At the break of dawn, the rain that had hummed gently against the roof throughout the night gave way to a pearlescent morning mist. Merlin stood at the narrow window of his small attic room, arms folded over his simple vest, peering out at the world as it stirred. Beyond the crowded rooftops and curling iron chimneys, Storshallow revealed itself in quiet detail: timbered gables dripping with the last of the night's rainfall, a distant canal shimmering like molten pewter, and gulls drifting lazily in the hazy light. The city, always a mixture of old masonry and mechanical sinew, awakened slowly, gears turning in a thousand workshops, kettles boiling in countless kitchens.
He dressed with care, smoothing the front of his shirt and ensuring his trousers were free of obvious stains. The boarding house might not require formal elegance, but Master Wintrell of Rimvail would surely appreciate neatness in his guide. Merlin took a moment to brush back his hair with a damp comb. Last night's impressions lingered—odd noises in the cellar, that carved symbol, and the scholar's subtle questions. He would not forget them, though he would not speak of them openly yet. Patience and caution were his allies.
Outside his door, the corridor was steeped in a hush broken only by distant clinks of crockery. Downstairs, Mistress Halewick and Annabelle were already at work setting breakfast. As Merlin descended, the scents of fresh bread and black tea curled upward, inviting him into the familiar routines that helped him feel anchored in this strange second life.
In the modest dining room, a simple tablecloth of ivory linen had been laid out and a teapot with delicate floral patterns awaited the scholar's arrival. Annabelle, wearing a pale blouse and a long skirt the color of burnt umber, stood quietly to one side, checking the temperature of the tea by passing a careful hand over the spout. She offered Merlin a brief, approving glance. Her eyes said, All in order? and his small nod replied, Yes, for now.
Mistress Halewick entered from the kitchen, carrying a plate of buttered rolls. She wore her usual dark dress, no-nonsense and crisp. Her eyes were sharp as hawks this morning, scanning the room before settling on Merlin. "He's a punctual man," she said softly, as if sharing a secret. "Master Wintrell will be down at the stroke of seven. Ensure everything is to his liking and then escort him to the libraries. Don't dawdle in the streets, don't get him lost, and if he asks for anything, see to it promptly."
Merlin inclined his head. "Of course, Mistress."
Just as the old clock in the parlor struck the hour with a hollow, resonant chime, Master Wintrell descended the stairs. His appearance was immaculate: a high-collared coat brushed free of dust, polished shoes reflecting the lanternlight, and a sleek walking cane of dark wood. He nodded to Mistress Halewick, and his gaze swept over the table before resting on Merlin.
"Good morning," the scholar said, voice measured and even. "I trust my tea is ready?"
Merlin stepped forward, lifting the teapot and pouring a clear, dark stream into a porcelain cup. "Indeed, Master Wintrell," he replied, keeping his tone calm and polite. "Black tea, as you requested. We've fresh bread and buttered rolls. Shall I fetch the preserves?"
Wintrell waved a hand dismissively. "Bread and butter suffice. I eat lightly in the morning." He took a seat, examining the spread with a critical eye before tearing off a small piece of bread and tasting it. "I find Storshallow's weather agreeable today—mild, if somewhat humid. Perfect for a walk. You'll guide me, yes?"
Merlin inclined his head. "Certainly, sir. The libraries are within a short stroll from here. I can show you the main route and, if you wish, a few points of interest along the way."
The scholar sipped his tea thoughtfully. "Hmm, I'd rather go directly there. There is work to be done and not much time for sightseeing. But if I find a spare moment, I may ask about those points of interest." He narrowed his eyes slightly. "You mentioned you know the streets well?"
Merlin had expected a question like this. "I run errands for the boarding house, Master Wintrell. I've navigated the city's older quarters and the newer districts. I'm familiar with the main avenues, the canal bridges, the clock tower square. I should be able to bring you there without delay."
"Good," Wintrell said, setting down his cup with a faint clink. "I have a particular reading hall in mind—one known for its more… esoteric manuscripts." His tone lowered slightly, as if to test Merlin's discretion. "The Eightfold Library, I believe it's called, under the auspices of the Collegium of Scribes."
