‘First entry. It has been a week and a half since Horyd Coeden was executed and the appointment of Cardinal Afon. On the night of that same day, Father suggested that we celebrate the families’ success, as well as my return properly.’

‘It was chaotic, but fun! The adults all got drunk and played poker, raising the highest of stakes. In the end, Uncle Malus won. He took everyone’s money, fortunately except mine! I kept some, but lost most, which was better than the rest of them by far.’ - Excerpt from Isten Blodyn’s diary, January 1263.

———

Footsteps echoed throughout the corridor that led to an outlying room. Inside, the flickering wick of a candelabra illumined a male face pale orange. It was positioned atop of an oak study desk.

Papers were organised with great care and precision on top of the table, where a feathered quill scratched at a letter. It was held by a young man occupied in thought.

The young man straightened in his chair at the sound of the footsteps, carefully placing the quill back into the ink well. He patiently waited until the footsteps reached his door. A gentle rattle reverberated from it as two envelopes were pushed into the room from beneath the gap between door and the wooden floorboards.

He stood from his chair and picked up the letters, opening them with a paper knife. He read their contents and smiled in response. The first letter stated,

‘Finding that book was almost too difficult. Though, my influence still exceeds my expectations. I’m surprised I even acquired it. Next time, ask your employer not me, for he does have an all-encompassing power. You will find it in the library. Ask for the location of the second edition copy of ‘The Reckoning of Time’ and you will find it there. However, I’m not sure if you will find out what you think you will. Not everything is malicious.’

The second letter commanded a stern attitude from the reader. It stated,

‘Toran Rhosyn. You are to attend your final examination next Friday at dawn. Meet at the examination site and instructors will be present to guide you from there. You have eight days to adequately prepare in advance. Whereupon entering the exam, you will not be able to leave nor be provided with outside assistance. We wish you the best of luck and hope to see you as a researcher. Signed, the Ascensionists.’

Toran sighed in response to the second letter, anxiety flickered through his eyes.

‘So, it begins.’ He thought to himself, straightening his coat. He prepared to leave his room for the grand library.

Toran was a tall and strikingly handsome young man. His eyes were a sharp emerald green, and his hair was an onyx black that neatly parted from the middle into waves.

His skin was fair as he was kept out of the sun - which was little as it was typically grey all year round in Citadel - and was free from any blemishes. He wore an all-black coat, waistcoat, black linen shirt, and breeches, with knee high boots and a white stock necktie.

He opened his door into a brightly illumined hallway. Innumerable candles were held in position by brass urn wall sconces, and they lined both sides of the hallway intermittently. Embroidered carpet stretched into the distance.

Toran strode through the long corridor, taking a left at the forked hallway, and exited the building. His dormitory at times seemed desolate as those who lived there stayed inside spending most of their days researching. Yet once he took a step outside, he was engulfed in the tidal wave of people that billowed through the streets. This time, the torrent flowed in the opposite direction to where he needed to go.

They roiled and rumbled, only being contained by the built-up walls of the symmetrical buildings on either side of the street. Each person struggled from being constricted by those next to them or the carved stone walls, resulting in them following the ripple of the crowd even if they did not want to. They were jostled about, crashing against one another causing sonorous booms to erupt through to the crowd like that of a stormy night’s tumultuous sea.

He reached out with his right hand carefully, yet forcefully, shifting people away to create himself a path through the sea. With each person he moved, another filtered in to replace them and impeded his path. Using his elbows like spears, and his shoulders like battering rams, he parted the ocean of humans before him.

Toran crossed to the other side of the street, finally being sucked away in a stream that pulled him into the inner districts of the city. He took in those nearby him, first looking towards a woman on his left.

She was dressed in a floral mantua that descended gracefully to the floor. Her curled hair fell down her shoulders after it. Fairy-like white orbs were strung together by a golden wire that glinted briefly in the sun, bejewelling her neck. Her fingers and hands were bare, free from the beautiful ornaments that were adorned by the other nearby women.

No Channeler’s weapons on her wrists or fingers. Nor is it on her neck. The obvious choice would be in her wide sleeves, but there isn’t an outline. Ah, it’s her earrings. Well disguised beneath her hair.

