The cool air of the underground archives brought a shiver of goosebumps to Lapat’s skin. Their subterranean nature protected the parchment from the corrosive humidity, but in many ways, it felt as though the archives had been designed this way on purpose. As though when one ventured down into the bowels of the university, away from sunlight and the bustle of the city, they also stepped away entirely; Existing in a place punctuated by the records of others, seeing life through narrow keyholes of history offered in the endless accounts lining the shelves.

  Even after all these years, the herculean organization of the space caught his breath. Wooden shelves two men tall lined every available space, with an army of clerks scurrying about as its silent guardians. Glassed glow lights dotted the tables and walls: a chemical concoction that exhausted in the presence of oxygen; a natural fire safety hazard.

  An old human woman manned the entrance desk and looked up at him from behind massive square spectacles. “Good morning.” The librarian smiled, her wrinkles engulfing her eyes.

  “Good morning,” Lapat replied, looking around at the occupied desks filling the room. “I didn’t expect to see so many students down here.”

  “Many are motivated by last-minute submissions,” the librarian chuckled. “But we often see a surplus before everyone leaves for the festival. The Night of Lights is quite the occasion every year. Now, how may I be of assistance?”

  “I am an alum, valedictorian actually, and I wish to pursue further research.”

  “Valedictorian?” Her eyebrows raised in surprise. “How exciting! Welcome home! What year did you graduate? Perhaps we shared a lecture hall?”

  “907, though that was a near half century ago, so I wouldn’t expect you to recognize me.”

  “907? 907?” The librarian repeated as if to summon the memories from within her own dusty archive. “Ah, yes! Bareson, was it not? Pat Bareson? I remember you indeed. A few years my senior you were.”

  A few years her senior? Lapat cringed at the thought. Could I really be so old? “Actually, it is Lapat. Lapat Braveson.”

  “Ah, Braveson, there is it. Yes, I remember now. You were quite the legend amongst my class! Why, if I remember correctly, no one had ever seen such skill in decades, if not the century.”

  Lapat’s chest swelled with pride. “Thank you, that is very kind.”

  “What happened to you after graduation?” The librarian learned forward curiously. “Others returned to teach, but you, I don’t remember hearing much more news about your successes.”

  “Well, I hardly could be limited to academia,” Lapat blurted. “I did not have time to waste on grading papers and minding insubordinate children.”

  The librarian sank back; her awe vanished in a heartbeat, replaced with a dissatisfied scowl. “And yet here you are. Amongst our insubordinate children. How the mighty fall.”

  Embarrassment flooded Lapat’s face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to insult you or your profession. I only intended to differentiate between-”

  “What is it you require, valedictorian?”

  Taking a breath, Lapat calmed himself. “I am pursuing research on pharmacology. Perhaps botany as well. Anything you have available in relation to diseases and their treatments.”

  The librarian cocked her head quizzically. “That is a broad subject for my clerks to assist you in. Perhaps you would narrow the subject? Or provide us with a reason for this research so that we may better assist you?”

  “My reason is purely academic,” Lapat said quickly, tugging at his gloves. “Experimental, some might say. A passing curiosity is all.”

  “If it is curiosity that drives you, perhaps the local library would suit your needs better. Here we are bound by scientific pursuits. Not the whims of the bored retirees.”

  “Bored?” Lapat felt irritation bubble in his chest. “I am no passing spectator! I am an academic of the highest regard! If you must know, I seek information on the Black Rot! Is that something you can assist me with? Or shall I be pestered with your asinine questions further?” His voice echoed through the archive. He looked around, seeing all eyes turned towards him.

  “The Black Rot?” The librarian stiffened. “May I see your pass, sir? Who authorized this?”

  “My pass?” Lapat huffed. “I’m not sure why you suddenly require it. You were willing to help me only moments ago.”

  The librarian's mouth stiffened to a tight line. “The Archives are a product of the university’s dedicated staff and generous donors. As such, access is limited to the prioritization of university study. Not common treasure hunters, thrill seekers, and snake oil salesmen looking for secret maps and cures to ply their devious trades.” She bore holes into him with her stare. “Now sir, your pass? Or must I have you removed from the grounds?”

  Begrudgingly, he handed over the slip emblazoned with Jana’s signature.

  “Professor Lockwood approved this? Interesting...” The librarian pursed her lips as if tasting something sour. “Find an open table and wait for an attendant to bring you the materials you’ve requested. Take in nothing but what you require for your study. Leave with nothing but your notes. All material will be recovered and accounted for before you are allowed to leave. Do you understand?”