Merlin, from the tangle of memories inherited with this body, recalled the name. The Eightfold Library: a labyrinth of stacks and galleries, known for housing not just common histories and travelogues, but stranger texts—oblique treatises on gods and artifacts, sealed scrolls that only certain scholars could access. "Yes, Master Wintrell," he said calmly. "The Eightfold Library stands near the third canal, beyond the old clockmaker's district. It's about a twenty-minute walk. We'll need to cross two bridges and pass through a small square often bustling with scribes' apprentices."
The scholar's satisfaction showed in a slight lift of his brows. "Excellent. Let's not waste time."
He finished his bread and tea in silence. Mistress Halewick hovered near the doorway, watching with hawk-eyed pride as her establishment once again proved itself worthy. Annabelle cleared the empty dishes with quiet efficiency, leaving Merlin and Wintrell to prepare for the outing. Merlin noticed Wintrell slip a small leather journal into an inner pocket of his coat, along with a pencil case that rattled softly. A scholar prepared for note-taking, always.
Within minutes, they stood at the boarding house threshold. The sky was a pale wash of blue, the clouds frayed into thin strips, and the morning light glinted off the brass fittings of the streetlamps and the wrought-iron fences. Wintrell opened his slender umbrella more as a walking accessory than for any rainfall. Merlin, dressed simply and without an umbrella, stepped forward, leading the scholar into the city's winding streets.
Storshallow opened before them like the chapter of a living book. The old quarter near Halewick's boarding house was a patchwork of cobblestone lanes lined with small shops and modest homes. They passed a baker with flour-dusted sleeves sweeping his doorstep and a lamplighter extinguishing the last of the night's glow. Steam curled from vents in the pavement, hinting at mechanical contraptions hidden underground, perhaps pipes carrying hot water or thaumic energy.
Wintrell's gaze darted everywhere, not out of wonder, but like a man collecting data. "That contraption," he said softly, pointing his umbrella toward a small, steam-powered cart trundling down the street. "Fascinating. I was told Storshallow integrates mechanical and magical elements seamlessly. Rimvail, by contrast, favors pure scholasticism. Tell me, Merlin, do these contraptions run on stable enchantments or volatile mixtures?"
The question was direct and demanding. Merlin answered with care. "Most of the city's devices blend mundane engineering with small runic batteries—the sort that artisans craft after complex rituals. They're relatively stable. I've never known one to explode, though sometimes they fail if not maintained properly. The Guild of Crafters regulates their design."
Wintrell nodded, satisfied for now. They crossed a bridge over a narrow canal where the water reflected the sky and the silhouettes of cast-iron railing. On the other side, the architecture subtly shifted: ornate arches decorated the windows, and old gargoyles perched on ledges, their carved faces watching eternally. The scholar eyed these gargoyles suspiciously. "Curious. I recall reading that some statues in this city were once imbued with wards or even rudimentary intellect—expensive, difficult magic, now fallen out of use. Have you heard such stories?"
Merlin had. The memories in his mind had more fragments now that he stood in the streets: gossip overheard in taverns and whispered in market stalls. "Yes, Master Wintrell. It's said that generations ago, the Overlords commissioned warded gargoyles to guard certain rooftops. They were supposed to warn of danger, but most have gone dormant or lost their potency. Now they're just old ornaments."
Wintrell's lips tightened, as if he found this both intriguing and slightly disappointing. "A pity. The past here is like a half-faded tapestry. Enough hints remain to pique one's interest, but seldom a complete thread."
They continued on, weaving through an intersection where a young woman in a lace bonnet sold paper-wrapped confections from a street stand. The smell of cinnamon and toasted sugar filled the air. Merlin watched Wintrell's reaction: The scholar glanced at the sweets but did not slow. He seemed more interested in what lay beneath the city's polite veneer.
At length, they entered a district marked by taller buildings of pale limestone, their balconies adorned with creeping vines. An old clock tower presided over a small plaza. Here, scribes and apprentices scurried about, clutching bundles of parchment, quills, and ink bottles. The Eightfold Library stood just beyond: a grand structure with eight distinct wings radiating from a central hall, each wing said to correspond to a different domain of knowledge. Its façade featured intricate engravings of quills, cogs, and crescent moons, and thick glass panes that shimmered with warded sigils.