Next, he looked to his right and saw a middle-aged man whose his face was powdered white with makeup, similar to his wig. His curled white hair descended to his shoulders, hanging above a frilled purple coat and white stock necktie.

A golden waistcoat protruded out from underneath, partly covering his black linen shirt that was layered beneath. Toran looked carefully, and saw that the man’s breast pocket slightly bulged, despite the man’s best attempt at covering it with his layered clothing. He also thought his knee-high boots made a sharp click against the cobble ground, though it muffled by the din of the crowd. He is quite well armed.

The tide carried, or rather dragged, him into a separate district which was characterised by its open space. At the very centre of this avenue stood a magnificent fountain before a symmetrical building built from carved whitewashed stone and columns. His eyes passed over it, flashing to the crowd that drew before it.

Men, women, and children chattered with excitement, making a single unified noise. Inside their palms, they held coins which they threw into the azure water of the fountain. It poured from marble vases held within the hands of sculpted men and women, surrounded by horses. The weak scent of salt pervaded out from the fountain, hanging in the air lazily.

Toran shook his head, breaking his self-induced trance. He had temporarily forgotten the reason for leaving his dormitories, getting distracted by the growing crowd. Having spent more than enough time peering into the lives of others, or more widely thought of intruding into the blissfully ignorant privacy, he departed from the plaza. He walked clockwise around the square and exited at the northern avenue.

From the very moment Toran entered the industrial district of the city, he could certainly smell its distinct presence. It was the odour of rotten eggs, the smell attributed to sulphur. Its extreme stench bombarded his nostrils as he walked further inside. He thought he could even taste it, that was how extreme its pervasiveness was.

He turned his sights to the emitter of the sulphuric smell. Red Mountain, Citadel’s volcano. The most significant natural landmark in the world, at least that is what Toran considered its worth.

Upon the summit of a craggy ridge emerged a huge peak. Thick black clouds drifted from its rugged precipice, intermixing with those that covered the sky white. Within its grim shape, a power instinctual and inherent was evident within. Yet that was all it was and could be, for it was dormant.

Humankind had harnessed this dormant power, using it for their own advancement. Its abundance could be seen for all nearby within this industrial district. Blistering steam billowed to the skies, ascending from pipes and vents that bored out the ground or the high rising buildings.

He knew that if he were to look underground, there would be a network of pipes that connected each building to the volcanic water mills and their geothermic power stations. From them, they produced the steam that powered Citadel’s machinery, and the industrial district as a whole.

These machines were stored inside closed off buildings, though Toran still found a way to look at them. He walked around the side of a factory and supported himself on an empty crate to look through its window.

He could hear their sounds from within, whirring as their wheels turned. They clunked as cogs rotated, not with the support of man, nor out of supernatural means. Others shrieked metallic cries as metal scraped upon metal.

Men and women alike operated these machines, supplying them with raw materials, and collected the goods that were manufactured by them. They spun the cotton into yarn, which changed machines, and were woven into cloth. As it moved down their production lines, it slowly turned into clothes that would be sold on Delish markets, but also Citadel’s bordering nations.

Toran stepped down from the crate and continued his way to the Grand Library of Citadel. From any part of the industrial district, he would be greeted by its diverse sounds.

The distant hammering of metal against metal which resounded from far away buildings. Chains rattled a metallic reverberation. There were grinding and sawing, scraping, and cutting that were barely muffled from the walls that shrouded sight into their workspace.

Despite the din of the district, its streets weren’t greatly populated due to the district’s pollution. Those who trekked through the streets chose to through necessity, crossing through it to another. The other group were those who weren’t there by choice, for they worked here.

At the current moment, only Toran walked through it out of necessity, the rest were workers. Just one look was enough to tell, for the workers were dressed in tan tunic overalls and breeches. They dressed not for fashion, but for utility and efficiency.

He hurried through the industrial district, weaving past working men and women as well as pipes, vents, and the covered canals. Eventually, he crossed a huge stone bridge, traversing over Royal river, entering Citadel’s University College campus.

In the distance stood the Great Library of Citadel with its domed roof and circular structure. A crowd had formed once more, its torrent just as powerful as that outside his dormitories. As he was thrust into its grasp once more, he reminisced upon what he was first taught when he was sent to Citadel.

