Merlin stood near a row of carved reading desks in the Eightfold Library's main hall, feigning the patient stillness expected of an attendant who existed only to run errands and give directions. He adjusted the collar of his vest, listening to the gentle rustle of paper, the subdued coughs of scribes, and the occasional low murmur of scholarly debate. The space was grand, a testament to Storshallow's intellectual aspirations and its uneasy marriage of the mechanical and arcane. Above him, crystal chandeliers gleamed like captured starlight, while below, polished floors reflected the pale glow of warded lanterns.
Master Wintrell had disappeared deeper into the library's wings, guided by a robed scribe with long, ink-stained fingers. Merlin could do nothing but wait and observe. Yet waiting did not mean idleness. He took in the subtle hints around him: the way a pair of apprentices whispered nervously over a ledger, the careful pacing of a serious woman in a scholar's coat who examined a locked display case. He noted small charms hung discreetly beneath desks—glyphs, runic scraps, talismans of unknown purpose.
Every few minutes, a slender figure in a burgundy cloak passed through the hall, distributing scrolls or collecting overdue volumes. Merlin caught snippets of hushed conversations:
"—fragments of the Cinder Codex, still sealed—"
"—archivist insists we maintain silence on the… occurrences—"
"—tracing the lineage of artifacts back to the pre-Overlord era—"
The words teased him. This was the sort of place where Master Wintrell's search for "esoteric manuscripts" would thrive. Merlin wondered what exactly the scholar pursued. Was it knowledge of the gods that hovered in the night sky with their triple-crescent symbol? Or perhaps some forbidden treatise that might shake the foundations of what people believed to be true?
Merlin leaned forward slightly, pretending to inspect a list of library regulations pinned to a marble pillar. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a young librarian's assistant approach, carrying a stack of slender tomes. The assistant—thin, large-eyed, with a quill tucked behind one ear—stopped nearby. After a moment of hesitation, the young man turned and addressed Merlin softly, as though intrigued by the presence of someone who did not wear scholarly robes.
"Excuse me," he said, voice light and polite, "Are you waiting for a patron? You're not a scribe, are you?"
Merlin faced him with careful composure. "I'm assisting a visiting scholar. He's consulting some special materials. I'm to wait here until he returns."
The assistant offered a faint smile. "Ah, yes, the man from Rimvail. I saw him speaking to Scribe Alderon. They've gone to the East Wing, where the older manuscripts are kept." His eyes flicked up and down Merlin's attire—plain clothes, serviceable but not shabby—and his manner, which was unhurried and attentive. "If you need anything… I suppose I can help. Within reason."
Merlin recognized an opportunity to glean more context. "Thank you. I'm curious—this library is known for its specialized texts. My employer seemed quite eager to visit. Is there anything in particular that scholars come here for?"
The assistant lowered his voice, shoulders hunching slightly as if to shield his words from listening shelves. "There are volumes here that touch on matters some call heretical or disturbing—treatises on the old gods, speculation on the ethereal realms, records of artifacts said to predate human kings. Most visitors never see these collections. They remain locked behind permissions and wards." He paused, eyes drifting toward a distant corridor. "Your scholar friend seemed particularly interested in older religious texts—something about correlating lunar cycles with episodes of… well, let's say unusual phenomena."
Merlin digested this with a neutral expression. "Unusual phenomena?"
The assistant glanced around cautiously. "Strange apparitions, erratic behavior in those who handle certain relics, whispered accounts of people vanishing under moonlight. Tread carefully—no one likes to speak openly of these things. The city's Overlords and the Guilds prefer a stable, respectable order."
Merlin offered a thin smile. "I see. Thank you. I'll not pry further and bring unwanted attention."
With a respectful dip of his head, the assistant carried on, shelving his books and leaving Merlin alone with his thoughts. So Wintrell hunted knowledge of weird occurrences tied to lunar cycles. Merlin recalled Eldara's triple-crescent symbol, that subtle motif he'd encountered already. Could the scholar be trying to piece together a pattern, or decode some secret that the city's polite veneer tried to hide?
Merlin forced himself to remain still. He was no detective, at least not in anyone's eyes. But he had curiosity and a quiet place in the background, which sometimes afforded clearer insight than standing in the spotlight ever could. His senses sharpened, picking up on the subtle tension that pulsed beneath the library's scholarly façade.
After a time—he could not say how long—footsteps echoed from the corridor leading to the East Wing. Master Wintrell emerged, stepping with brisk purpose, his umbrella tucked under one arm and a subtle crease on his brow, as if he'd found something vexing or incomplete. He was accompanied by the robed scribe, a gaunt figure who walked silently, hands folded into wide sleeves. They halted a short distance away, exchanging hushed words that Merlin couldn't catch, then the scribe nodded and retreated into the corridors.
