Verek slowly came to, his senses returning one by one like finding himself walking out of a cave, or just waking from a slumber. He blinked a few times, his breath shallow at first, then steadier. He felt rejuvenated, like he just woke up from a pleasant dream. For a long moment, he simply looked around, taking stock of all the differences from before. The room around him hadn’t changed much, outside of the obvious missing parts, such as the chandelier and insect body. And of the iron door, which has now more of a many colored door, with how many doodles and words written on it, and all around it. Vast concentric circles, squares and triangles surrounding it, painted across the ground, wall and even ceiling. There was a soft white light gracing the room, but he couldn’t spot its origin.

  Then, a sharp sound broke the stillness, calling his attention away from the sight. Vector clapped her hands once, the gesture precise and deliberate, a banana was floating to her side. From the air in front of her, a strange distortion bloomed, rippling outward like many stones dropped into still water. It shimmered unnaturally, a warp in reality itself, a twisting of space. Within seconds, the distortion solidified, tightening its shape into a precise rectangle with sharp edges, settling into stillness.

  It became a reflection, a flawless reflection, better than any he had ever seen before. clearer and more vivid than anything he had used as a mirror before.

  A reflection of him.

  Verek stared, unblinking, as a strange dissonance twisted through his mind, his mirror-self staring right back, both equally confused. The same uncertainty mirrored in both pairs of green eyes. He looked completely different, he could barely recognize himself. Gone were the tattered rags that had clung to him like a curse, another uncaring way his uncle showed him what he was worth. Gone was the slouched posture of a man worn down by time and failure, the armor quite literally correcting his posture into a more upright position. The familiar wariness in his posture was still there, but now in armor made him look dangerous. Like a predator stalking the halls, not the prey hiding from them. Gone were the weary dark circles under his eyes, his haunted gaze.

  Gone was his hair, in fact, Verek could tell all his body hair, from all parts of his body, have been burned away. He is completely bald and eyebrowless.

  “Uh, don’t worry it will grow back.” He nodded to her. “I think.” She whispered under her breath, he decided to pretend he didn’t hear that. “Also that was all the grimoire. So don’t blame me! I had nothing to do with that.” She continues.

  Verek continues his examination. Pulling up a white hood above his head, feeling its silky smooth texture on his bald head. The hood was probably one of the last changes, the minor adjustments done at the end.

  The hood was part of a pristine white long coat wrapped around his form, falling straight down to his knees. It was covering his arms but staying open at his chest, proudly showing the red cuirass. The golden sigil on his chest pulsed faintly, resonating with his heart, casting a soft glow over his reflection. Behind his back, behind his coat, he was clad in overlapping layers of slightly tinted red brass, his armor shimmering like the shell of some precious insect.

  Underneath his shiny new shell and flowing white coat, he could feel the black under-armor that clung to him like a living shadow, pressed so close to his skin. The only thing separating them was a spongy white material. It clung to him like a second layer of muscle, or skin, providing an additional coating of separation and padding between his body and the under-armor. As he breathed, the under-armor moved with him, feeling strangely soft, almost pliant. It flexed gently with the rise and fall of his chest, yielding to motion with an organic ease, as if he was born with it. But he could feel, instinctively, that it was stronger than his skin, that it would hold against attacks from blades, that the spongy material beneath would protect him from blunt attacks.

  Though most of it was hidden from view, one place remained exposed, his feet, which contrasted with his white pants. There, the dark material clung to each digit in its signature insectile segmented precision, the material felt particularly thin there, yet undeniably stronger than the rest. He moved each digit experimentally, flexing and feeling the movement of the armor. The shell responded with uncanny ease, moving along as naturally as his own flesh and blood. He felt as if he was barefoot, he could feel the hard texture of the wooden floor beneath him, every grain and groove transmitted clearly through the material.

  Could this even be called armor at this point? It didn’t clatter or chafe. It didn’t weigh him down or limit his movements. it did the opposite, it moved with him, breathed with him, strengthened him. It was more than armor, it was an exoskeleton.

