Page 12 of Ruin & Desire
I swallow, my mouth dry, and force myself deeper into the labyrinth of shelves. Every instinct warns me to turn back, but curiositymixed with dreaddrags me forward.Somehow, I know that if I can just find what the library wants to show me, I will find the answers to manyof myquestions.
Most of the bookslook as if they willdisintegrateatmytouch,their gilt titles worn to nothing, pages sticking together with rot. But near the far wall, where the shadows are thickest and the air is colder, a single shelfremainsimmaculate.This shelfisliterallyuntouchedby dustanddecay.Sitting perched on this immaculate shelf is a book.It is bound in flawless black leather in pristine condition,preserved as if by a will stronger than time.And I know it waits.It waitsfor me.I also know this book is the root of the curse that consumes him and binds me.
My breath falters.Without touching it, I look more closely.Lightcan’tseem to settle on its surface, but then the cover slowly becomes clear.A serpent, intricately engraved in tarnished silver, winds around a crown of thorns pressed into the cover. The tips of the crown seem to gleam with their own inner life, flickering in the torchlight.
The mark on my wrist burns—recognition blooming, awarningand a summons at once.
Ireach outto take the book, then hesitate. Every instinct screams that I should not touch this book, that nothing good can come from what waits inside. But the same force that led me here will not release me. I reach outagain, trembling,and let my fingertips brush the cold, perfect cover.
The torches flare, their flames leaping high and wild, throwing monstrous shadowstodance along the shelves. Thetemperaturedropsto abitter cold. Somewhere distant,in the bones of thecastleitself,a grinding groan echoes, as if great stones are shifting in uneasy dreams.As I laythe book flat in my hand, itopensand I catch the open half with my otherhand.Thepages flutter,caught in a wind that exists only in this place,at this moment,withthis book.
It stops at a passage written in ink black as night, the script curling and twisting, shifting on the parchment as though alive. Ican’tlook away as I read:
Scripture of the Serpent-Crown
Power is not granted by gods or blood. It is seized by those who cut away theirweakness. Mercy rots theroot. Compassion fractures the crown. Only through pain freely wrought can the world be made perfect.
My stomach knots with revulsion. The wordsseem to warpthe air around them, not simply cruel but a deliberate, blasphemousinversion of allI’veever believed. The page quiversandmore text bleedsthrough, darkerandheavier.
The Vessel is chosen through breaking. Grief opens the heart. Shame buries the thorns. Isolation ensures the chainremainsunbroken.
My heart pounds.Lucien,I whisper to myself.This is his story, not prophecy but a blueprint forhissuffering.Itsdesignwaswritten centuries before I ever stepped foot in this cursed place, thecurse claiming anyone who is desperate enough tograspit.Lucien is the Vessel.
The ink deepens, spreading across the old parchment.
The Guardian isfracture. Balance is a lie. Harmony is hesitation. The Guardian must be bound or destroyed, for she dissolves the chain of command.
Dread seeps through my veins, cold and inexorable. Guardian.Lucien had never mentioned anything about a Guardian before, but something about it strikes astrange chordwith me, echoing through the quiet emptiness of my thoughts.She dissolves…
Iread onabout the Guardian, and the passage reads as though it was writtenespeciallyforme.The wordsGuardianandshelinger in my head.Could they haveknownsomeone like mewould come into his lifeeven before I arrived?Or am I part of the plan,part of the curse? Whatever that may be, I do not know.OrperhapsI’mbeing silly,andthe book is speaking of another entirely. Still, a faint, unsettling suspicion curls beneath my skin:What if I am the Guardian?The uncertainty knots inside me.Is thismy fate, knotted somehow withhis, mysterious and foreboding, written into rot and silver?
As I watch, the page turnsofits own accord. Blood-dark ink unfurls across theparchment,the script warping into new shapesandsymbols that flicker at the edgeofmycomprehension. Mywristthrobs, echoing the text, as if it recognizes its origin.
I hear a soft, dragging soundfrom somewhere in the library,as if something or someoneismovingamong the shelves unseen. The torches flicker andhiss. Shadows writhe. I dare not calloutbut I know.He has returned.He is here, watchingme.
My eyes lock on the nextpassage,the script now jagged, as if the pen itselfweretrembling.
To bind the Vessel is to hold the serpent’s will. To shatter the Guardian is to preserve the serpent’s reign. Let none intervene, lest the roots devour all hope of mercy.
A suddenpressure fills the air, like a storm gathering in the rafters. The wordsblur. My vision swims.And yet,I’mcomforted toknow he is still watching.
Another line appears, faint and crawling.
The price of knowing isruin. The price of mercy is death.
Something shifts behind me, a whisper of movement too soft to be wind. I spin,myheart hammering, but nothing stirs except the shadows, stretching longer and blacker across the marble floor.He is closer.
When I look back at the book, the script has changed again. My name is there now, scrawled in twisting silver ink.Annabel. The letters curl beneath the wordGuardian, thenInterloper. Ifreeze.SurelyI am not theGuardian.Or am I?Is that what the book is trying to tell me?Is that why I was summoned here?Or isthe bookteasing me with possibilities? The uncertainty prickles along my spine.Idon’tknow what the book sees or what it intends, but suddenly nothing feels certain at all.Nothing.
And now, the knowledge is inside me dark as venom, bindingboth of usin a chain thatcan’tbe seen or severed.IstheGuardiangood, or willitdestroy everything?Will it destroy him?Will I destroy him?Will I destroy myself?
Outside, thunder shudders through the towers, the storm mirroring the tempest within. I can only standthere,my hand still pressed to the cursed book.I’mteetering on the edge of revelation and oblivion, knowing this is only the beginningand that the answers Iseekwill cost more than I ever imagined.
I slam the book shut, and the silencestretchesthin, crystalline,andtight as a snare. Every breath feels dangerous.I’mafraid to move.Shadows crowdingthe corners press in, the flicker of torches painting the library in bruisedgoldsand blues. My pulse hammers, too loud in my ears, echoing the staccato tremble in my hands.
Gold light seeps slowly from mypalm,warmth lingering like a memory beneath my skin. The serpent etched into thebook’scover lies broken now,itssilver veins splintered by my touch,yet I senseit’snot really destroyed.It’s still here,coiled and waiting beneath the shattered illusion, stronger than ever. The air churns thick and heavy, clinging to my skin.I hear his footsteps as he approaches.
I turn to face him,andLucien’s silhouettegrows through the dimness,each stepmeasured and deliberate. Heisn’twary of the book.For some odd reason, he is wary of me. His eyes,moltenandrestless,trackmyevery movement. The air between us vibratesas he comes closer, charged with secretsandhungerwith everything wecan’tsay aloud.I have so many questions for him, but before I get the chance to speak, he asks,“What did it show you?”
