While the Wolf Squad is still on its way back toward the High King’s Castle, life within the Library walls glides by in a monotonous hum, paced by the rustle of parchment and that solemn silence that only centuries can accumulate. Every morning, Master Silas imparts lessons to Elian and Zech on disciplines the rest of the colony considers hollow shells, relics, or obsolete notions. They study fluid mechanics, the Earth's motion, the ethics of pre-Fall philosophers, and the echoes of dead tongues. Yet, in this microcosm of dust and wisdom, time seems to loosen its grip, becoming a slow, reassuring river.

  The midday meal is the only chime that breaks the rigor of study. They sit in a small circular hall, where the heat of a cast-iron stove battles the perennial dampness of the stone. Silas, despite his advanced age and the weight of the knowledge he guards, undergoes a transformation.

  ?So, Zech,? Silas begins, breaking a loaf of bread that smells of smoke. ?Do you still contend that the creatures of the marshes are mutant monsters? Or have you finally accepted that if someone absorbs enough radiation to "mutate," they are merely on their way to becoming a fried egg??

  Zech chews with enthusiasm, his eyes flashing with a mischievous spark. ?Master, your science explains biology, but not fear. An invisible monster is the stuff of clerics. A monster that was once human is far more terrifying and, what’s more, it can be killed. Admit it, your rational side dies of boredom when it has no mystery to dissect.?

  Silas erupts into a gravelly laugh, a sound that seems to stir the secular dust of the furniture. ?Touche, boy. You have mastered the art of rhetoric faster than geometry. And you, Elian? Perhaps you’ve grown fond of the descriptions the early explorers wrote regarding the Luminous Forest??

  Elian offers a hollow smile, a gesture that never reaches his eyes. ?I was only thinking that the testimonies of today’s explorers are incompatible with those of the past. Something does not add up,? the boy declares curtly.

  Zech attempts to steer the discussion toward the absurd, launching into a fanciful description of how grand it would be to ride one of those "mutant monsters," since horses have long since faded into myth. Silas indulges the game, describing hypothetical equine survivors hidden in some forgotten fold of the world. Within him, despite the deep furrows of his brow, lives a fragment of never-quite-faded childhood, a capacity to dream that he uses as a bridge to connect with his two unexpected apprentices.

  Once the meal ends, the idyll shatters. Zech and Elian return to the methodical reordering of volumes, a task requiring light hands and monastic patience. Silas retreats to his desk, vanishing behind piles of notes. To Elian, however, Silas grants a privilege that feels like a sentence: in the late afternoon, he has permission to explore the chronicles of the Wastelands and the colony. The boy’s fingers brush cracked leather spines, diaries of men who never returned, and maps charting borders of kingdoms erased by mud. He reads of outposts once teeming with life, of markets where gold changed hands between strangers. But the deeper he digs, the more a cold truth infiltrates his thoughts: the accounts become increasingly fragmentary, the dates grow sparse. The chronicles of the last fifty years do not speak of victories or discoveries, but of silences.

  For Zech, conversely, these are days of unhoped-for quiet. He lacks Elian’s sacred fire, but he loves the Library; he loves this informal refuge that shields him from the weight of external uncertainty. Silas, who at first seemed an eccentric old man ready to squeeze them like servants, has revealed himself to be a mentor of abyssal depth. Everything would be perfect if not for the shadow darkening Elian’s face. Since the Wolf Squad completed their second mission, the outside world has curled inward. There are no more evenings at the Crow’s Refuge, no beers exchanged in the warmth of a friendship that seems to have evaporated. Zech has tried to speak of it, but Elian is certain: the humiliation inflicted upon Julien Martel has carved a deep trench. Perhaps Giada and the others avoid them to dodge the House of Martel’s wrath, or perhaps success has made the explorers too distant from "archive rats." The fact remains: Giada has become a ghost. She lives a few paces from him, yet Elian sees her only in passing, a blurred reflection in a misted mirror amidst the market crowd. Now that she is out, engaged in her fourth expedition, the boy’s anxiety is a constant vibration, perceptible even to the volumes on the shelves.

  Silas observes it all. He knows the weight of that torment because he carried it upon his own shoulders in a time long past. He does not pry, not immediately, contenting himself with watching his apprentice darken like a sky before a gale, noting how his hands tremble slightly when turning the pages.

