Enzo stepped into the mist and felt its icy tendrils condense on his skin. The next moment he was inside the Library’s foyer, an impossibly vast antechamber about one hundred feet wide and nearly a quarter mile long, its marble walls carefully chiseled in precise neoclassical proportions. At intervals along the broad walls stood colossal marble statues, representing the Library's various Collections: World & Geography, Natural Philosophy, Visual Arts, and so on.

The dimensions seemed otherwordly, but it was not surprising. It was long established that the aggregate volume of arcane energy distorted space and time; the Library did not obey ordinary physics.

The ceiling above was bewitched to show a star-studded night sky. Scholars and mages milled about, many of them peering up at the sky with spyglasses and taking notes.

Leo materialized to Enzo’s right; Gianna to his left.

“I don't recognize any of these constellations,” Leo said. “What the hell are we looking at?”

“I think,” Enzo said, “these stars we would presently see if there were no sun. See?” He pointed to a dark void with a purple rim, right where he would expect to see the sun.

“Impressive,” said Gianna, awestruck.

“Indeed,” said Enzo. He led them across the hall, passing clusters of scholars and mages, including one mage who was dictating notes aloud and his quill, suspended in midair, was dutifully transcribing them in a leather notebook.

At the end of the hall was an immense iron-banded oak door, flanked by two burly sentries. Beside them, a crimson-robed clerk sat by a tall lectern. The clerk was poring over some tome, furiously taking notes. He seemed conscious of Enzo's presence but did not deign to call on him.

So Enzo waited.

And waited.

A tense moment stretched awkwardly. Finally he slammed his quill on his desk.

“Well? Are you mutes, or are you mimes? Speak!”

“If it please your eminence, we have Letter of Invitation from Duke Ferdinand II.” Enzo affected a Kerch accent; the Kerch called everyone by honorifics, and frequently omitted articles like ‘a’ and ‘the.’

“It does not please me, but it is my duty nonetheless. Proffer the writ.”

Enzo held out the Invitation, and the nearest sentry took it and passed it to the clerk. He quickly skimmed it.

“You seek a cure for bluebruise fungal rot? Ha!” he scoffed. “Certainly a matter of national importance.”

“Duke Ferdinand thinks so. Bamboo is a staple export of the Kerch economy—”

“I needn't endure a treatise on the Kerch economy. If the duke is satisfied, so am I. You may enter.”

Enzo sketched a low bow, in the obsequious Kerch manner. Leo and Gianna did their best to imitate him.

The two sentries began to open the oak doors, but as Enzo strode forward the clerk stopped him.

“Wait. You're unarmed?”

“Yes, of course.”

“You misunderstand me. Why are you unarmed? Do you know nothing about Library? There are bibliofauna. Nasty vermin.”

Manifestations, Enzo thought.

“Should we—”

“You should visit the armory. Qual will escort you. We have our own stock of weapons you may choose from. Now begone.”

The burly sentry, Qual, conducted them through the oak doors and took them to the armory. Compared to the Pathfinders dojo, the Library’s armory was quite lackluster — mostly just cudgels and dull steel swords. Leo was scandalized, but kept mum.

When they were each suitably armed, the sentry led them next to the Atrium, which was somehow even larger and more impressive than the antechamber. Alchemical globes hung suspended from varying heights, shedding warm amber light. Desks were arrayed in neat columns and rows, and scholars (emerald robes) and mages (cobalt) toiled at their studies while scrivs (crimson) bustled around, carting books to and fro. Beyond lay the bookshelves, looming like a dark and forbidding forest.

Enzo led the way, venturing into the heart of the Library. The bookshelves were like sheer cliffs, rising thirty feet or taller. Ladders were perched against them at precarious angles, and the air was musty with stale scent of dry parchment. There were mustard-orange crystals on some of the endcaps. Wards, Enzo thought, to control or at least contain the depredations and vicissitudes of unbound magic.