The Great Library of Citadel was to help aid Malevolent research, more specifically spell casting. It was a centre of accumulated knowledge, as well as a hub to disseminate it. Initially a bookstore owned by the Citadel Society, a faction within the Ascensionists, it grew into a library of unprecedented scale under the support of Isaac Brunt.

It was free to use by any member of Citadel’s society, and was set up with that intention, in part from the Society’s interpretation of Ascensionism. They supported weaponizing intellectualism, publishing cheaper books and magazines aimed at lower-class people.

Eventually, the conditions within Citadel aligned, bearing fruit which birthed a golden age in research and the development of spells. Several intricate and complex discoveries had occurred within a short time span, which were initiated by the discovery of Alchemical Malevolency by Isaac Brunt.

Toran was a firm believer of the Ascensionist philosophy, whole heartedly supporting the new dawn that was to be ushered in with Alchemical Malevolency, led by Citadel. While it might put him in conflict with the aristocracy of Cymorth in the future, he knew it to be necessary.

If Cymorth were to not modernise on this path blazed by Citadel, they would be a relic of the past. He could not allow this. The fires of patriotism burned within. They were instilled in him by countless lessons spent learning from Lucien.

Toran arrived at the Great Library after being taken along with the queue. He pushed through its double doors and entered inside. He saw men and women of all ages rushing around with silent concentration on their faces. Towards the left, a wizened old man with greying hair and beard sat working at a desk.

“Good afternoon, Toran. How can I help you?” The old man looked up at Toran.

“Good afternoon, Adrian. I am looking for a book called, ‘The Reckoning of Time’.” Toran responded.

“Ah, The Reckoning of Time… It should be in the astrology section. Take the stairs two floors down. It will take you some time, but you’ll find it.” Adrian replied. He burst out into a fit of coughs, then continued with his work. Toran peered over to look at it.

Dialogue concerning the… Toran’s attempt to read Adrian’s work was stopped coldly by a hostile glare. Shame.

Toran took off in the direction of the stairs, weaving through the crowd of scholars that populated the network of bookshelves. As he walked past, he tried to listen into conversations or sneak a glance at whatever books someone nearby held. He had no qualms about breaching anyone’s privacy.

From time to time, he would follow after someone for a short distance, watching them from behind as they searched for new research materials. He would casually bump into them, then help them find a copy of a book or article within the vast archives.

Once he finished detailing a few unfortunate strangers, he settled down to continue with his task at hand. He trailed after a woman who was walking in the direction of the staircase, killing two birds with one stone. She opened the door, holding it open for Toran, and they walked in single file down the stairs.

The staircase wound in a spiral, leading to the floors below ground. The earth had been removed, replaced with floors upon floors of the library that were held up by colossal columns and pillars. Metal rails stopped anyone from falling into the depths of the library.

Toran alighted from the staircase, though the woman continued down, entering the third underground floor. ‘This should be difficult.’ He lamented to himself. There were an astronomical number of bookcases on this floor. To search through them all would take far too much time.

The library grew the further down it went to the point where the Ascensionists required sorcerers to create arrays to protect its structural integrity. Not all floors were for books though, some were made into researching facilities and laboratories.

He walked towards a section on his right which contained a manual that held the key to ciphering this floor’s sorting method. Toran quickly understood it and began searching through the maze of bookshelves.

The sound of pages being turned were the only noises present on this floor, forming a deafening silence. The faint smell of varnish from the shelves and worn paper from books lingered in the air of the library.

Toran was efficient in finding The Reckoning of Time, though it still took an hour until he found the right aisle that contained it. The book’s cover was tattered, time had obviously worn it down. He opened the book to the front page, and the title was different from the front cover.

‘Good.’ Toran thought to himself.

The procurer had switched the book casing to The Reckoning of Time. A book typically obscure and not widely searched for. What was inside was what Toran had paid for, it was called Posea’s Allegory.

Posea’s Allegory was a collection of stories containing fairy tales, nursery rhymes, and myths. Despite its seeming innocence, it had been outlawed in many countries for centuries making it incredibly difficult to obtain.