  ***

  Finally, the Master’s curiosity demands its tribute. One evening, as shadows lengthen between the stone naves and the air grows biting, Silas detains Zech with a brisk gesture. ?Zech, stay a moment. I have an extra task for you. An inventory to settle.? Elian departs with an absent nod, dragging a mountain of notes that weighs as much as his mood. When the oak door settles with a dull thud, Silas turns to the boy who remains, the candlelight carving deep hollows into his face.

  ?I was your age once, Zech. I know the taste of certain silences and the rage felt when the world does not turn as it should,? the Master begins, fixing his piercing eyes on the youth. ?But Elian is sliding into an abyss too deep, even for these walls. Because I care for you both, I must ask you to be frank. What is devouring him? Is it love for that girl-turned-explorer??

  Zech sighs, his gaze wandering among the ceiling vaults, searching for the right words. ?She is in the Wastelands, Master. Her fourth expedition. Her name is Giada, and she is the axis around which Elian’s world has turned since we were children. But she... she has never looked beyond friendship. To her, Elian is a shoulder, a confidant, not a potential partner.? Zech shakes his head with an exasperation steeped in melancholy. ?Elian is a handsome boy, he is kind, he possesses a passion that burns beneath the surface, but he is convinced he is worth nothing. Can you explain why that is??

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  ?His family, the Serpieri, are artists, elite musicians,? Zech continues. ?They control the Artists' Guild, enjoying privileges for their talent. His father is a High Officer of the militia, his mother a pillar of the medical team. Elian is the black sheep, Master. The voiceless son in a lineage of cantors. His self-esteem is a house of cards beneath the rain of the Wastelands.?

  Silas listens in a deathly silence, hands clasped behind his back. ?So, as I suspected, his desire to become an explorer... was not a vocation. It was a sacrifice. A pretext to not let her go, to be the shield for a girl who does not wish to need him.?

  ?Exactly. I only tried to follow him so he wouldn't be alone; I knew I didn't have the stomach for what’s out there. But Elian truly believed it. He thought that if he became a hero, an explorer, she would finally see him differently. This forced distance from Giada, this exile among books, is crumbling what remains of his self-image.?

  The Master distractedly strokes the marble edge of his desk. ?And her? Why does a girl like Giada, who could live protected by these walls, choose to dance with death among the ruins of the old world??

  ?Precisely because she is so graceful and fragile in appearance, I think,? Zech replies, sitting on the edge of a bench. ?Her mother smothered her with fear after losing her husband in a tunnel collapse in the Mines. She wanted a more sheltered life for her. In fact, she hoped her daughter would return Elian’s sincere love, becoming a Serpieri. Instead, Giada chose exploration as an act of rebellion, to scream that she is no one's property. But there is more: she is a pure idealist. We come here, we study or pray out of faith; she worships humanity through risk. She wants to save what remains of our species, to feel like a fundamental element for the entire colony.?

  ?The picture is complete, then. Thank you, Zech,? Silas whispers. The boy turns to go, but the old man’s voice halts him at the threshold.

  ?One last thing. Not a word to Elian. I do not want him to feel naked before my eyes. Dignity is the last garment remaining to those who have lost everything.?

  Zech stops, his figure silhouetted against the dark of the corridor. He raises his right hand and presses his index and thumb against his tightened lips. With a slow, deliberate motion, he slides his fingers along his mouth, as if drawing an invisible thread through the flesh. A seal of silence, eternal and solemn. Then, he vanishes beyond the door.

  ***

  The following day, the afternoon is choked by an unnatural heat that penetrates even the millennial stones. Elian abruptly halts his studies. He rises, nearly overturning his chair, and marches with a stack of crumpled notes toward Master Silas. His face is a mask of lucid, frozen despair.

  ?Master Silas, it is no longer a suspicion. It is no longer the fantasy of a tired apprentice,? Elian begins, his voice trembling with a terrible certainty. ?I have analyzed the commercial journals of the last century. Once, the colonies fought fiercely, traded, bled, and hated each other, but they were alive. It was so for at least two centuries. But for a hundred years, the world has grown silent. Indeed, in the last half-century, expeditions return with maps increasingly void. Where chronicles once indicated beacons of civilization, our men find only rubble overrun by briars and silence. No contact, no exchange. Not even a smoke signal on the horizon. There is no one else beyond these walls, Master. Are we truly alone??

