Answers elude me.
I rub my temple, pulling away from the tome with a sigh. The faint glow of a glowglobe flickers overhead, its light catching the edges of a cracked spine before me. Words begin to blur, ancient ink merging into indecipherable patterns that my tired eyes can no longer untangle.
Before me lies a table stacked high with books and scrolls, their presence a quiet testimony to my desperation. The air here is thick, laden with the scent of old parchment and something metallic, like blood. Dust clings to the corners of every surface, undisturbed by the faint currents of air that swirl in from the vaulted ceilings above.
I have been here too long. But I do not have the luxury of stopping.
My questions demand—
A soft sound pulls my attention—just the scrape of movement, but enough to make me glance over my shoulder. Something—no, someone shifts in the periphery of my vision, someone I do my best to pretend I cannot see. My grip tightens on the edge of the table, a source of silent reassurance.
I am not mad. I am not!
"Long night, isn't it?"
The voice startles me. I snap my head around to find a figure emerging from the shadows: a wizen eunuch with a hunched posture and robes the color of ash. His eyes glint faintly in the dim light, sharp despite his frail demeanor. In one hand, he carries a tray with a simple clay cup of water, which he sets on the table without asking.
"You look parched," he says. "I've been watching you strain over those books for hours now."
I do not respond immediately, my eyes narrowing as I try to gauge his intent. The librarian. Of course. I had expected someone to notice me eventually, though I had hoped it would not be tonight.
"Thirsty?" he presses, his voice mild, as if it were a genuine question.
Reluctantly, I nod, reaching for the cup. The water is colder than I expect, the taste sharp as it slides down my throat.
He watches me as I drink, his eyes flickering to the white-gold torq that lies about my neck. "You know," he begins, leaning on his cane, "if you just told me what you were looking for, I could help. The library has more than its share of secrets, but it's no use floundering in them alone."
I meet his gaze, careful to keep my expression blank. "I'm fine."
"Are you?" His tone is light, almost teasing, but something about the way he says it makes me pause.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and uncomfortable. He does not move, does not look away, as if waiting for me to give something away. Finally, I break the tension with a question.
"What are Semblances?"
The words leave my mouth before I fully realize I have spoken them. I hear the faint quaver in my voice, the weight of my own doubt wrapped in the question.
The librarian tilts his head, his sharp eyes narrowing slightly. For a moment, he says nothing, as though weighing how much he is willing to tell me—or how much I deserve to know.
"Ah," he murmurs finally. "That is the question, isn't it?"
His gaze flicks to the pile of books in front of me, his mouth curling into a faint smile. "You'll find no shortage of answers here, though I'm not sure any of them will satisfy you. But let me simplify it for you: a Semblance is truth. Yours, to be exact."
I blink at him, the words hanging in the air like smoke.
"Truth," I echo, unable to keep the disbelief from my voice. "That doesn't tell me anything."
"Doesn't it?" he counters, his tone maddeningly calm. "Semblances are as unique as the souls who wield them. For most, they are gifted by the torqs—though a lucky few develop them before the First Baptism. But for all, they are shaped by conflict, by ambition, by every little thing you think you've hidden away. Your Semblance will be a reflection of your essence, whether you like it or not. And sometimes…" His voice trails off, his gaze flickering toward the shadows in the corners of the room. "Sometimes, truth is the last thing we want to face."
The silence that follows feels deafening, the weight of his words settling into the pit of my stomach like lead.
"How do you control it?" I ask, the words sharper than I intend.
The librarian chuckles softly, a sound that holds no real mirth. "Control? There's no control, not in the way you're thinking. A Semblance is as much a part of you as your own heartbeat. You don't tame it; you understand it. Anything less, and it will devour you."
The blood drains from my face. A blade that cuts both ways—the phrase from the scroll rises unbidden in my mind, sharper now, more menacing.
"Careful, boy," he says, his voice dropping into something softer, something almost tender. "Some truths aren't meant to be uncovered so soon. And power without understanding is a dangerous thing."