  Lapat nodded. “I understand.”

  He found an open table and dispersed his inkwell and blank parchments about. He felt students staring at him, but they quickly turned when he looked around. “I have no need for their judgements,” he assured himself quietly. “I am an academic of this university. I am free to study as I please.”

  A stack of books slammed down before him. The librarian scowled, releasing the pile of tomes.

  “Thank you for your assistance.”

  The librarian’s frown deepened. “If you require further materials, please simply raise your hand and someone will be by to aid you.”

  “I don’t expect I will be here long,” Lapat smirked and opened the first page.

  Four hours passed, and Lapat’s eyes drooped from his skull. They were no more capable of reading another sentence, let alone the droll that had been forced before it. Examinations of phenotypes identified in the humors of blood, concerns regarding a spreading rash as a result of the import of Solstillian leathers, even a particularly detailed report regarding the mental stability of those living in a town beside the “Lovers Tower,” all scrolls and tomes that revealed nothing more about the Black Rot than any other text had before.

  Did you know this text is from a different site? Read the official version to support the creator.

  “What is the purpose of all this nonsense?” Lapat hissed.

  The dark archive pressed down on him. The silence he once relished in study now creaked in his ear with a thudding emptiness.

  “It has been a long time since your days of silent study,” a doubt whispered in the back of his mind. "Too long.”

  He rubbed his burning and exhausted eyes. “It was easier when I was younger. Preparing all night for examinations. When was the last time I had been able to keep his eyes open much past sundown?” Lapat chuckled quietly, fingering the silver band around his finger. “Rosie, my love, when was the last time either of us stayed up late to see the stars? Oh, my darling,” Lapat whispered. “What I would do to hold you close beside a fire. Let you fall asleep against my shoulder again.”

  His tailbone ached, the stiff wooden chair digging into his butt. “If I were a weaker man, I would give up now. Run home back to your arms and never leave. But…” He scratched at his gloved hands. “I need more time. I need to fix this.”

  He caught the eye of the librarian, and she approached him begrudgingly.

  “Yes?”

  “Are there any personal records present in this collection? Or some research notes I could analyze? Perhaps experimentation on the Rot specifically?”

  “Failed studies are rarely published and recorded,” The librarian sneered. “Particularly those that reaped no benefit and were a waste of both time and funding.”

  “Failure is but one step in the process,” Lapat snorted. “If you have any records of such studies, I would appreciate seeing them.”

  The old librarian rolled her eyes and carried off to the shelves. After some time, she returned with a deteriorated collection of paper, bound together with dust. Requisition reports and financial statements were cluttered with scraps of nearly indecipherable notes that appeared to be written as if the author was running out the door. Scattered amidst the parchment were a series of entries in the tight handwriting of a Dr. Ommade.

  “While I face persistent objection and perhaps outright mockery of my research, I refuse to bow to petty slights. The university council approved my research based on my arguments, and thus I will pursue my topic to the fullest. Why has the disease, which I will refer to as the “Black Rot” due to its common namw, not been studied more intensely? I cannot find records of its existence prior to the founding of Meerside, though reports from the era remain scant. An assumption persists that the disease is a natural cost of using magic. A “weight on the soul,” some have declared. But I do not place academic weight on such abstract imagining. No, with the assistance of my volunteers, largely labor workers who have used magic for their occupation, along with some of our more senior professors, I shall uncover the cause and perhaps a cure for this sickness.”

  Lapat’s heart skipped quickly. “There is research into this. I knew it!” He had to fight a building smile so not to appear insane. “There must be more!”

  “My progress has faced difficulty. The disease continues to evade any measure of treatment. No potion, no root, herb, or berry, nothing slows the spread. My patients, magic users all save two who were exposed to a lifetime of nearby magic, all display varying signs of this ruin. It is my best approximation that the disease is more akin to a burn or a rot, as it has been so aptly named, than any contact-borne spread.

  “Those most exposed to magic are most affected. I have personally treated several of our own esteemed faculty whose years in training and practice have demonstrated a mastery in their studies, but also advanced signs of the rot. It seems to begin as any common illness: a rash, a cough, a sore throat. It could easily go unnoticed for weeks, months, or even years. That is, until the black spores appear on the skin. Resembling mold spores, they grow in size and population across the victims’ flesh. A tingling sensation prefaces the spread, an itch that can never be truly scratched.”

  Lapat looked to his gloved hand anxiously. It did itch. A small irritant at first, but it didn’t used to be like that. Did it? Despite the cool air, sweat dripped down Lapat’s neck. “If the sickness has been studied, it can be understood.”