  Silas does not show the astonishment Elian expected. On the contrary, the old man seems to shrink, burdened by a secret he can finally share. He rises slowly and leads Elian to a blind corner of the Library, an area where the dust is so thick it resembles grey snow. There, on a table of worm-eaten oak, lies a box of brass and bakelite, connected to a tangle of copper wires that climb toward the ceiling slits like metallic vines.

  ?Do you see this, Elian? This instrument, connected to a voltaic pile, I procured even at the risk of being executed by General Valerius's men. For half a century, it has been forbidden to possess one,? Silas brushes the lever with the reverence reserved for a funeral relic. ?Once, this little tapper was the heartbeat of the world. It spoke to cities beyond the mists, to stations across the Great Sea, to villages suspended in the mountains. It transformed thought into lightning. Silence, then, was a deliberate choice, not a geographical sentence.?

  Elian watches the black wires vanish into the gloom of the vents. ?And now?? he whispers, feeling the weight of the atmosphere crush his lungs.

  The old man presses the lever. . A sharp, metallic sound, void of any echo or resonance. Silas remains motionless, gaze fixed on the dial that shows no sign of vibration. Seconds pass that weigh like geological eras. Nothing. Only the accelerated thrum of Elian’s heart in his chest.

  ?Now, this telegraph is an ear pressed against a graveyard,? Silas resumes, his voice a breath of ash. ?The impulse departs, races along the copper, traverses miles of desolate lands, screams beneath the acid rain, and finds no one—absolutely no one—to catch it. We are a cry launched into an abyss that has ceased to answer, my boy. The network is shattered. The wires are severed.?

  Silas turns toward him, his glassy eyes reflecting the dying light of the afternoon. ?We are the last. There are no other colonies, no other voices. Beyond these walls, humanity is but an echo fading into the wind.?

  ?Listen closely, Elian. This silence... the void surrounding our walls, is one of the Great Taboos of the Castle. The General sells hope and courage because they are the only coins with which he can pay for the soldiers' blood. If the colony knew there was nothing left to fight for, that we are merely the custodians of a sky-domed mausoleum, the very foundations of this place would collapse into anarchy.?

  The old man gripped the boy’s arm with unexpected strength, fingers like hawk’s talons on his flesh.

  ?To speak of it is forbidden. It is not merely a secret; it is a heresy punishable by oblivion. The Castle needs imaginary enemies and ghost allies to remain standing. If you open your mouth about what you discovered today, it won’t just be your life that ends, but the last lie keeping our species alive. Remember: in here, we are the guardians of truth, but out there... out there, we are but accomplices of silence.?

  ***

  Elian stands as a thin shadow against the dying sky, motionless upon the stone ledge where the squared battlements mark the final boundary between refuge and oblivion. Before him, the Wasteland unfurls like a boundless shroud, a cracked and lifeless expanse where the only motion is the slow crawl of a sickly, opalescent green stream, vanishing into a tomorrowless horizon. The twilight ignites the clouds with a scorched orange that bleeds into the deepest violet, a dim and terminal light that heightens the brutal realization in his eyes: beyond those rock boundaries, no heart beats anymore, no trace of humanity remains; only the silence of a world that has stopped breathing. To his right, the lone sign of life is a small window lit by a faint, fragile yellow glow—a solitary spark that makes the vastness of the surrounding void feel even more crushing.

  The thought of Giada out there, in that no-man’s-land where there is only room for death, wounds him with newfound ferocity tonight. He is finally aware that the sacrifice of the explorers rests upon an unbearable lie. Surely, veterans like Vargo Cortez have sensed the truth, but they are the General’s men—cogs in a system that can only reject the truth to survive. If the truth were to surface, no one would be willing to sacrifice themselves anymore: there would be no new explorers ready to give their lives for the High King’s Castle, nor would there be men ready to die in the mines or work in the Factory like automatons for the rest of their miserable lives. The greenhouses, filled with legumes and vegetables, and the farm near the Castle would be plundered by the colonists, and everything, within days, would transform into a butchery at the General's whim.

  Not even Archbishop Aldrich, with his fine words full of false hope, would be able to appease souls indignant at such an infamous lie. But Elian, despite his attempts to rationalize the colossal deception, cannot help but feel a participant in something profoundly wrong. Something screams at his conscience and shakes his faith: God has abandoned them, leaving humanity to perish in the illusion of reclaiming a world it helped turn into a vast graveyard.