A long day was over as Al walked back to his friend’s family estate. A long walk. He held something that some would call priceless, and that was why he held it in a canvas bag. Surprisingly, the book was not that heavy. No, it was as light as a feather. It was enchanted to be long lasting and easy to transport. Nothing complicated, but the intensity of it was on a whole nother level. At least, that was what Cred had said.

The Soma lights lit the streets. The smell of food and the sounds of people making merry slowly faded as he made his way to the servant’s entrance.

The mansions of the wealth were beacons in the night. Soma lights flooded from each building. It almost blinded Al, he still had afterimages as he opened the wooden door. Most of the servants had left or gone to sleep, only the late-night staff was in. So it was easy for Al to sneak into his assigned room.

——

Al awoke early in the morning. The sun had not risen when he left the estate. It was a cool morning, quiet and eerie. The streets were empty, not even the beggars were awake. Shopkeepers were setting up their stands, the elderly sat drinking tea, and everything was tired. Al was out of place in the city, yet no one noticed him. The boy continued on edge of the mansion and merchant districts.

This was until he stood before a massive library. The Noble Library of Fenrir. It towered and glinted in the darkness of the morning. The slanted roof was tiled with red clay shingles and the walls were supported by buttresses. The windows were awesome to behold. They extended several feet before needing support again. Multi-Colored glazes and glass reflected broken rainbows brightening the shadows. Double storied and articulate design, the Library was said to look closer to the Capital’s cathedrals than a library.

This was a special treat that Al gave himself every once and a while for the bad times. This was a perfect time for it, so he approached the gigantic open doors. They were always open unless a storm moved in, then they were closed by twenty or so guards. That was rare of course. Passing the entrance was a wide corridor with a desk on the right. This desk was occupied by a small, light-haired woman, Eliza Manno, one of the librarians of most renown. There were rumors that she’d been working as a librarian since the library was first built, which was ridiculous.

The elderly woman was dead asleep, she snored loudly as Al came closer. He slowly and carefully took out two lanterns, setting them down on the wood. Then grabbing the quill, wrote his name in a quick flourish. The librarian didn’t even stir. He then went into the cavern full of books and scrolls.

----

As a mother with a newborn child, Al took out the white leather tome from the canvas bag. It was a beautiful sight, he held the book up towards the light. The things that this book hid. The stories of the Androthi in the Library were either locked behind closed doors or incomplete and mistranslated. He held it in his hands. But the problem was…

He couldn’t read it.

Oh, he has tried. The language’s alphabet was similar to his own, the grammar rules, though, had changed since it was written and most of the words were spelled cryptically. That was why he was here. The Library had the resources that he needed to transform the text into something readable. Usually, he came to the Library to laugh at old adventurer reports. He placed the book back into the bag, not letting it out of his sight for a second. He scuttled to the rows and rows of books.

He began picking out any and all texts that were linked to the Androthi, only when the tower of books started to reach twenty did he start culling the list. The historical texts which were built on accounts of events were the first to be placed back on the shelf. Anything in known memory would not be helpful in what he was doing. Next, were the fairy tales like books that were based on the Androthi, but were entirely fictional. These could help if they were based on the original stories, sadly, most of them weren’t. So on the chopping block, they went. That left the texts in the older languages and the tales that were directly translated from the original. The latter are mostly half-destroyed or so mistranslated that the librarians don’t bother keeping them safe.

By the time he culled the list, the sun was out making all the details of the cathedral apparent. The arcades divided the reading area from the rows of shelves, balconies held even more, and were lit from oculi, not the massive windows on the ground floor. The chandeliers that were above the shelves started to dim as sunlight flowed through the windows. As he collected the books that would start the translation process, he heard the shuffling of footsteps.

He turned around to see Ms. Manno slowly walked towards him with a walking cane in hand. She smiled as he set down the books on a nearby table.

“Young one, why are you here so early? Shouldn’t you be sleeping in? Maybe enjoying the morning with your loved ones? Why are you here when you could be doing anything else?” Her hollow, quiet voice echoed in the expanse. A worried look was on her face. The years of winkles did not hide her expression, instead, it enhanced the look of a woman that knew children should not be alone in a dusty library.

“I’m just doing some research in old languages,” he half lied and started to scratch his head, not willing to talk about the book. “Androthi had piqued my interest and I wanted to learn more of their stories.” Another half-lie came slipping out of his mouth.

With a sigh, the old woman started heading back to her desk. “If you need any help with finding books, Alvin. Then call for me.” She hobbled away.

