Chapter 50

“If… If this is supposed to be some grand challenge that escalates every day for ten years, then why do I typically only face one adversary each night?”

“That is a common misconception.” Lumivis’s voice was level, yet edged with something I couldn’t quite place—mild exasperation, perhaps. “Each night, the challenge grows, yes, but it must remain within your reach. The library does not know the full scope of what is ‘doable’ for you, not until you push your limits. Until you escalate in power, you won’t encounter anything beyond what you faced with that knight.” A pause, then, with a sharper tone: “That aside, why haven’t you allocated the miasma you harvested from it into your cores?”

“I, uh…” My throat tightened. I swallowed. “I don’t know how.”

Lumivis exhaled sharply, the kind of sigh reserved for particularly dense pupils. “This is precisely why I despise that thrice-damned hermit, Archimedes. You read the process, but instead of simply knowing it, you’re left fumbling. That is the flaw of his method—his wisdom isn’t a key; it’s a locked door waiting for you to find the right handle. But once you do, your efficiency will be unmatched.” A beat. “The highest recorded contractor with the Hangman’s Willow reached one hundred and thirty percent efficiency. The lowest? Just a smidge over one hundred.”

I nodded along, absorbing the information. “Yeah… I have no idea how to even begin. I know it’s not painting, it’s not math. Judging by how I feel when using a bow, it’s not archery either.”

“Then consider something closer to your own Truth.” Lumivis’s voice softened, turning pensive. “What is yours again? Everything has a price? Have you tried applying that principle? The simple act of buying and selling?”

I blinked. “…No? But even if I could, it’s not like I can do that here.”

“Here? No. But you are in a library that houses myth and legend. A place where history comes to die and fiction comes to life. The answers you seek are all written somewhere within these halls. Try thinking of a market—a central market—and walk forward.”

Something in Lumivis’s voice carried the weight of certainty, and so, I did as instructed. Closing my eyes, I envisioned a bustling trade square. Crowds thronged in narrow streets, merchants haggled over exotic wares, gossip and laughter wove through the air like an ever-present melody. I could see it vividly—the thieves slinking through the alleys, the old women picking through fruit stalls, the scent of fresh fish mingling with spiced meats.

When I opened my eyes, expecting only the darkness of my aura’s sight, I found myself standing in a city of eternal twilight.

Two suns hung in the sky—one low on the eastern horizon, the other mirroring it in the west. The entire town was locked in an endless cycle of sunrise and sunset. The street before me stretched impossibly far, lined with thousands of stalls, shops, and services.

And among them, in a lavishly adorned space, danced a woman—or rather, something far more dangerous.

A demoness.

Her skin was a sun-kissed bronze, her hair spilling in silken waves down to her ankles. Three long, supple tails ended in sultry, heart-shaped tips, swaying hypnotically with her every movement. Her attire was… well, barely attire at all. And her dance? As evocative as it was calculated, designed to sell something far more costly than mere gold.

I exhaled slowly, forcing myself to look away, to steady the rising heat in my face. Remember where you are. Remember what’s at stake.

“My soul is on the dinner plate here, isn’t it?” I muttered under my breath.

Lumivis chuckled. “No, not here. In the library proper? Yes. But this—this is different. You stand in Vassago’s Market. Pros: You don’t have to fear violence here. Cons: Every single soul in this market wants to cheat you out of something. And once you run out of currency, you are thrown out.”

“…Currency?” I frowned. “I barely have any Waxing Bronze to my name.”

Lumivis hummed in amusement. “You’re actually very wealthy here. You provide a service that few others can match. And in Vassago’s domain, everyone knows exactly what everyone else has to offer. Look at someone—anyone.”

I followed the instruction, turning to a man whose physique was… unconventional. Five arms—three on his left side, two on his right. Above his head, words materialized in glowing script: [Information Broker]

I glanced at another—a humanoid raccoon with three separate heads. Over each head, different titles appeared: [Arms Dealer] [Blacksmith] [Gunsmith]

Lumivis continued, his tone instructive. “As you can see, each individual has an intrinsic value. Money means nothing to the Lord of the Lost—for money is both lost and gained all the time. But what can never be reacquired once spent?”