The wards were intriguing, but the books were even more intriguing. They seemed positively saturated with magic. Many gleamed or vibrated, or they made tinny high-pitched noises. Enzo watched one thick, dusty leather-bound tome decamp from its shelf and take flight, settling snugly on the opposite shelf.

He stopped to examine it. Zirce's Brief Narrative Atlas of the Discovered World. As he fingered the spine it wiggled contentedly.

“There are no signs on the shelves, no guideposts, and while the books are labeled they’re all out of order. How do we find anything?”

“Well,” Leo said, glancing around, “this must be the first Collection. Philosophy, I think.” The Library was divided into a dozen Collections; Collections were then sub-divided into Series.

“This is the World & Geography Collection,” corrected Gianna. “Everything to do with maps and terrain.”

“Should we ask a scriv for help?” asked Leo.

“Perhaps, if we see one…” So far they’d been entirely alone. And while Leo, a trained ranger, had an immaculate sense of direction, he had the unsettling feeling that he'd lost the way. He could not tell from which direction they'd come, or how to return to the Atrium.

They resumed strolling aimlessly, motivated mainly mainly curiosity, feeling themselves drawn deeper into the strange library. The Collection held more than just books. Some shelves were stacked with artifacts, like enchanted astrolabes and spyglasses. Then there were exhibits for exotic magicks like nautomancy, the magic of nautical navigation.

They crossed through the nautomancy exhibit, having no reason not to, and when they emerged on the other end they discovered a Manifestation: a bookshelf that was encased in a block of ice.

Leo put a palm to it.

“Bael's balls. It's cold.”

“Yeah,” said Gianna, “ice tends to be that way.”

“Leo’s right,” said Enzo. “It’s unusual. Manifestations are typically illusory in nature. They may appear visually identical, but they are only superficial facsimiles, they don’t exhibit all natural properties. But this…” Enzo ran his own finger across it, feeling beads of cold water, “this is indistinguishable from real ice. It proves what we already knew: the ambient mana within the Library is incredibly strong. I shudder to think what lay ahead.”

“Manticores,” said Leo, beaming. “The book I read said there’d be manticores.”

“Why are you smiling about that?” said Gianna.

“I've always wanted to slay a manticore.”

“Are you soft in the head, Lee? Sometimes it's like you crave mortal peril.”

“It's not like I crave mortal peril. I crave mortal peril.”

“You're weird.”

Leo shrugged. “Merely fearless. I believe in my shelf.”

“Huh?”

“Library pun.”

Gianna ignored that. “Nytios says the man with no fear is a man with no brain.”

“Well, Nytios never wielded Whisper.” Instinctively, he reached for his ensorcelled longsword, and was disappointed to not find it. Both his saber Ice and his falchion Wraith were dependable weapons, but Whisper made him feel nigh-invincible. Leaving his three beautiful swords behind on the Mint was like abandoning children.

His reverie was interrupted when he felt a chill breeze tickle his ankle.

“You feel that?”

“I do,” said Gianna. “A draft?”

“Maybe…” Leo said, doubtful. He followed its source, crossing down the aisle.

He came to an open door, its entry lightly dusted with snow. Beyond lay a dark and snowy forest. A chill wind was blowing, and in the distance Enzo swore he could see red eyes.

“Bael above,” Leo said. “What is this place? An illusion?”

“I wonder how far it goes…” said Enzo. He took a tentative step forward.

“Excuse me! That door must remain closed.”

Enzo turned to find a scriv stomping toward them, his crimson cloak billowing behind him. He was a lithe man with a pointed chin and a hawk-like nose… and he had a crescent-moon tattoo on his temple.

He was Kerch.

Fuck, thought Enzo. The one Kerchman in Capri is the one scriv I manage to find. Our disguise is blown.

A moment of cultural recognition flashed between them. The scriv’s face softened into a smile.

“Zi lok Kerch, ke?” You’re from Kerch, no?

“Vo,” Enzo replied. Yes.