Wintrell rejoined Merlin, eyes distant, as if still half-submerged in whatever knowledge he had encountered. He cleared his throat quietly. "We've concluded our initial inquiry. I'll return tomorrow, but for now, I wish to see something else—the old shrine near the canal. Do you know it?"
Merlin's mind sifted through his new memories. The old shrine… yes, there was a small, neglected structure along the narrower canals, rumored to be dedicated to a moon deity. He had never lingered there himself—it wasn't exactly a tourist spot. "I believe so, Master Wintrell. A small stone building with faded carvings, correct?"
The scholar seemed quietly pleased by Merlin's swift recall. "Precisely. Let's go." He paused, adjusting his gloves. "And Merlin, I hope you've no pressing duties at the boarding house that would hinder our progress?"
Merlin shook his head. Mistress Halewick had given explicit instructions: prioritize the guest's needs. "None that cannot wait, Master Wintrell. We can head there directly."
As they departed the library, Merlin cast a last glance at the vaulted ceiling and its intricate symbols. Something about those patterns, and the echo of strange words he'd overheard, lingered. He trailed behind Wintrell out into the morning light, the city's gentle hum rising around them. The scholar's stride was quick, purposeful, and Merlin matched his pace, noting how Wintrell kept his eyes alert, as if expecting to catch a glimpse of something extraordinary lurking around the next corner.
They crossed the plaza beneath the watchful gargoyles, whose stone faces revealed nothing. Merlin guided Wintrell down winding alleys that smelled of wet stone and old copper pipes. The canal shimmered ahead, reflecting shifting patterns of light. People drifted by—shopkeepers opening shutters, a courier rattling past on a mechanical bicycle, a pair of fishmongers unloading crates. None paid particular mind to the pair: a scholar in fine attire and a young man dressed simply, walking side by side toward the city's quieter edges.
The old shrine stood at the end of a narrow walkway, half-shrouded by trailing ivy. It was smaller than Merlin remembered, more worn, its carvings softened by decades of rain and perhaps neglect. A trio of crescents, faintly visible, adorned the lintel above the door. Wintrell approached without hesitation, running a gloved finger along the stone.
"This is it," Wintrell murmured. "They say, long ago, devotees of Eldara maintained shrines throughout the city, places where moonlight and memory intertwined. Now most are abandoned, their rites forgotten." He circled the shrine slowly, gazing at chipped reliefs and unreadable inscriptions. "But I suspect some knowledge endures hidden in quiet corners."
Merlin lingered near the threshold, heart steady, curious but cautious. "Do you think something related to your research is here, Master Wintrell?"
Wintrell gave a small shrug. "One can learn from what is missing as much as from what is present. The city's official histories downplay the role of these cults, reducing them to footnotes. But I believe that understanding their practices—and the artifacts they revered—might clarify certain patterns I've uncovered." He turned to face Merlin, his gaze penetrating. "Tell me, have you ever heard whispers of artifacts that induce… unusual behavior? Strange dreams? Markings like those crescents in unexpected places?"
Merlin's chest tightened slightly. He thought of the cellar at the boarding house, that symbol etched into old wood, the hush and rustle he could not explain. But he must be careful—he was just an assistant, not a confidant. "I've heard vague rumors," he replied slowly, choosing each word with care. "Storshallow is old, and it has many stories. Some say certain objects are cursed or blessed by unseen forces, that they appear at odd times and disappear just as mysteriously."
Wintrell studied him with a hint of suspicion, as if sensing Merlin knew more than he let on. Merlin met the scholar's gaze calmly, offering no cracks in his polite mask. Finally, Wintrell stepped back, pocketing some notes he'd scribbled on a scrap of parchment. "Hmph. Well, if you come across anything noteworthy, you will inform me, yes? I pay fairly for reliable information."
Merlin inclined his head. "Of course, Master Wintrell."
The scholar nodded, apparently satisfied. He cast one last glance at the shrine's faded symbols before turning away. Together, they retraced their steps along the canal, the city's murmur wrapping around them like a well-worn cloak. As they walked, Merlin's mind churned quietly. He felt the weight of secrets pressing in: the cellar's mark, the library's guarded whispers, Wintrell's subtle probing into lunar cycles and odd artifacts.
This world was a tapestry of hidden threads, and he had begun to glimpse the outline of a larger pattern—one that might well stretch beyond Storshallow, beyond the known gods, into that strange cosmic realm where knowledge and madness danced hand in hand. Merlin told himself to tread carefully. He was too new here, too fragile a presence to risk bold inquiries. Yet he could not ignore the feeling that he stood on the threshold of something vast and nameless.
By midday, they would return to the boarding house, Mistress Halewick would ask if all had gone smoothly, Annabelle would nod shyly, and Betram would grumble about leaky pipes. Life would resume its quiet rhythm. But Merlin knew now that beneath the veneer of ordinary life in Storshallow, mysteries and cosmic hints lay coiled, waiting for the right moment—and the right person—to unravel them.