Toran began to search for the collection, in part due to curiosity for it being a banned work, the other because he believed it to be a real account of history. That its creation was to detail an event long ago.

He began to read it from the beginning, and it started with a tale.

‘In an age long lost, there was a village that basked in peace. It was a place undisturbed by the strife of the mortal world; instead, it was a paradise outside of heaven. Two children were fostered by this village who extended kindness to all.’

‘These children were called Gillian and William and were as friends as true as the stars in the night sky. They were raised to follow the village ways, to be compassionate to anyone and everyone.’

‘One day, when Gillian was out in the marketplace, an orange cat crawled up to her whimpering in distress. It was gravely wounded, and in its mouth was the scruff of a black kitten. When she saw the pitiful conditions of the two cats, she couldn’t help but take them home to heal them.’

‘The night that she took the cats home, she had a dream. A wild dream. A nightmare even. The black kitten had entered her dream, in the same poor condition, and spoke to her a puzzling message.’

‘Beware, little one, a silent peril is upon the world. It opposes the creator, seeking to destroy His work. However, He has prepared for this long ago. Follow His path and you will survive. You will need not fear the terror of the night, nor the arrow that flies by day, or the pestilence that stalks in darkness, or the destruction that wastes at noonday.’

‘After the cat finished the sentence, she abruptly awoke, not understanding what it was telling her. A cry from downstairs alerted her to the troubles the day brought. The black kitten had passed during her night sleep. Her last memory of it was in her dream.’

‘Time passed uneventfully after the death of the black kitten. Gillian and William had managed to heal the orange cat, and they named it Tiger. So far, none of what the dream had prophesised had occurred, so Gillian slowly forgot what was said.’

‘One year, the peace that encompassed the village was shattered by the conflict of the mortal world. A parade of military men rode into the village, with incredible grandeur. They sought to resupply in preparation for their next march. Their banners held an arrow in design. A war band.’

‘Before they left, they set about building a castle out of Malevolency on a nearby hill for a Lord who was to move in. As they understood, this was their land. They would not have an unorganised village without a ruler.’

‘The parade moved on as quick as they came, but they left a Lord to rule over the village in their stead. He was praised by all as a magnificent ruler, bringing peace and prosperity to the townsfolk, though they were unaware to his schemes in the night.’

‘Time continued uneventfully with the castle of the mortal world forever looming over the once isolated paradise. This was the truth, except for Gillian and William whose cat, Tiger, had frequently gone missing along with the strays that pestered the marketplace. Their disappearance had confused all but upset Gillian the most.’

‘Despite the disappearance of Tiger, Gillian would continue every day the same, by waking early to prepare food for the cat. This routine would not change for she would wait for the days when Tiger would return home, always having food ready for him.’

‘One day, the town was rudely awoken to a scream. It was Gillian. The poor girl had risen early to feed Tiger, their adopted cat. However, the cat was no more. Gillian stood before a beast. Its orange colour reminiscent of that poor kitten.’

‘This was a real tiger, but it did not attack her. Its eyes were filled with a bestial savagery, but also a reservation. It could not understand why it did not want to attack her, so it didn’t. The tiger turned around and left. Though this time, it carried out its bloodlust.’

‘Screams of pain erupted throughout the village as men, women, and children were butchered by the tiger. A pool of blood formed in the centre of the village. The collection of bodies floated above, which the tiger ever so proudly displayed.’

‘From the hill on which the castle stood, the Lord watched the slaughter dispassionately. He who was charged with the role of Lord, and worshiped as one by the village, withheld his power to save his people from the tiger. After all, why would he help the people he was responsible for indirectly killing?’

‘Gillian ran to William’s house and protected him when the tiger returned. It took another look at the two teenagers, the same reservation in its eyes, and left, vacating the village itself in search for more prey.’

‘With the tiger’s disappearance, she remembered a dream she once had, where a black kitten spoke to her. She remembered its message, to which she pledged a silent resolution.’

The first tale concluded with that sentence, which puzzled Toran. He couldn’t work out the meaning of the story and was worried that he was given the wrong book. He continued onto the next few stories, making sure to pay careful attention to its details.