Page 38 of Shadowed Fate

I scan the room, but it doesn’t look like anyone else is here.

The size of the library is daunting—I’m not even sure where to start. There are no computers or online catalogues here, and there’s no Fiona to help me find what I’m looking for.

Hmm, how does one search a magical library?

I take a deep breath and start wandering through the aisles, running my fingers over the spines of books as I go. There doesn’t seem to be any particular order or system to how the books are arranged, so I just let my intuition guide me.

After what feels like hours of searching, with no luck, I come across an old book with a faded leather cover and gold lettering. The title reads “The Origins of Magic.”

I open the book and start flipping through its pages. It’s filled with illustrations and descriptions of various magical beings, from fae to werewolves to elementals and vampires.

I continue reading, hoping for more answers, but the book only provides cursory information about the gamut of supernatural beings that exist, and a run-down of their lineage dating back to what the book simply refers to as ‘Dé’.

Frustrated, I close the book and look around for anything else that might help me.

My gaze lands on the gate leading to the restricted section.

Bingo.

I glance around to make sure I'm alone, then creep towards it. I expect to be bolted or at least magicked shut, but the latch clicks open at my touch. Huh. Convenient.

Slipping inside, I navigate the dim aisles on silent feet. Can't risk getting caught in here. Pretty sure "detention" at Grimstone involves things that are way worse than writing lines or staying after class.

I scan the shelves.

There's got to be something about shadow magic in here somewhere. Or the Raven King. Or both, preferably.

I pause. What if I'm looking for something that doesn't exist? What if I'm truly alone in this, and everything related to shadow magic has been expunged, just like the Dean said shadow magic was extinct?

Vanquished.

The word slithers through my mind.

The thought makes my chest tighten. I've been an outsider my whole life, but this... this is next-level isolation.

Just as I'm about to give up, my hand brushes against something that feels different. My touch is drawn to it like a magnet to steel. I pull it from the shelf—a black book, its cover adorned with cryptic symbols that shimmer even in this low light.

I don’t know what’s in this book, but my shadows are responding to it. I feel them twirling around my fingertips, urging me on, and I open it with trembling hands.

The pages are yellowed with age and covered in intricate Celtic-looking designs that weave around faded text. But it's not the writing that gets my attention. It's a symbol, right there on the first page.

My blood runs cold. I know that symbol. I've drawn it a hundred times, my hand moving of its own accord while my mind was lost in one of those visions.

I trace the lines with my finger. It's like a key clicking into a lock inside my mind, yet all it does is unleash a flood of new questions. Who am I really? What does this all mean? Why is a symbol from my visions in a strange book in the restricted section?

I slam the book shut, my heart racing. I need to get out of here, need to process this. But as I turn to leave I notice an almost imperceptible movement. Then I see a shape at the end of the aisle.

A slithering voice whispers into the silence, drawing out each word like they’re untying a silk bow. “Who are youuuu?’

I freeze, then peer into the dimness. No one. Then the lightest of touches gently lifts the hair off of my shoulders.

“Who’s there?” I ask, my voice uneven, not daring to turn my head.

My heart is pounding like a trapped bird.

Something caresses my cheek, light as the brush of a moth’s wing, and I can’t move.

I literally can’t move. It’s like I’m rooted to the spot.

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