The Library Was Never Empty

The library was silent, save for the ragged breathing of the wounded. Dust still hung in the air, caught in the dim glow of the lanterns lining the cracked stone walls. The scent of old parchment and iron filled my lungs, the remnants of the fight still lingering in the air like a fading storm. My blade remained steady in my grip, its edge slick with blood, but my work here was already finished.

Two bodies lay before me—one slumped against the base of a toppled bookshelf, the other kneeling, gripping his side. The first was unconscious, chest rising and falling in shallow, labored breaths. He wouldn't last long. The second, however, was still aware, though only barely. His right arm clutched at the deep gash along his ribs, fingers pressing against the torn fabric of his uniform. His other hand, trembling from exertion, gripped the remains of his shattered sword. A useless instinct. The blade was broken at the hilt, its jagged edge glinting under the flickering lanterns.