Chapter 6
The Ancient Library
The streets of Paris buzzed with life above, but beneath them, Alaric and Seraphine moved through a world of shadow and silence. The air in the catacombs was damp and cold, heavy with the scent of earth and decay. Their only light came from the small orb of magic Alaric conjured, its faint glow casting eerie shadows on the ancient stone walls.
Alaric adjusted his pack, the weight of the scrolls and artifacts they had recovered from the witches' lair pressing against his back. Somewhere in those cryptic writings lay the key to their next step, and one name kept surfacing: Librarium Antiquus, the Ancient Library.
"If we're wrong about this," Seraphine said, her voice echoing softly in the narrow passage, "we'll have wasted precious time. The witches aren't the only ones after Eldarath. Others will be watching."
"We're not wrong," Alaric replied with more confidence than he felt. "The markings on the map and the writings point here. If the library exists, it's somewhere beneath Paris."
"And if it doesn't?"
Alaric glanced at her. Despite her skepticism, she followed closely, her eyes scanning the walls for any hidden signs. He knew she was as invested in this as he was, though she'd never admit it.
They reached a fork in the passage. One path descended further into the darkness, while the other sloped upward. Alaric paused, studying the markings etched into the walls.
"This way," he said, pointing to the downward path. The runes matched those on the map, their faint glow barely visible under his magical light.
Seraphine sighed. "Down again. Of course."
The descent was steep, the air growing colder with each step. Soon, the rough stone walls gave way to smooth, carved pillars that rose from the ground like sentinels. Alaric stopped, his breath catching in his throat.
"Is this it?" Seraphine asked, her voice quieter now.
Ahead of them, the passage opened into a vast chamber. The ceiling was so high it disappeared into darkness, and the walls were lined with towering shelves, each crammed with ancient tomes and scrolls. At the center of the room stood a grand table carved from black marble, its surface etched with intricate designs that pulsed faintly with magic.
"This has to be it," Alaric said, stepping into the chamber. The air here was different—still cold, but charged with an energy that made his skin tingle.
Seraphine followed, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the room. "It's impressive," she admitted. "But we didn't come here to admire architecture. Start looking."
Alaric nodded and approached one of the shelves. The books were ancient, their spines cracked and their titles written in languages he barely recognized. Carefully, he pulled one free and opened it, coughing as a cloud of dust rose from its pages.
"This one's about magical conduits," he said, flipping through the yellowed pages. "Nothing on Eldarath."
Seraphine moved to the opposite side of the room, her fingers brushing over the spines of the books. "These texts are older than I expected," she murmured. "Some of these symbols predate the fall of the Magisterium."
Alaric froze, the name sending a shiver down his spine. The Magisterium had been the ruling body of magic users centuries ago, their power unmatched until their sudden and mysterious collapse. The idea that this library could predate them was both thrilling and terrifying.
Hours passed as they combed through the shelves, their voices growing quieter as the weight of the library's history pressed down on them. Finally, Alaric found a tome bound in dark leather, its cover embossed with a symbol he recognized from the witches' writings: a circle surrounding a flame.
"This might be it," he called to Seraphine.
She crossed the room, her expression guarded as she looked at the book. "What does it say?"
Alaric opened it, the ancient language shifting and reshaping itself under his gaze. He had discovered this strange ability only recently—a gift, or perhaps a curse, tied to his growing magic.
"The Chronicles of Eldarath," he read aloud. "A record of the city's rise and fall."
Seraphine leaned closer, her interest piqued. "Keep reading."
Alaric's fingers traced the faded text as he continued. "Eldarath was founded by the Circle of Flame, a council of the most powerful mages in existence. They harnessed a unique form of magic—something called Soulbinding. It allowed them to draw power from the life force of others."
Seraphine's expression darkened. "That's forbidden magic. Dangerous. Destructive."
"It gets worse," Alaric said, flipping the page. "The Circle's power grew unchecked, but it came at a cost. The more they used Soulbinding, the more unstable the magic became. It started to corrupt the city itself, twisting reality and drawing the attention of something... ancient."
"Ancient?" Seraphine echoed. "Like what?"
"I don't know," Alaric admitted. "It just says 'the Veil began to thin.'"
Seraphine frowned, her fingers drumming against the table. "That could mean anything. A gateway to another realm? A tear in the fabric of magic itself?"
Alaric nodded. "Whatever it was, it caused a catastrophe. The city was swallowed by its own power, disappearing without a trace. The survivors scattered, vowing to keep its location hidden to prevent anyone from repeating their mistakes."
"Then why are the witches so desperate to find it?" Seraphine asked. "If Eldarath's magic is so dangerous, why would anyone want to risk it?"
"Power," Alaric said simply. "The kind of power that could change the world."
Seraphine's gaze hardened. "Or destroy it."
Alaric closed the book, his mind racing. The library had answered some questions but raised even more. If they were going to find Eldarath, they needed to understand the risks—and the enemies they would face along the way.
As they prepared to leave, a faint sound echoed through the chamber. It was distant but unmistakable—the clatter of footsteps.
"We're not alone," Seraphine said, her voice tense.
Alaric extinguished the orb of light, plunging the room into darkness. They crouched behind the marble table, their breaths shallow as the footsteps grew louder.
A figure emerged from the shadows, cloaked in black. They moved with a predator's grace, their face obscured by a hood.
"Who are you?" Seraphine demanded, stepping out from behind the table with her shadows coiling around her.
The figure stopped, their head tilting slightly. "You've done well to find this place," they said, their voice smooth and cold. "But knowledge is a dangerous thing. Some secrets are meant to remain buried."
Alaric stepped forward, his magic crackling in his palms. "If you think you can stop us, you're welcome to try."
The figure laughed, a chilling sound that sent a shiver down Alaric's spine. "Oh, I don't need to stop you. You'll destroy yourselves long before you reach Eldarath."
Before Alaric could respond, the figure raised their hand, and a burst of magic sent him and Seraphine flying backward. They hit the ground hard, the impact knocking the air from their lungs.
By the time Alaric scrambled to his feet, the figure was gone, leaving only the faintest trace of magic in the air.
"Whoever they are, they know about Eldarath," Seraphine said, wincing as she stood.
"And they don't want us to find it," Alaric added.
The encounter left them shaken but more determined than ever. They gathered what they could from the library, including the Chronicles of Eldarath, before making their way back to the surface.
As they emerged into the moonlit streets of Paris, Alaric couldn't shake the figure's final words.
They had uncovered a treasure trove of knowledge, but at what cost? The journey ahead would be fraught with danger, and the weight of Eldarath's secrets threatened to crush them.
But Alaric knew one thing for certain: there was no turning back now.