  We become less human, bit by bit, letter by letter, spell by spell.

  The whisper came unbidden to his mind, like an old wound. It makes him turn to his arms. His right arm is simple, completely unchanged, normal flesh, protected beneath first by carapace, then by silver armor. The armor had very slight, geometric key patterns along it, covering his entire arm like a faint scar.

  His right arm however…

  His right arm was no longer flesh, though it certainly looked and felt like it. A skin deep illusion, no matter how convincing. An illusion that ended at where his hand was supposed to be, in its place extended a single, gleaming crystal blade, its edges catching the light in shifting hues of violet and it shimmered faintly like polished amethyst. A part of him couldn’t help but wonder why it didn’t take the shape of a hand, before he flexed his new limb. The blade shimmered, then shifted, growing larger and fusing with his arm, the limb turned blue, then purple and quickly reforming into a many-faceted crystal.

  He stared at it, transfixed. It was both a weapon and appendage, foreign and his all at once. He unflexes and it returns to normal, staring at it he can tell he filled up, somehow. He’s not muscular by any means, but no longer is he a skin wearing skeleton either. He is…well healthy. No, he is beyond healthy, he is powerful, more than he has ever been, more than he has ever imagined. The figure standing in front of this shimmering reflection is no longer a wretch, a slave. Never in his wildest dreams, in his most desperate hopes or distant fantasies, had he ever imagined himself like this. He flexed his hands and…and he wasn’t sure how to fully feel.

  So much had changed, too much, too fast, it all simply happened too quickly. How could he have known? He had woken up like any other day and now.... Verek stared at the crystal limb, at the shimmering armor, at the radiant sigil pulsing softly in his chest. This was his body now. His new reflection. His new reality. His new self. He had always wanted this, always wanted to change and yet, he couldn’t help but wonder: was he still himself?

  The question echoed through him like a falling stone. Could he even call himself Verek? Did he want to? So what if that isn’t who he is anymore, is that even a bad thing? Before he could answer, a sharp, lancing pain tore through his skull. He winced, staggering slightly, the sudden weight of memory crashing against his thoughts. Would his parents recognize him? The thought hit him in his chest, piercing deep in his heart, the pain just as terrible as when the insect did it. Memories, blurring memories of his parents, destroyed by his uncle, by his harsh life fluttered to him. The pain pulsed again, deeper this time, as if his very identity were fracturing beneath the weight of transformation. Who was Verek, even? The name felt distant now, like a word heard only in echoes, muffles, distorted, distant, it slipped through his fingers as he tried to grasp it. His memories were little more than scattered fragments, drifting through the fog of his life.

  None of it was clear, nothing was whole. It hadn’t been since a long, long time. So what if his parents couldn’t recognize him now? The thought was so incredibly bitter to him, but the truth was that they wouldn’t have been able to do so even before this transformation. But because he had already changed, been changed long before this day. Loss and grief had hollowed him out. His uncle had hammered him into something else, using every bit of pain, failure, every fear inside of him to chip away the boy into a broken slave.

  This was not a new transformation. It was the end of one. The end of the wretch that he was.

  “I’m not who I was. and I won’t be again.” He takes his eyes away from his reflection, landing them on Vector and Tom. “Thank you, for this.

  “Oh, it's not over yet.” Tom said, he wore the grin of a prankster. Before Verek could respond, he felt someone poking him, a light, insistent tapping on his shoulder coming from behind him. He turned, slowly, the segmented plates shifting smoothly with the motion. “You didn’t think that we were done with gifts right?”

  Verek turned and came face to…belly, with the tall and thin necromancer. He instantly froze still, every fiber and muscle stopping. This close he could tell how similar their armors were, it was impossible for him not to. The necromancer’s armor, though starkly different in material, still clung to the woman’s gaunt frame in the same seamless, organic way his own did, like it was molded to the contours of flesh, as if grown rather than forged. But where Verek's was a fusion of brass, silver, and white cloth, the necromancer’s was sculpted entirely out of pure ivory bone, and black cloth.

