The first thing Jonathan noticed was the silence—thick, oppressive, absolute. It wasn't the absence of sound, but something deeper, something that devoured even the thought of noise. The infinite library stretched around him, an abyss of knowledge bound in leather and ink, and at its heart, an unknowable presence watching.
His pulse hammered as he willed himself to move, to breathe, to think. The book in his hands remained open, its pages no longer blank but filled with shifting ink that rearranged itself as he tried to read.
[Jonathan Aldcroft.]
The letters twisted, unraveled, reformed.
[Jonathan Aldcroft, son of Charles.]
His throat clenched. It knew him.
The ink bled further, spilling across the page in erratic strokes.
[Jonathan Aldcroft, son of Charles Aldcroft, Seeker of —]
He slammed the book shut. The world lurched.
A sickening sensation of falling gripped him as reality snapped back. The gaslight of The Veil & Quill flickered wildly, the air thick with the scent of burning parchment and something else—something foul. His breath came ragged, his vision swimming as he stumbled back from the counter.
The bookseller, however, had not moved.
"You shut it too soon," the old man murmured, his gaze still fixed upon the book. His tone was neither approving nor chastising—just a quiet acknowledgment of inevitability.
Jonathan wiped the sweat from his brow. "What—what is this?"
A pause. Then, "The beginning."
The answer sent a shiver through him. He wanted to demand more, but something in the air—some unseen force—warned him against speaking recklessly.
Instead, he focused on the book. It sat where he had left it, utterly still, yet it felt as though it breathed, as though its cover flexed in an imitation of lungs drawing air.
"You were marked the moment you read your name," the bookseller continued, voice steady. "It has acknowledged you. And it will not forget."
Jonathan clenched his fists. "Then what am I supposed to do?"
The old man regarded him carefully. "You still believe this is a choice." He let out a dry chuckle. "Seeker, the only choice you had was whether you would look. Now, the Codex has 'seen' you."
Jonathan's mind raced. He had studied countless forbidden texts, delved into the occult lore that polite society dismissed as superstition, but this—this was something else entirely. He felt known, as if something beyond comprehension had pressed its gaze into the marrow of his bones.
The bookseller leaned forward. "Tell me, Seeker, do you understand what it means to be read?"
Jonathan met his stare, swallowing down the cold dread in his chest.
"Not yet," he admitted.
The old man nodded. "You will."
And behind him, outside the window, the fog swirled—not with the random motion of wind, but with purpose.