  “The rot spreads, rendering the flesh limp and weak in some cases, and entirely useless in others. Continued use of magic or exposure to it appears to ‘feed’ the rot and encourage its spread. One of my patients unfortunately discovered this while lecturing. A small gust of wind summoned in class has doubled the spread up the patient’s leg, and now he has been rendered to a crutch, as the muscles have nullified completely.”

  Lapat rubbed his leg. “A single spell? There has to be a way to stop it.”

  “The university council continues to demand further reports on my progress. Though I present what I can, the hope for a cure grows ever farther. In my ambition, I gave hope to the hopeless, offering them a miracle to what has always been understood to be a death sentence. Perhaps I was vain. Perhaps I promised too much. But as a researcher, I must continue. My patients require my aid, and should anything be learned from this, then perhaps we can at least try to slow or delay the spread to future magic users.”

  “Nothing?” Lapat hissed. “Surely he found something!” He flipped to the last page, hands shaking. The script was less controlled, broken, and distorted.

  “It is with a heavy heart that I recuse myself from this study. All my patients are gone. In a fit of emotion, one of our own faculty fled to the religious Orders of the city. I had not the heart to tell him they were no better equipped to care for him than I was. But it did not matter. Driven either by his grief and hopelessness or by the rot spreading to his brain, he destroyed himself, enveloping my research center in flame. ‘A better fate than decomposing to a husk,’ he claimed.

  “It is due to this exposure that, despite my survival, the rot has claimed me for its own. I must apologize to those I have failed. There is no cure. Despite my best efforts to uncover the secrets surrounding the Black Rot, I have deduced only two things. One, it is caused by magical exposure. Perhaps a result of the untamed world on the other side that we weave into our spells. But I cannot be certain.

  “Two, it is in my personal and professional opinion that those afflicted find peace. The Black Rot comes for all who push too hard. Control your impulses, and you may avoid the worst of it as you age. Minimize the magic. At the end, there is no escape. I am sorry.

  “My apologies, Dr. Ommade.”

  Lapat sat back, his heart pounding. “There has to be more! This can’t be it!” He rummaged through the pages, hoping to have missed something, anything. “Excuse me?” He cried, searching frantically for the librarian.

  She returned, scowling at the mess of parchment across his desk. “Was there something you needed assistance with?”

  “Yes, actually.” Lapat rubbed his temple, exhaustion and desperation dragging his mind to a state of lunacy. “Are there any other texts related to this report? Perhaps something older? One that this researcher used as a source? Or something that followed after this experiment?”

  “Unfortunately, no related texts are present in our collection. The professor passed shortly after the study was deemed a failure.”

  “How much longer did he last?” that dark doubt hissed. “How much longer will you?

  “Surely there must be other records!” Lapat insisted. “Somewhere! Anything!”

  “Test your luck at a pawn store,” the librarian scoffed. “It may be beside the maps to the fountain of youth.”

  Lapat felt shame and frustration burn in his heavy eyes. The day had been long enough. His manners were frayed, but he could not abandon his pursuit. There had to be another way.

  “Now, is there something I can help you with, or will you be leaving?”

  Lapat shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, I just need a moment to gather my thoughts. I just had hoped-”

  “Hope is for the faithful,” the librarian snapped. “Within the walls of this institution, we deal with facts.”

  “The faithful?” Lapat cocked his head. “Wait a minute. The temples here predate Meerside’s founding. Correct?”

  The librarian gathered the mess of scattered reports. “Yes, by some decades if their records are accurate.”

  “The healers there, even they could not eliminate the illness. But surely, they gathered information on those they cared for. Those records, they must be kept safe, preserved.”

  The librarian furrowed her brow. “I suppose. But-”

  “I need access to them.” Lapat smiled like a madman. “There must be answers there!”

  “Special dispensation is required to even request information on the Order. It can take our esteemed researchers months to hear back.” She looked down past her spectacles at him. “Even more so for amateurs.”

  “Months?” Lapat gawped, itching at his wrist. “There must be another way. Someone who can grant me direct access?”

  “I do not know. But it appears we can no longer offer you what you seek, so I must firmly ask you to leave.”

  Lapat stood, his mind racing. “Surely you must know something!”

  “Sir, I am not personally familiar with temple policy-”

  “Please!”

  “Go ask them!” Her shout echoed across the space, drawing every gaze her way. “The High Priestess will be in town for the festival! Go bother them!”

  “The festival! The Night of Lights!” Lapat jumped up. “Of course! Thank you!”

  I will find a cure. I must.