  Pale and ribbed, the bone clung to her limbs like calcified sinew, taut and unforgiving. It wrapped around her with eerie precision, not merely worn but grown, as if it had emerged from beneath her skin rather than been placed upon it, just like his crystal arm. Sharp ridges jutted out at each joint, accentuating the unnatural angles of her frame, while delicate plates curled along her spine like fossilized leaves, layered and brittle-looking, yet when he considered his own armor, he knew they must be stronger than they look. Despite the armor’s unmistakably macabre nature, and the far more unsettling material from which it was formed from, there was a strange elegance to it. It almost felt alive. Or perhaps unalive, considering that unlike himself the necromancer didn’t seem to breathe. A shell molded by death itself, shrouded in long, flowing robes the color of deep abyss, faintly tattered at the edges, yet somehow regal, like the panoply of a corpse. They draped over her like funeral veils, quiet, solemn. The garb of someone who didn’t just study death, but wore it, not a simple scholar, but an emissary. The contrast between the pure white white of the bone stood out starkly against the deep, abyssal black of her hood and robes, it made it impossible to read any emotion from her posture.

  This dark presage of a being stood utterly still, her presence as heavy as the silence that followed. She might have been observing him. She might have been judging him. Verek didn’t really know, and couldn't read anything from her still body.

  She stared at Verek and he could feel it like a physical prick on his body, though the only indication was the slightest tilt of her head, slow and deliberate, angling ever so slightly in his direction. He searched for her eyes, instinctively, but only found void pits of darkness behind the skull helmet she wore. No light reflected from within, for a second he wondered if there even was a person inside this bone shell, or if it was instead inhabited by a spirit, a terrible ghost. No eyes met his own, at least none that he could see. And yet, he knew she was staring. For a brief peculiar moment he wondered if she was staring past his flesh, looking directly into his skeleton, he wondered what expression it was making. The thought strangely made him smile.

  She moved, her posture remained unchanged, still unreadable, only her arm mechanically rising. The motion was smooth, her arm parted her dark and dreary black robes like curtains, slowly, like a ghost emerging out of the shadows. Deliberately, her left hand rose, pale bone fingers emerging from the folds of her sleeve, closed into a tight fist. The fabric shifted, not making any sound at all, as if it was made of dark air. As Verek gazed down, he couldn’t help but notice that the black cloth pooled like a shadow around her sides, leaving the ribbed bone legs beneath fully exposed, showing that she had the same weird toe armor he had. Although her’s looked like porcelain doll’s, he could even see that toenails and metatarsi were sculpted on them, a strange detail to include on armor. Though, considering how his own armor formed, maybe she didn’t have much of a choice.

  Her hand slowly unfurled, each skeletal finger pulling back with eerie precision, until her palm lay completely open. And within her hand, nesting atop the center of her bone palm was… an incredibly tiny human hand, pale with a slight pink tint, and soft. It twitched faintly, fingers curling as if grasping for something unseen. It was undeniably a human hand, now matter how small. Verek's breath caught in his throat at the grotesque sight, for a single moment he thought it was an actual baby’s hand, and the sheer wrongness of it made something deep in his chest ache. Yet as he kept staring, he calmed down, it didn’t look like it was from a baby, yes, it was tiny, but the proportions were subtly off. This was a developed hand, it had simply been shrunk for some reason. He also noticed that the hand had a tail. A bloody wet red tail at where it would connect to the wrist, it was about twice the size of the tiny hand.

  Wait a moment…

  “Is…is this my hand?” He asked, looking around, his voice low and uncertain. He had completely forgotten about it. Couldn’t even remember where it had laid before. His gaze returned to the fleshy little thing cradled in the necromancer’s bony palm. Once again he felt some faint shocked amusement at the strange sight in front of him, a fleshy hand cradled within a bony hand of a necromancer. His hand. He… couldn’t actually tell. It was as pale as his had been, the same delicate bones beneath the skin, the same faint lines along the knuckles, the same bitten down nails. But then again, it's not like he had spent a lot of time actually staring at his hands. But then, who else’s hand could this be?