When she was out of sight, Al pulled the tome back out into the light and with stationery. Then went to the first story, an illustration showed a woman with horns instead of ears holding a fully drawn bow. The story went on for fifteen pages which then started another story with a picture of a knight instead. Those first fifteen pages were full of what looked poetic while the rest was normal storytelling. Taking a book that showed the untranslated version and the translated version of another story, he began the tedious work of writing and rewriting broken prose. Some of the text was easy to understand, still in use in the language he spoke. There were also words that made no sense in the original and translated version. The rhyme scheme was also a problem he overcame by not following it. This was not a professional translation that needed to be one hundred percent exact, no, this was a personal undertaking.

This went on for hours as he started getting into a rhythm. He covered the table he was using in books, scroll, and ink-stained paper. Words stopped making sense for Al after the first hour. He went through a statement that did not set right to him and reworked it until it was correct. His fingers were blackened from stray flicks of the pen. As he reread another sentence and amended the grammatical error, he then turned the page. He stopped realizing that he was on page sixteen, and was done with the opening poem.

He wiped the sweat from his brow and leaned back in his chair. The time was unknown to him, it looked to be at noon. He’d been at it for the past six hours. He looked over the rough draft of the poem. The page had fingerprints all over, smudged letters covered the semi-dry ink, and the lines did not rhyme. The last was a problem that was hard to correct, he could either find a scribe to rectify it or butcher the words. Because he wanted to read the stories in the book, even if it was slightly wrong. He decided to do neither.

He then carefully placed the book back in the canvas bag. Standing up, he went to a nearby pedestal with a bowl of water, he scrubbed the ink from his hands. It blackened the water, but his hands were clean. He started placing all the books back on the shelves he borrows them from. The few he forgot where they went he placed at the desk for Eliza to replace. She scolded him when he placed ten books on her desk.

What was left was several sheets of paper with the translations that he looked at with pride. Though just a rough draft he started the hardest part. The final draft. This did not take him as long as the first draft. He wrote the poem on a clean sheet of paper and wrote it on seven pages unlike the original fifteen. Once he finished he reviewed the finished product. He was smiling until he came across a strange clause.

The hunter’s right was asked of thee

Thy favor and respect wanted from many

More than any huntress maiden

Heroes sent on great quests for thy blessing

It seemed out of place in the poem, the Androthi this book was talking about was still a mystery to the boy. He remembered having to guess the words with context. The sentence was grammatically right, but something was missing from the passage.

Al shrugged to himself, he left the pages to dry and went to the archives. He wanted to relax after all that work.

——

The reports he chose for today were those chronicling the journeys of the Incredible Nine. It was fifty in total, the first ten were normal bounty reports, nothing significant. Or incredible!

Al chuckled to himself as read the, so far, boring reports. But he kept reading because these badly written reports always held something hilarious in them. As he read line after line, he eventually found what he was looking for. An incident report.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The group moved through the entrance as I (Thormen) stayed in the back to cover our asses. The cold and dry air felt uncomfortable to the few women in the group and they began complaining about needing skin products and shit. The others just ignored them and kept the pace. Well, this was all and good until the slime started oozing out of the walls. Not that anybody but me noticed. I was about to say something to the rest before it all fell at once. The stuff was weakly acidic, so I thought that the group would be fine. (several scratched-out sentences.) That was until the first pieces of armor fell to the ground. I was not affected but every other party member in front of me was, that was how the majority of the party's gear was destroyed. And I did not coerce or send my party into the ambush on purpose. Nor did I say the phrase, “Hey! You ask and you shall receive.’’ out loud.

-incident report written by Thormen Greene on the charges of sexual harassment of party members and abuse of power.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------

That was the first of many incident reports based on this event. The other eight were of the same event, but of different points of view. The report he had read just now was of the captain of the party. Al then read the teammates’ POVs. And it did not paint a pretty picture for Thormen Greene. The party was not told that the cave had slimes, nor did the captain, who purposely picked the bounty, tell them that the slimes were there. The team expected another monster. That was also where the frontline fighter decided to cover their backs this time. Then the details of the original report happened exactly as explained in Thormen’s report. But he left out the part where he refused to lend the women of his group clothes, and that, yes, he in fact did say, “You ask and you shall receive!” in front of all his party members. Still, the man did not get penalized for his behavior. He only got kicked out of the party.