As they approached, Wintrell's voice dipped to a near whisper. "Excellent. You've not led me astray. The Eightfold Library." He paused, as if momentarily unsure whether to divulge his purpose. Then, perhaps deciding Merlin was harmless, he continued, "I need to consult certain… specialized texts. I assume you have no business inside?"
Merlin considered. Common folk didn't often linger in these halls. His standing was that of a boarding house assistant—he was no scholar. Yet he wondered what he might learn, even from a distance. He chose his words carefully. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't have cause to enter. But if you require my assistance, Master Wintrell, I could at least wait in the lobby. I know some of the scribes by name, as I've delivered parcels here before."
A slight smile tugged at the corners of the scholar's mouth. "Hm. Very well. Wait inside, if they allow it. I may need a message delivered or a particular volume located. But do not pry into matters that don't concern you." He fixed Merlin with a pointed look. "Some knowledge is… delicate."
Merlin lowered his gaze respectfully. "Understood."
As they mounted the library's broad steps, the hush of the city intensified, as if the building's wards muffled the clamor of the streets. A pair of heavy oak doors stood open, guarded by a pair of attendants in dark robes. Within, the main hall stretched wide and lofty, illuminated by crystal globes suspended from brass chains. Shelves of polished wood lined the walls, and beyond them, corridors led into deeper wings.
Merlin followed Wintrell inside, marveling at the immediate shift in atmosphere. Here, voices dropped to murmurs, footsteps softened on plush carpeting, and ink-black ravens—real or mechanical, it was hard to tell—perched silently on carved stands. The faint scent of old paper and candle wax hung in the air.
Wintrell took a breath, straightening his coat as if preparing for a duel of wits. "I will speak to the scribes. Stay here by the reading desks, Merlin, and do not interrupt unless called upon."
Merlin nodded, stepping to the side. He watched as Wintrell crossed the hall, approaching a desk where a tall, slender figure in a robe sifted through a ledger with long, delicate fingers. The scholar bowed slightly, spoke in hushed tones, and the robed figure nodded, opening a side door that led into one of the library's wings.
Left momentarily alone, Merlin tried not to look out of place. He pretended to scan the shelves, noting titles in flowing script. He caught fragments of conversation—snatches of unfamiliar languages, whispered debates over authorship and authenticity. A pair of apprentices rushed past, carrying a locked chest bound with sigils, their eyes wide and anxious.
As he waited, he remembered the cellar's symbol and the hush that had settled over him there. This world was full of hints: old wards, dormant gargoyles, libraries holding esoteric texts. Perhaps Master Wintrell's arrival was no coincidence. Merlin felt drawn deeper into the mysteries of Storshallow, as if fate had placed a puzzle at his feet.
He glanced at the library's vaulted ceiling, where beams interlaced like the ribs of a slumbering giant. Among the carvings, he thought he saw shapes—crescents, quills, and something else. Squinting, he realized a particular carving resembled the same three-crescent pattern he had seen in the cellar. A sudden chill prickled the back of his neck. Eldara's mark again, or something related to her. Had Wintrell chosen this library for its collection of forbidden knowledge, or was this all a coincidence?
Somewhere beyond these halls, cults whispered prayers to ancient deities, artifacts changed hands in secret markets, and unseen forces stirred beneath the city's cobblestones. Merlin couldn't deny it: he longed to understand. But he must be careful—he was just a boarding house assistant, a stranger in this land with a secret past.
For now, he would remain a quiet observer. He would wait for Wintrell, guide him through the city, and listen attentively. Perhaps, in time, he might piece together the truth behind the strange symbols and the darker secrets lurking in Storshallow's shadows.
As he stood there, the hush of the Eightfold Library pressing gently against his thoughts, Merlin Asher resolved to learn all he could—without drawing suspicion. The world had offered him a second life in this city of lamplight and ink, and he intended to use it wisely.