  Then, the tiny hand moved. It squirmed at first, its fingers nervously twitching, tiny fingernails clicking and clacking against the bony gauntlet of the necromancer, producing a soft tapping sound. It seemed to echo sharply in the room, or maybe just in his head. And then, with a fluid and unnatural grace, it shifted upright, balancing delicately on its fingertips in the center of her palm.

  Verek instinctively took a step back, eyes widening. Blood chilling as he felt a sudden quiet connection to it, blossoming at the edge of his awareness, like the phantom sensations he felt recently. In the back of his mind, a certainty spread, slow but subtly undeniable. A tether. A thread. A vein. The sensation of something that had once been part of him, something that had been torn away, now trying to reconnect.

  The hand sharply skittered again, the motion was eerily precise, disturbingly familiar. Not like a child’s twitch or a baby's grasping, but something far more animalistic. It moved with the sharp, jerking elegance of a spider, each finger bending and bracing in turn as it scuttled a step forward. Or rather many steps, as each finger repositioned along with the movement. Its pale skin gleamed faintly under the dim light, looking disturbingly healthy, healthier than it should have been. Just behind the wrist, the tail was curling like a cat’s tail, before uncurling and moving in waves, the motion strangely serpentine. The chimeric movements of the tail only ended up making the grotesque imitation of life that was this thing all the more disturbing. This close he could clearly see that the tail wasn’t a tail at all. Instead it was a strange writhing mass of bloody red tendrils, all knotted and twisted together in the shape of a tail. They moved almost like strands of hair, shifting and curling with eerie grace, each motion unsettlingly alive and delicate. Now and then, as the tendrils parted, something pale flashed beneath, ivory bone. Not the bones one would expect, not arm bones, instead the bone was segmented, slightly curved. It was a miniature spine, woven into the core of the tail.

  The tiny hand jumped. It suddenly cleared the distance between the necromancer’s palm and himself in a single fluid leap. Its fingers spread wide, like a spider showing off in a threat display. Verek watched, frozen still as the hand landed on his. Finger tapping the hard leather of chest armor as it skittered upwards, crawling up to his shoulder in a single unnatural burst. It stood there for a second, then it layed down, palm flat for a moment, before it got back up again. It started to rotate around, joints lifting and fingers tapping his shoulder, tail swinging this way and that. It stopped and settled down, curling its fingers slightly, wrapping the tail around itself. And that was when he felt it. The faint sensation in the back of his mind surged, swelling into something warmer, fuller. Like blood flowing into a phantom limb. The connection between them flared alive, not just mental but emotional now. It was more than a simple memory; it was a message, a feeling pushed through the tether.

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  His hand had missed him. It felt absurd to think that a limb could miss being part of its owner. Much less his limbs missing being part of him. And yet, somehow, it felt true. His hand was glad to be home again. A warmth bloomed in his chest, rich and inexplicable. For the first time since the transformation ended, he didn’t feel entirely alien to himself. He felt, if only for a single fleeting moment, whole. The fact that this feeling came from being given his transformed hand back to himself only made it stranger.

  “I… uh, thank you?” Verek said, his voice uncertain, teetering between confusion and a reluctant kind of gratitude. He glanced at the necromancer, unsure if politeness even applied in a situation like this.The gaunt figure said nothing. She simply nodded once. Encouraged by the gesture, if still a bit unsettled, Verek continued.

  “But I… I have to ask,” he said, gesturing slightly to the tiny hand still perched on his shoulder like some grotesque pet. “What is going on with it? What is it now?” The hand twitched affectionately on his shoulder, as if it understood it was being talked about. Which, considering their strange connection, it probably did.

