Stories
The vaulted library breathes around me.
Its arches—blackened by centuries of candle soot—rise like the ribs of some slumbering titan, and every wall is inked with crimson sigils that pulse faintly, as if stirred by the cadence of my heartbeat. Dust drifts in the air like fallen ashes. The scent of old vellum clings to the back of my throat, chalk‑dry and metallic.
Third hour before moonrise. The Pact Hall is awake.
The coworking space never slept. It only dimmed, like a city seen through smoked glass. Server racks lined the walls in uneven rows, their LEDs blinking in patient, predatory rhythms—greens pulsing like slow heartbeats, reds flaring like warning flares that no one answered. The air smelled of overheated plastic and burnt coffee, and the constant hum of fans pressed against my ears until silence felt theoretical.
Mara found the entrance behind a waterfall no map had ever marked. The stone steps descended far longer than should have been possible, spiraling down through layers of earth and time until she emerged into a cavern so vast its ceiling disappeared into shadow. Floating lanterns drifted through the air like lazy fireflies, casting pools of amber light that made the darkness between them seem alive with possibility.