He turns before I can respond, shuffling back into the shadows from which he emerged.
I sit there for a long moment, staring at the spot where the librarian disappeared. The weight of his words presses down on me, heavy and suffocating. I glance down at the book in front of me, at the passages I had highlighted and underlined, but the words no longer make sense.
What is my truth?
The question haunts me as I push the book away, the faint hum of the glowglobes above suddenly too loud, too oppressive. The air feels thicker now, colder. Shadows curl in the corners of my vision, tugging at the edges of my thoughts like unwelcome whispers. I grip the edge of the table again, grounding myself, refusing to let them unravel me.
Then I feel her.
I do not see her at first—not directly. But the moment she steps into the periphery of my sight, I know she is there. My pulse quickens, my breath hitching despite my best efforts to stay calm. She does not move, not really, but her presence is palpable, a weight that presses against my senses.
I turn slowly, knowing what I will see but hoping, somehow, that I will not.
She stands just beyond the edge of the glowglobe's reach, her pale, alabaster skin catching faint fragments of light. Her hair is a stark white cascade, almost translucent in the dimness, flowing like a veil around her face. And her eyes—purple, impossibly deep, twin mirrors of Mother's own.
She does not speak. She never speaks.
I have grown used to her silence, but it does not make her presence any easier to bear. She has been following me since I awoke in the Temple of Hope, always just out of reach, just beyond the edges of reality. No one else can see her.
"Why are you here?" I whisper, the words slipping past my lips before I can stop them. My voice is raw, quieter than I meant it to be, and the room swallows the sound like a hungry void.
She does not answer. She does not move.
I swallow hard, the tightness in my chest threatening to spill over. "You are not real," I say, as much to convince myself as to address her. "You are just a… figment. A side effect. You are not real."
Her expression does not change, but her head tilts ever so slightly, as though questioning my words. The movement is subtle, almost imperceptible, but it feels louder than any accusation she could have spoken.
I stand abruptly, the chair scraping against the floor as I push it back. My pulse thunders in my ears, drowning out the silence, drowning out everything but the sight of her.
"Leave me alone," I murmur, my voice trembling. I hate the sound of it, the weakness in it.
She steps forward.
I freeze. She has never approached me before, never crossed that invisible boundary between us. My breath catches as she glides closer, her movement as silent as a shadow, her violet eyes locked on mine. She stops just a hand's width away, her gaze boring into me, unblinking, unreadable.
"What... who are you?" My words, though my voice sounds strange to my ears.
Her hand rises slowly, pale and delicate, until her fingertips brush against my forehead. The touch is ice and fire all at once, searing through my thoughts, piercing into a place I did not know existed. My mind reels as something foreign and yet familiar takes root.
A name.
Binah.
The word blooms in my thoughts, sharp and clear, as though it has always been there, waiting to be uncovered. I blink, and she is gone, standing once more where she had been moments before, her gaze as steady and unrelenting as ever.
She tilts her head, her expression calm, almost patient, before lifting a hand and beckoning. The motion is slow, deliberate, and it holds a weight that presses against my chest, tightening with every passing second. Then she turns, her white hair flowing like smoke, and begins to walk away.
I remain frozen, my thoughts caught in a storm of confusion and fear. She does not look back as she moves, her figure fading into the shadows of the library. But even as the darkness swallows her, I know she is waiting.
Waiting for me to follow.
The question burns in my mind, heavier than any I have faced tonight: Do I follow her? Do I trust her?
I glance at the scattered books on the table, their words meaningless now, drowned out by the single, undeniable truth that pulses in my thoughts.
Binah.
The library feels emptier without her, the silence heavier. My hand tightens into a fist, my nails digging into my palm. I force myself to take a step forward, then another, my heart pounding in my chest.
I do not know where she will lead me, or if I will regret following her. But I cannot stay here.
Not anymore.