  “Oh, okay, I can answer that.” Vector said.”You can’t really hear her talking, so let me explain for her. You.” She said, pointing to his face.” Are now the proud bearer of a Vampire Hand!”

  “...A…a vampire hand? What does that even mean?” He asked, confused. He knew what both words meant, but never really thought he would hear them in the same phrase like this.

  “To simplify it, your hand can now absorb blood to grow. Don’t worry, it won’t be so tiny for long.” She said smiling widely, an edge of laughter ringing in her tone.

  “How big?” He asked. He was glad it was going to grow back to normal size, but the way she said it gave him a bad feeling.

  “Well, now you are asking the real questions! The answer is: I don’t know, it’s going to depend on a bunch of factors. So first, can you feel a connection to it?” She asked, her tone more like a teacher’s now.

  “Yes. I can.” He promptly answered. He could feel it in the back of his mind, as real as the feeling of his still-attached-and-not-a-vampire-hand hand. In fact…“Now that you say it, it feels similar to the connection I have with the proto grimoire. But different, more familiar?" He continued.

  “Well, it should. This little guy is now literally your familiar. You can do a bunch of things with it. Like bind spells through it, cast spells through it…okay that’s about it, actually. I mean, besides the obvious.” She said, face falling with embarrassment.

  “So,” She started, face shifting to a mischievous smirk. One similar to Tom’s, now that he thought about it. She did liken him to an older brother, after all. “Can you try casting a spell?” Her tone was slightly teasing, almost as if daring him to try .

  Verek didn’t wait, he immediately decided he should actually try multiple things out. Firstly, he controlled the hand, his hand, to jump up to the top of his head. The hand leapt up to its feet…fingers, and jumped to the top of his hand in a single bound. Once there Verek willed it to wait. Verek then put his hand over his chest, over the Sigil of his armor, his grimoire. He still had to ask what exactly that meant, but that could come later.

  Without warning, Verek’s hand jumped, or rather, launched itself across his head towards Vector's. The girl let out a surprised and happy squeal as it brushed the top of her head. But then, something strange happened, through the connection with his hand, he could feel how weirdly smooth her head felt. He couldn’t feel heat or even hair, then he noticed that his hand was actually floating only slightly above her head, never actually touching it. No, not floating. It felt like there was something solid there. Vector smiled at him.

  “I have been telling you, you can’t hurt me! Did you think I was joking?” His hand kept moving around, tapping the strange distorted field, it reminded him of the reflection she had created.

  “How are you doing that?“ He asked, legitimately curious.

  “Vectors!” She answered. Verek immediately imagined thousands of little Vectors holding up his vampire hand. That…that is probably not what was happening. He didn’t want to ask, fearing he was going to look like a fool again. So instead he just nodded.

  His hand jumped away from her and touched the ground. Then he cast Brand through it. Immediately, the wooden floor beneath the hand hissed, the air warped, thickening with heat. And then, with no warning, the floor underneath the hand became scorched black. The fire spread out in sharp, controlled lines forming a recognizable shape. A single symbol flared to life in brilliant orange flames, searing into the wood. The symbol on his chest, the symbol of his proto-grimoire. The rest of the room seemed to fade into the background, the fiery emblem consuming Verek’s attention, he felt a connection to it. Rather he felt a connection to the proto grimoire which relayed the connection to him.

  Brand was born out of Wound, and so this spell had a very simple purpose, it wounded something and allowed him to track it. He felt the connection again, he could tell it was strong, but not particularly sophisticated. It would break after a certain distance, and with it his ability to track it. However as long as the brand itself remained, he would be able to reconnect as soon as it got within range once again. There was also a secondary ability. With a mental flick he cast Wound through the connection, the charred wood beneath crackled further and the connection was completely broken apart.

  “You should be able to maintain the connection even when casting spells through it. But, it will take some practice, especially for non-fire spells.” Vector helpfully said.

  “Oh, thank you.” He said, making a mental note of it.

  “You are welcome!” Vector replied chirply.