I already knew the answer. I smiled, reciting the old riddle:

‘I am lost, but never acquired. I am always ahead of you, yet always at your back. I am measured, but I am an illusion. I am an illusion, yet I am the only inevitability. What am I?’

“Time.” I finished, the word carrying the weight of realization.

Memories of my father surfaced—his lessons, always tied to riddles, to the trades, to the crafting of value. I had never paid them much heed. I had always wanted out—out from the suffocating warmth of my family, out from their expectations. I loved them, I truly did, but they were too much. Overbearing. Unyielding.

“…What do people see when they look at me?” I asked.

“Historical Acquisitions.”

I stiffened.

Lumivis chuckled. “Oh, and by the way—you have five people behind you, trying to get your attention.”

I turned slowly.

There were no five individuals. There was one.

A mass of small, furred bodies—each no taller than my waist. They had long, meticulously groomed beards, whiskers twitching as they regarded me with beady, intelligent eyes. Their tails were entwined, braided together into a singular, writhing knot.

A King of Rats.

All the bodies spoke at once, in eerie unison. “Greetings, sir. Your title claims you deal in Historical Acquisitions. Might we inquire what that entails?”

I glanced at Lumivis. “How valuable is a secret here?”

“None.” His response was immediate. “For our host—the Lord of the Lost—knows all things hidden. Secrets are forgotten once you leave and remembered only upon return.”

Convenient.

I turned back to the King of Rats. “I enter books,” I said simply. “Whether they be history or myth, I retrieve items of value from within them. I do not control what I bring back, only that it is determined by the belief held in the text.”

Lumivis quickly interrupted me. “Sir, might I suggest you focus on stage plays, given your shell’s name?”

I raised a brow. “Apparently, I specialize in plays. Historical or otherwise.”

Fascinating.

And in a place where everything had a price, I had the means to trade in something far more valuable than gold.

I had stories.

The King of Rats, a singular entity woven from the entwined bodies of his five smaller selves, nodded in unison. His whiskers twitched, eyes gleaming with an intelligence honed by countless deals made in the hidden corners of the world. “If you would follow me, sir, we can discuss this matter in a more discreet location.”

I glanced at Lumivis, who simply gave a small nod of approval. There was little reason to be suspicious—the market’s rules forbade violence. The only danger here was the kind you willingly walked into.

With a smooth gesture, the King of Rats turned, his collective bodies moving in eerie synchronization. The long, interwoven tails slithered against the cobbled street like the unraveling of a grand tapestry. The scent of spice, ink, and something old—something forgotten—clung to the air as we passed by merchants hawking wares both mundane and arcane. My eyes flickered over their titles, just as Lumivis had taught me.

[Relic Trader] [Curse Forger] [Memory Weaver] [Puppetsmith] [Fleshcrafter]

The names whispered of power and temptation, but I had no time for distractions. Instead, I focused on the King of Rats as he led us deeper into Vassago’s Market.

The alley he chose was narrow, nestled between two impossibly tall buildings that defied natural architecture. Dim lanterns, burning with an unnatural blue flame, cast jagged shadows against the stone walls. The noise of the market dulled here, as if the sound itself hesitated to intrude.

The King of Rats turned, his five mouths speaking in harmony. “Here, we may discuss freely.” He gestured toward a set of wooden crates, a makeshift seating arrangement.

I took a seat, crossing my arms. “So, what’s the story you’re interested in?”

The King of Rats’ many faces smiled, though it was less reassuring and more the kind of smile one might expect from a creature that always had the upper hand in negotiations. “We seek you to enter a particular play, one that has been lost to time. The Dagger and the Dancer. It was once a renowned tragedy, performed in the grandest of theaters, only to fade into obscurity after a single performance.”

