Shadow Readers

The library was hushed beyond its usual reverence. Not the hush of rule, but of anticipation.

Spandrex moved carefully, the glyph on his wrist veiled under his sleeve, yet still pulsing—a faint warmth, like a silent heartbeat. He wasn't sure why he had come here, only that something had pulled him. A curiosity. A whisper. A tug beneath the ribs.

He slipped past the central halls, bypassing students and watchers, descending stone steps slick with age. The lights grew fainter as he entered the restricted annex—a crooked corridor lined with forgotten shelves, books that even Kael rarely spoke of.

The whispers started at the sixth row.

Not words. Not yet. Just breath, barely distinguishable from the stir of the air itself. Spandrex paused, head tilted. They weren't coming from behind him or ahead, but between the stacks.

He followed.

Each step deeper made the sigils in his memory ache. He walked sideways through a tight gap between shelves, brushing cobwebs from his cheek. One shelf had no catalog plaque, only a rusted ring embedded in the floor beside it.

He knelt, glyph hand brushing the dust aside.

It responded.

A subtle glow passed from his wrist into the ring. There was a click, then a slow grating sound as part of the floor gave way—revealing a narrow, spiraling descent into a passage not meant to be walked again.

Spandrex hesitated.

Then stepped down.

The stone stairwell coiled into darkness, lit only by the faint luminescence of his glyph. The whispers returned—stronger now. A language without tongue, without breath. Felt, not heard.

The bottom opened into a chamber.

Small. Vaulted. Sealed with cobwebs thick as gauze. An altar stood at its center, covered in dust. On it, wrapped in brittle black cloth and bound with four iron locks—each etched with unknown runes—rested a book.

It had no title.

The glyph on his wrist pulsed in recognition.

He stepped forward and placed his hand on the locks. They opened—not with effort, but agreement. One by one. The black cloth flaked to ash at his touch.

The book beneath was made of something darker than leather, and warm to the touch.

He opened it.

Not all the way—just the cover. Inside, the first page bore a symbol that mirrored his glyph, but far older. Rougher. Burned into the page, not written. Around it were fragments of sigils he'd never seen, drawn with a hand that remembered more than it understood.

It wasn't just Vehrash.

It was before Vehrash.

Something tugged behind his eyes. A sensation like falling, but inward. Words pressed into him, not readable but absorbable. Spandrex shut the book fast.

His breathing was sharp now.

He turned back, carrying the book to his chest like it might shatter if unheld. The vault sealed behind him without a sound. The ring in the floor locked. The shelves hid their secret again.

But someone had seen.

Two figures, deeper in the stacks, had tracked his movements. Silent. Watching.

One of them leaned close to the other and whispered, "Told you he was hiding something."

The other grinned. "He's not the only one who can follow a whisper."

Spandrex returned to his dome, unaware. The book was now wrapped in cloth from his robe's inner lining, hidden in his satchel.

That night, he did not sleep.

Not because the glyph burned. Not because the shadows moved.

But because the book was breathing.

Like it, too, had finally found its vessel.