  At the back of his head he could see the spells his proto grimoire had. As Vector said there were quite a few, pretty much all of them fire spells, but not all of them. Some of them were ash spells, like the one that made his clothing.

  Verek felt a bit overwhelmed. He just had so many spells right now, an overwhelming amount of them. He laughed, this was a problem he was more than happy to have. He would have to train a lot to use all of them, he could feel the grimoire pulsing along within his mind, willing to show him how to cast the spells, showing him the most complicated ones it had. It was dizzying, not only the number of gramaryes those spells needed but the complexity some of them had. Many were arrayed in strange patterns he knew were important for the casting of the spell. He knew he would not be able to cast those yet, they were simply too complicated. He shouldn’t have a problem with the amount of gramaryes they required, but the precision needed was another story completely.

  As his grimoire kept showing him all the spells, Verek noticed something. Well, he noticed several things, one of them being that some of these spells were quite strange and somewhat mildly incomprehensible to him. For example, one spell he saw would create a flame inside of his belly. He wasn’t quite sure why—oh, oh wow, that is useful. His proto grimoire filled the blanks for him, showing the purpose of the spell.

  It didn’t simply light a fire inside of his stomach. It created a magical fire inside of it, a special nourishing flame. This flame could connect to any and all fire spells he cast, and the things burnt by him would fuel this stomach flame. It essentially fed him the things he burned. This felt incredibly useful for Verek, not only because it would mean he wouldn't have to ever taste anything he disliked ever again. But also because he just realized he had no idea how to fully take his armor off. The weight of it had become so natural, so ingrained in his body that it almost felt like an extension of him.

  Still, that didn’t mean he wanted to wear it forever. How was he going to wash himself? Just as soon as he finished that thought, his cuirass pulsed with a soft, rhythmic thrum, like a heartbeat. He felt the warmth spread outward from the center of his chest, a tiny wave of heat that didn't burn, but cleansed. He felt the gentle rolling warmth wash over him burning away any and every trace of filth, sweat and anything else on his body. His skin tingled as it was purified, a refreshing sensation that left him feeling lighter, cleaner.

  His proto grimoire pulsed again, this time pulling his mind towards certain spells. Firstly it showed him the spell it had just used, Cleansing Fire Wave. Verek took one look at the spell and knew he wouldn’t be able to cast it himself.

  Not yet. He corrected himself internally.

  For some reason, his proto grimoire decided to show him a spell that made him produce absolutely ridiculous amounts of sweat next. The spell was called Sweating Flashing Heat and it was apparently a pretty impressive spell. At least according to his proto grimoire, who proceeded to dutifully fill the gaps in his mind.

  Okay, Sweating Flashing Heat was actually a pretty impressive spell, and once again, another spell he could not yet cast. It had multiple effects, something that seemed to be a recurring theme with the book. Firstly, it made him sweat a lot, this had the effect of lowering his temperature, which could be extremely useful in many scenarios. Especially considering the fact he saw that his proto grimoire had quite a few spells that would increase his body’s temperature. Secondly, it created a special coating of sweat around his body and clothes, which would further protect him from both incoming heat and flame. Thirdly, once the sweat was vaporized, it would hover around him like a misty armor, once again helping him against heat and flame.

  Verek had to admit that it did sound impressive. However, it also sounded a bit nasty. Once again his proto grimoire pulsed in his mind, showing him its spell quite proudly. It still didn’t change the fact that it literally made him into a walking sweltering puddle of sweat. Verek decided to move on, and kept taking a quick look at his spells. He quickly noticed something interesting. His proto grimoire did have actual armor spells, including more than a few ways to physically make them. However, none of them could make an armor as sophisticated as the one he was wearing. He became extremely sure that Vector had done a lot of the heavy lifting to fully create his armor, especially his under-armor. He turned to the girl, who was quietly standing by his side looking forwards. He turned to look and once again found his eyes moving towards the iron book, everyone was standing near it. Including, he noticed, his kneeling uncle. Only he and Vector were away.

