Page 21 of Of Withering Dreams
He regarded me as ifIwas an imbecile swinging a sword. “Help find books. Put away books. Organize books.” He threw up his hands. “By the Ancients, girl! It’s a library. What do you think you would do?”
“Ah, yes, of course. Well, I’ll be off to do all the book things. Let me know if you need anything.” He scrunched his face, his mouth disappearing entirely under his mustache. As I walked toward the back of the library, he muttered under his breath.
“And sweep the floors!” he called after me.
“Of course, Mr. Burlam!” I responded in a singsong. He hobbled over to a desk in the corner, a trail of grumbles drifting behind him.
Under his watchful glower, I worked for several hours—reshelving books, sweeping, dusting, and yet more reshelving.
When he seemed satisfied with my efforts, his lips buttoned together, a disgruntled huff whooshing from his nose. He nodded and then paid me no further attention. I took that as my cue to take a break.
I claimed a seat in the back of the library, far from the few people scattered throughout the space. My fingers trailed along spines as I meandered through the aisles, plucking out any title calling to me. Soon, I had collected a small stack of timeworn books, hugging them within the safety of my arms.
As I left the aisle, a faint rustle sounded behind me. I turned toward it but saw no one. Without warning, a book from an upper shelf tumbled to the ground, landing with a thud at my feet. Startled, I jumped back. A nervous laugh left me as I reached for the tome, curious how it had fallen. There didn’t appear to be anyone on the other side of this aisle. I shrugged, placing it atop my pile.
When I deposited them on the table, a stale puff of air curled around me as I settled on my seat. Choosing the book that had tried to clobber my brains out, I smirked at the name, my tongue pressing into the wall of my cheek. My fingertips traced over the gilded letters etched into bumpy leather—Ancient History: An Unabridged Bridge into Divine Yesterdays.
11
ANCIENT HISTORY
Iskimmed the book's pages, flipping through them haphazardly until one handwritten word caught my attention.Oneiroi. It was scrawled in elegant gold lettering above a beautiful illustration of three Ancients. Delicate strokes of black brushed over the yellowed parchment, gold-foil accents illuminating the ink.
The Oneiroi were the Ancients of Dreams: three celestial siblings who penetrated and manipulated the minds of every living being. They could influence a person’s psyche while conscious; however, their divine ember was most potent when their target was sleeping—whether naturally or in an induced trance.Thank you, Dormancy. I sighed as my focus lingered on the image.
The male in the center was breathtaking, all chiseled muscles and robust angles. His frosty gaze was direct, staring down his aquiline nose at whoever viewed the drawing. His flaxen hair floated in a halo around a golden diadem atop his head. One powerful arm lifted above him; a shining globe in gold leaf floated above his hand. Stars burst from the glowing orb, levitating above and around the three figures.Morpheus: Supreme Ancient of Dreamswas written in crisp script under the male.
On his left was an equally attractive male, his form powerfully trim and lean. While Morpheus was golden light and stars, this male was made of shadows and the promise of misery. A slinking swirl of smog spilled from one palm, devouring the edges of the drawing under their feet and shrouding half of his face. A desiccated skull rested in his other hand. One dark eye was visible, piercing and narrowed as a smug look stretched across his gaunt countenance.Phobetor: Ancient of Nightmares.
The stunning woman on Morpheus’ right was his sister.Phantasos: The Ancient of Illusions. Her face was obscured—a soft blur of gold and mist creating a subtle veil over her. Nevertheless, her lips smirked, her eyes twinkling with mirth as if she were withholding a secret. She wore a flowing gown, sparkling gold sprinkled over it, melding with the stars that Morpheus’ orb released. A plump raven sat in her cradled palms, staring adoringly at her.
I eagerly moved on to the text, soaking in whatever information I could gather.
It is understood that the immortal Oneiroi maintain the balance between realms and minds. For what is the mind if not the inner world of all living creatures? Their divine embers are esteemed, even among other Ancients. Over time, there have been a few attempts to usurp the triplets; all have failed.
Morpheus reigns over Surrelia, welcoming the departed souls of mortals and immortals alike. Once the physical body perishes, a mortal’s astral form may take refuge in Surrelia for all time unless banished to the Nether Void.
Furthermore, Morpheus drifts through dreams, shaping them to his whims and providing support, comfort, or pleasure when he feels charitable.
Phobetor presides over the aforementioned Nether Void. A dark and dismal fate it is for those who reside in his domain. He conjures up the darkest of visions within one’s mind, tormenting the soul and punishing who he pleases.
Phantasos is thought to wander through various planes, a trail of either bewilderment or surreal clarity in her wake. It is believed she prefers to dwell deep within wild landscapes, letting nature’s ember permeate her essence. Her guidance, although peculiarly sage, is cloaked in cryptic riddles.
I studied well into the afternoon, my eyes tired from the strain of reading the worn ink in the dimming light. It was clear Magister Barden had taught us the basics, but there was so much more to know.
“Seryn, there you are.” Kaden’s voice barged into my awareness, his call echoing down the length of the library. He plopped down next to me, bumping the table and making my tower of books lurch precariously. I steadied them with my hand, an embarrassed heat blushing my cheeks.
“Hush, this is a library, for Surrelia’s sake!” Mr. Burlam shouted from the other end of the room. Kaden held up his hands in surrender, and Mr. Burlam scowled, turning his attention back to his desk.
“How was your day? Feeling any better, you little honey wine bandit?” I giggled.
“Feeling just fine, Ser. Just fine,” he purred, rubbing his belly. “An average day in the life of a mighty squire.”
“Ah, what a delight you are, Kade.” My eyes rolled so far back that he probably could only see their whites.
“Honestly, though, I’m looking forward to it. I think we’ll be training a lot with the guards. I wouldn’t mind brushing up on my swordsmanship.”
“It is fortunate Gavrel taught you early on.”