Al was chuckling at the adventurers as he skimmed over the last of the reports. Suddenly, the image of the mimic entered his mind, the mass of flesh and tendons. The smell of blood and rot, the monster that almost killed him. He set down the sheets of paper, covering his mouth as he tried not to vomit. The memories bombarded him as he re-lived every second. As minutes passed, the moments of two days ago faded away. Leaving him a sweaty, tired mess in the middle of the library. He slowly stood with the reports in hand as he hobbled back to the archives.

----

He grabbed the pages that were now dry. The cursive was better than some noble’s handwriting. Of course, they could always hire a scribe to do the work. That wasn’t the reason he admired his own work. It was because he shouldn’t even be able to write this well.

He reminisced on the lessons that Fraenen forced him to learn. Seriously, what guy chooses one day to pick a lanky kid off the street and teach them how to read and write like a noble? That was a horrible way to start a friendship! Every time he entered the city, his friend somehow found the little hunter. It was unnerving how the guy knew where he was every time he was in the city.

He shook his head as in his mind's eye he saw the young boy who wanted a friend and the lonely, bored rich kid with a quill.

Al started to the doors, he passed the desk, the librarian had changed their guard. The man was somebody he never met, Al wished he could have said goodbye to Ms. Manno. He walked out of the library, it was populated now with noblemen of all statures. He was the odd one out, with him being the lowest on the hierarchy. He kept his head down till he was in the noon daylight. The canvas bag under his arm, he drew some stares, but most of the lords and lordlings weren’t concerned with him.

The street was bustling with people. Not crowded, there were enough people that if he hadn’t stopped looking at his feet then he would be in a world of pain.

He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him. It was a sixth sense he had from years of being stared at. This was different though, whoever watched him had locked on to him. And was following.

Al walked towards the mercantile district, hoping that it would be crowded. He took a glance behind, he saw nothing out of the ordinary. Still, his heart thumped, and his forehead dripped with sweat. His instincts were yelling to run! find somewhere to hide! Anything! He nearly collided with someone, if he hadn’t sidestepped without realizing it. He was surprised at his agility, his mind was running on all four legs, and he couldn’t stop it if he tried.

He made way to a shortcut to the merchant street. When he was around the corner of the alleyway, the eyes that were tracking him, lost him. Once he stopped feeling them, he sprinted full tilt to the other end of the alley.

But this day was not like the previous day. The merchants had far fewer customers than he was hoping for. His thoughts went into overdrive as he looked at the uncrowded street. His heart pounded ever harder as he moved along the left side of the road. The only way out was to go straight into the Dregs.

Unless…

He moved next to the wall and into a line of people buying spices and salt from a stall. As a woman got in line behind him, he acted casually taking the thin fur jacket he wore off and covering his backpack and hair with it. He forced his eyes forward, not looking around. He stood there for what felt like an eternity, slowly taking one step then waiting again. Then another step and another step and another step. The queue dwindled as he controlled the little part of himself that wanted to run. His breath was ragged from the small sprint in the alley, and his heart wouldn’t calm down. All of his senses felt like they had become twice as intense. It started to overwhelm him, the sounds, smells, and sight were at their most vivid. Before he knew it, a single person was separating him from the spice merchant.

He did not feel the eyes on him.

Not looking around, he slowly exited the line and doubled back towards the mansion district. Whoever was following him had missed him, and he quickened his pace to find safety inside the home of his friend.

----

He walked down the alley to the servants’ entrance when he finally noticed that something was awry. The usually guardless door had a maid standing in front of it awkwardly. The maid was Jezebel but she looked uncomfortable as she waited for someone. She noticed Al enter the alley and walked over towards him. She had a letter in hand with ‘from Fraenen’ scrawled on the front. She then stopped five feet in front of him and silently held out the letter. She avoided Al’s gaze as she waited, he gently took the letter. When the envelope left her fingers, she swiftly turned around and walked back into the estate.

He felt the smooth paper against his skin, the opposite type of stationery that he used for the poem. As he absorbed the smallest detail of the letter, the name was not a flourish of a wealthy heir, but a scratchy movement of the pen. Almost like his friend was in a hurry when he finished it. That was the first warning sign that something was not quite right. The other was apparent when he opened it. The sheet he pulled out was still drying. His eyes went from line to line, each time they widened a fraction more. The already blotchy letters became more blurry as he read on. Until he finally got to the very last sentence, “Sincerely, your dear friend Fraenen. May we see each other in the future.” With that line, Al’s heart broke as the paper floated to the ground. He didn’t bother retrieving the letter, he walked out of the alley, with his head down, unbeknownst to the danger that lurks just a street away.