  He turned to the girl, once again taking in her appearance. She looked pretty and his thoughts immediately soured, as he remembered the things Nadros had implied to him. No, he didn’t really think of Vector that way. In fact he wasn’t too sure what to think of her fully. She helped him so much, but he still didn’t know all that much about her. The only real thing he knew was that she was tremendously powerful and that she had helped him. Helped him a lot.

  Yes, that’s what he thought about her. She was pretty, but not in the way that a typical young woman might be considered attractive. Not in a basic juvenile way, no, this was something different, there was something otherworldly about her. Something that couldn’t be captured in simple words or shallow admiration. She was pretty like a fairy, a creature that existed just at the edges of reality, ethereal and otherworldly.

  Like a fairytale.

  Verek blinked as he found himself thinking of her as something akin to the fairy grandmothers from childhood stories he heard as a kid. The kind of being who would appear unexpectedly, transforming a child’s broken self into something magnificent, something idealized. She had that same kind of aura those beings had, being close enough to see, close enough to touch but beyond mortal reach. He laughed at that, thinking about the fact the she might be literally out of reach with her strange smooth barrier.

  Yet still, there was something he could no longer ignore.

  “Vector.” He called softly. Her head snapped to his direction, she pointed her thing at his face.

  “Vecky!” She exclaimed, smiling widely.

  “Vector.“ He said once again, her smile diminished a bit, but didn’t disappear. He felt a tug at his heart upon seeing that.

  “Were you…at the camp?” He asked, yes slowly travelling to his uncle’s kneeling form. She quietly nodded in response.

  “I see.” He swallowed his apprehensions. “What happened to the people there?” He finally asked, forcing a bit of casualness into his tone. Vector didn’t say anything, just stared back, looking into his eyes. Her large golden eyes moved slowly towards the corridor behind them, where he could see the shadowy shapes of zombies.

  They held their gaze on them for a bit. Verek wondered if he recognized the shapes within the shadows, the various silhouettes he could make out. He closed his eyes and turned his head back to Vector, who was now looking at him apprehensively.

  “I see.” He stated neutrally.

  “Did… did they, did you—” She stammered out, words barreling through each other. He knew what she wanted to ask.

  “No, I didn’t care for any of them. Not a single one at all. I just wanted to know. Thank you, for telling me.” She nodded at that.

  “Thank you. For everything, I don’t think I can ever repay you.” Verek said, his voice sincere. The words came out more naturally than he expected, the gratitude flowing with an unexpected weight behind them. He had never been good with words, never found the right way to express his feelings, especially not to someone who had changed the course of his life so radically.

  “Oh, I think you will find a way. Don’t worry about it.” Vector replied with a light, a playful smile returning to her face.

  “No, really.” He insisted, this time putting as much conviction as he could in his tone, standing a little taller now. “I mean it, truly. Thank you for everything you’ve done. For all your help.” He turned fully to face her, he wanted to look her in the eyes. His eyes soon found hers, and for the first time in a long while, he didn’t look away.

  Growing up, Verek had learned early on that meeting someone’s gaze could invite all sorts of trouble. Looking in the eyes of people who disliked him only invited attacks, he soon learned to keep his gaze fixed on the ground. Years, for years he had kept his head down.

  So now he held her gaze as he thanked her. It felt important. Necessary, even. This was just one of the ways he wished to change, and this was just one of the first steps to it.

  “Happy to help.” She answered simply, a smile crinkling her eyes, her words light and effortless. For a moment, Verek stood still, absorbing the simplicity of her reply. Perhaps this wasn’t her being coy, or not taking his gratitude seriously. Perhaps this was just another simple event for her. It was hard to imagine, hard to picture. This was the most chaotic his life had been, ever. Yet the person in front of him was anything but simple. What kind of life did someone like her have to lead to be so… unbothered by everything around her? Was this the privilege of the strong?

  “What… What will happen now? Did you all come here just for this book?” He asked, leaving the other question, what will happen to me, now? What will I do, what will I be from now? Unasked.