“A one-time performance?” I frowned. “That’s unusual. What happened?”

“Ah.” The King’s eyes glimmered with amusement. “That is the mystery, is it not? Some say the playwright sold his soul to make it the most perfect tragedy ever written. Others claim the actors themselves disappeared after the final act, vanishing from the world entirely. What is certain is that no full script has ever been recovered, only fragmented accounts.”

“And you want me to enter this lost play and retrieve something from it?” I leaned forward.

“Precisely,” the King said, his five heads nodding in eerie unison. “We do not seek the play itself, nor its script. No, what we desire is the Final Prop. The dagger used in the performance—an artifact that transcends fiction and reality. The stories say that whatever role the dagger plays in a story becomes truth. If it is wielded in betrayal, the betrayal becomes absolute. If it is used in sacrifice, the sacrifice is eternal.”

I inhaled sharply. That was a dangerous object, the kind of thing that could upend entire kingdoms if placed in the wrong hands.

Lumivis, who had remained silent until now, finally spoke. “A powerful item. And one with a steep cost, I assume.”

The King of Rats chuckled, his voices overlapping in a discordant melody. “Indeed. But that cost is not ours to bear—it is yours.”

Of course it was. I exhaled, rubbing my temples. “And what do I get in return?”

The King’s tails twitched. “Ah, now we come to the heart of the matter. We are prepared to offer you an item of equal weight. You deal in historical acquisitions, yes? Then perhaps you would be interested in the Quill of Echoes.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Never heard of it.”

The King’s whiskers twitched. “A pity. It once belonged to the Chronicler of Lost Ages. Anything written with it does not fade, does not burn, and—most importantly—cannot be erased, not even by time itself.”

I exchanged a glance with Lumivis. That was… an incredible offer. The ability to inscribe something into history permanently? To ensure that knowledge, once written, would never be lost?

“You’re saying that if I retrieve this dagger, you’ll give me the quill?” I clarified.

The King of Rats grinned, revealing sharp little teeth. “That is our offer, yes.”

I leaned back, considering. The play, The Dagger and the Dancer, was a mystery in and of itself, and entering a lost work carried its own risks. But if I wanted to master my arte, to grow beyond my current limits, then this was exactly the kind of challenge I needed.

Lumivis tilted his head. “Alexander, if you accept, I suggest we prepare thoroughly. Lost stories have their own rules, their own dangers.”

I nodded. “Yeah. I need to be ready.”

Turning my gaze back to the King of Rats, I extended my hand. “You have a deal.”

The moment our hands met, the alley darkened, the world around us shifting as unseen threads began to weave a new stage into existence.

The play was about to begin.

***

The scraps of paper I was given started glowing. My speed reading took effect. Very little dialogue survived. 

A Tragedy in Four Acts

Set in a fantasy Victorian world, where grand estates loom over misted streets, where opulence and sorrow walk hand in hand. The tale unfolds in the city of Eldermere, a place of masked balls and whispered conspiracies, where the beastkin nobility—wolf lords, fox courtiers, and stag-knights—play their dangerous games of power and passion.

Dramatis Personae:

Valère: A young wolfkin noble, heir to House D’Aubric, torn between duty and love.

Celeste: A foxkin dancer, radiant and untamed, beloved by the city’s underbelly yet forever distant from nobility.

Margrave Bellamont: Valère’s father, a towering wolfkin with steel-gray fur, cold and calculating.

Lady Saphirine: A pantherkin noblewoman, betrothed to Valère, a woman as sharp as the knives she hides in her silks.

Lucien: A deerkin playwright, Celeste’s closest friend, whose quill writes the world’s tragedies.

The Masked Stranger: An enigmatic figure, neither ally nor enemy, who guides fate’s hand.

The Dagger: More than a prop, more than steel—it is a force of destiny, weaving truth into legend.

