," she repeated, rolling the word over her tongue. "A rare and dangerous thing. Many come seeking it, but few live to tell the tale."

"I'm not here to waste your time," Michael said, his voice steady. "I need to know where it's being traded. Who has access to it. The Pembrokes are using it to control their puppets, and I need to understand how they're connected to it."

Madame Yelza tilted her head slightly, her gaze shifting to something behind him, and Michael couldn't help but feel that she was reading him in ways that went far beyond what he could see.

"You've stumbled onto something dangerous," she said softly, almost as though to herself. "The Pembrokes… They play with forces they can't understand. But they're not the only ones, Michael. If you want to learn about Shadowroot, you'll have to dig deeper. Into places you aren't ready to go."

Michael clenched his fists. "I'm ready," he said, though a part of him questioned whether he truly was.

Yelza's smile deepened, her lips curling into something predatory. "Very well. But remember this—when you seek knowledge here, you also invite the consequences. You can't walk away from this without losing something."

Michael exhaled, steeling himself. He'd come this far. He wasn't going to stop now.

"I'm ready for whatever comes next," he said.

"Good," Madame Yelza replied, her eyes gleaming. "Then let's see what price you're willing to pay."

With that, Yelza reached out and handed him a small, intricately carved box. "Inside, you will find what you need. But be warned—nothing in this city comes without a cost, Michael. This is the beginning, not the end."