  “Well, firstly. This isn’t exactly a book. As you might imagine, this is more of a gate, or a prison depending on how you look at it. You see Garmon is one of those people that believe we can eventually leave the Library. This book, it is not unique. They are called the Iron Books, there are a bunch of them all around. They can all be opened.” Garmon turned to them when she finished saying that. “Oh, damn.” Vector lamely finished.

  “No, no. They cannot be opened, Vector. I have already told you this” He said, crossing his arms and talking like a disappointed teacher. That tone that all but said he had already explained it multiple times, and wondered how many more he would have to.

  “Okay, here we go.” She said as she slapped her hand on the sides of her dress. Her face is that of a mischievous child waiting for her parents' lesson to be over.

  “Vector, if you are going to tell him about it. Tell him properly. In fact, boy, come over here. You’ll want to see this.” Garmon said, uncrossing his arms and waving him closer. Without another word, both he and Vector approached, Vector just slightly ahead of him. She turned her head back and shot him a glance.

  Prepare yourself. She mouthed to him, her expression lighthearted. His uncle stared at him as they approached, but outside of that the man did nothing else.

  The iron book was as imposing as before, even with its dark metal cover full of multi-colored ink.

  “You see, boy. I am a person who deeply believes that knowledge is power. However, unlike some other mad men, such as wizards and warlocks. I believe that some knowledge should be treated carefully.” Verek took glances at the neurophage and the necromancer as Garmon said that. Where exactly did they fall in Garmon’s views? Were they just not as mad as any wizard or warlock?

  “By, ‘treated carefully’ you mean, hoarded by yourself, right?” Tom’s voice barbed at Garmon to the side. He leaned casually against the stone wall, arms crossed and a crooked smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

  Garmon, however, remained calm, his hands now clasped behind his back.

  “Not hoarded,” Garmon replied, his voice measured, though there was a faint edge to it. He didn’t raise his voice, but there was a subtle shift in his posture. “Guarded. There’s a difference, a great difference. You know that. We all know that knowledge can be the most deadly of poisons.” As he said that his head turned to Cumulus.

  “However, that should not stop us from seeking it. Knowledge is valuable, even, especially dangerous knowledge. And this.” He said, pointing towards the iron book.” This is indeed very dangerous knowledge. You see boy, there are doors in the Library that are not true doors. By that, I mean that many doors here will never take you to the places where you truly should go, must go. The doors that will lead us to truth. This is one such door. It connects to places where you would never be able to go, no matter how deeply you delved within the abyssal corridors of the Library.” Garmon said, each word growing in intensity. “And within it, you shall find things that you would have never been able to outside of it.”

  “What is that man's purpose in this?” He asked, pointing to his uncle. “You said that he would be a sacrifice? For what he had done to me?” His uncle didn’t react, perhaps Tom made it so he couldn’t hear?

  Garmon’s gaze softened at that. Verek felt a sharp prick in his heart upon seeing that look, it stirred deep buried memories of his father from within him.

  “Yes. Do you object to that?” Verek shook his head, he truly didn’t care what happened to his uncle anymore. Earlier that day he might still harbor elaborate revenge fantasies on what he would do to the man if he had power. But now that he finally had it… he simply wished to move on. The man didn’t mean anything to him anymore. Perhaps if he was to live Verek would have felt something, would have wanted to kill him himself, but the certainty that he will die was more than enough for him.

  “Good.” Garmon continued after seeing his answer.” What he has done to you is abhorrent. When one wields power, they should be ready for its consequences. Making someone else carry the power, while you enjoy the benefits is something that should never be forgiven. I will discuss the matter further with you at some other time. Now, back to what matters. I will not be opening the door, exactly. Instead I will compel the door to open itself, using this man as a sacrifice. You see, boy. Some things cannot be opened by you, but that does not mean they cannot be opened to you. In fact, I am about done. Everything is set, all that is left is to open the gate. Just need to triple check everything.”