ACT I: The Masquerade and the Moonlight

(The Grand Ballroom of House D’Aubric. Chandeliers gleam, strings and harpsichords sing. The beastkin nobility whirl in silken gowns and gilded coats, their laughter hollow beneath their masks. Outside, the commoners press their faces to the frosted windows, watching a world they will never enter.)

Scene 1: Valère and Celeste’s Meeting

• Valère, masked and weary of expectation, steps away from the dance to the balcony. He is met by Celeste, a performer hired for the evening, though she refuses to dance for the lords and ladies. Their eyes meet. A conversation of longing and impossibility begins.

• Celeste, knowing the danger, speaks in riddles and laughter. Valère, entranced, plays along.

Scene 2: A Waltz of Defiance

• As the music swells, Valère pulls Celeste into a waltz before the assembled nobility. A scandal. A challenge. His betrothed, Lady Saphirine, watches with cold fury.

• The Margrave whispers to his advisors: "This cannot be allowed."

Scene 3: The Dagger’s First Glimpse

• A shadow watches from above—a Masked Stranger, unseen but ever-present. In their gloved hand, the Dagger gleams under the candlelight. Destiny stirs.

ACT II: Beneath the Gaslight, Behind the Curtain

(A moonlit street in Eldermere’s artist quarter. The air is thick with the scent of rain and ink. A crumbling theater stands against the storm, where Celeste practices alone, unaware of her audience.)

Scene 1: Lucien’s Warning

• The playwright warns Celeste of her foolishness. “You do not belong in their world. To them, you are a passing amusement. To their fathers, you are an inconvenience that must be erased.”

• Celeste refuses to believe love can be shackled by class and duty.

Scene 2: A Lover’s Oath

• Valère finds Celeste at the empty theater, professing love, swearing defiance. “Let me fall from grace, let me become nothing, so long as I am yours.”

• Celeste, torn, places a hand upon his heart. “To dance upon the edge of ruin—are you so willing?”

• The Masked Stranger watches from the rafters, the Dagger in hand.

Scene 3: A Duel in the Fog

• The Margrave has sent enforcers, led by Lady Saphirine.

• Valère fights, refusing to return home. Celeste, unseen, witnesses the bloodshed and the man he becomes in her name.

• Saphirine whispers as Valère stands victorious: “Love has made you cruel. Love has made you reckless. How long before it makes you a monster?”

ACT III: The Stage is Set, the Knife is Drawn

(The Theater of Eldermere, its grand reopening. Nobles and commoners alike gather for Lucien’s new play. Celeste takes center stage, her finest performance yet—though none know it is also her last.)

Scene 1: The Lovers’ Final Night

• Valère and Celeste plan to run. Eldermere is a gilded cage, and the world beyond calls to them.

• “One final dance,” Celeste says. “One final step before we leave.”

Scene 2: A Play within a Play

• The tragedy onstage mirrors their own—a tale of forbidden love, a dagger’s betrayal. The audience watches, breathless.

• The Masked Stranger steps forward from the wings, placing the real dagger in Celeste’s hand.

Scene 3: The Betrayal

• Valère, seated among the nobles, watches in horror as Celeste performs the final act. The dagger finds her heart—not a prop, not illusion, but cold steel.

• The audience gasps, applauds, unaware of truth. The curtain falls.

ACT IV: The Curtain Falls, the Echo Remains

(The streets of Eldermere, slick with rain. The theater stands silent, its doors locked forevermore.)

Scene 1: Valère’s Wrath

• He storms the Margrave’s estate, the dagger in hand. “You killed her.”

• “No,” the Margrave says. “You did.”

• The truth strikes deep—his love was the spark, his defiance the blade.

Scene 2: The Last Dance

• Valère returns to the abandoned theater, where Lucien waits.

• A final waltz, alone. A final step toward ruin.

Scene 3: The Masked Stranger’s Revelation

• The Stranger removes their mask. Beneath, Celeste’s face—ageless, sorrowful.

• “A story must end as it was written,” she whispers. “But some stories are meant to be told again.”

• The Dagger vanishes. The stage is empty.