“Kin lok bot du rep?”

Enzo was stumped. He knew some basic Kerch phrases and greetings but his proficiency was nowhere near fluent. He sketched a low bow, in the Kerch manner, and muttered an earnest apology in Common: “Forgive me, your eminence. Kerch is place of my birth, but I was apprenticed to a merchant at a young age, and my command of the language has diminished.”

“You've done no injury. Do not apologize. What's your name? I'm Koz.”

“Niko.”

“It's rare to meet a Kerch in Genoa… let alone three. Your partner, is he—”

“—A mute,” said Enzo, speaking before Leo was tempted to reply in his own mangled Kerch, lest he give away their disguise.

“Is he? I swear I heard him speaking just moments ago.”

“Jibber jabber. He speaks occasionally but the words are meaningless.”

“Ah, a dimwit.”

Enzo suppressed a smile. “A dimwit, yes, but an able swordsman and a loyal companion.”

“And the girl…?”

“I'm a dwarf,” said Gianna.

“Also dimwitted, as you see“ Enzo said. “The two are siblings, and they share the same terrible affliction. I found them in Kratos.” Kratos was one of the smaller Kerch islands.

“Sad. Terribly sad. You're from Kratos then? We must be far-flung brothers! What is your surname?”

Curse my luck, thought Enzo. The disguise is cracking.

But as he fumbled for a reply, fate intervened. A pair of scrivs came around the corner, bearing a stretcher on which a third scriv lay rigid and motionless, either dead or incapacitated.

“Another attack!” said the scriv at the fore of the stretcher. “That marks the fourth this week.”

“The basilisk again?” asked Koz.

“What else? We need reinforcements. We need Ambrose. This is beyond our capabilities.”

“I'll speak to the Archscriv. Get Paolo to the infirmary.”

As they marched away, Enzo seized the opportunity to change the subject. “The Aetheneum has a basilisk?”

“Basilisks — two. And many more creatures besides. They are the Library's Manifestations. Are you familiar with them?”

Enzo nodded. “We saw a bookshelf encased in ice.”

“Yes,” Koz nodded grimly. “Right over there — Collection 1, Arctic Series. A pity too — there's a rare and valuable book about Glaciomancy on that shelf. I doubt we'll ever recover it.”

He shook his head, sighing in defeat. “Our losses continue to multiply, Manifestations grow and encroach on new Collections, and more and more books become inaccessible. We are but hapless gardeners trying in vain to prune our plot.”

“I see,” said Enzo. “So… how do you find things in here? I don't see any signs, and the books are out of order.”

“You must use the index. No one showed you? Here, follow me.”

He led them briskly to one of the mustard-orange crystals on the endcaps that Enzo had mistaken for wards. When Koz waved a hand in front of it, a small table appeared, complete with a small stack of square parchment, a peacock-feather quill, and an inkwell.

“How does it work?” Enzo said.

“How? Magic. Simply write what you seek — be it a Collection, a subject, a book. Whatever.”

In keeping with his assumed identity, Enzo dipped the quill in ink and wrote bluebruise fungal rot.

As he lifted the quill, a map blossomed on the parchment. Their present location was marked by a fat crimson dot, and teal-colored footprints marched a sinuous path that led to Collection 3 (Flora & Fauna), Section 59 (Tropical Fungi). The path was marked by milestones and landmarks to help guide the way.

“It’s a circuitous route,” said Koz, “but a safe one. The index helps you steer clear of condemned regions.”

“Condemned regions?”

“Areas of the library that have been overrun and overtaken by deadly Manifestations. I fear there are large swathes of our dear institution that we’ve ceded to the feral spirits that lurk within.”

“Very well. Any other advice?”

“Yes. If you do not heed my previous advice, at least heed this: avoid Collection 5.”

“What is it?”

“A tumor,” he said. “A malignant tumor that is spreading its disease far and wide.”

“What subject?”

He spoke the word with venom: “Fiction.”