The Library of Ghosts
The palace corridors were silent as Ophelia walked, her steps barely making a sound against the polished marble.
The map of Vordane burned in her mind, its inked lines seared into her thoughts.
A kingdom erased.
A name unwritten.
A man forgotten.
She clenched her fingers around the folds of her cloak, exhaling slowly. The weight of the knowledge was suffocating, pressing into her chest with every step.
She wasn't supposed to know this.
And if the Forgotten were real—if their purpose was to erase the past—then they would return.
They would come for her.
⸻
Thorne had left her with a single warning.
"If you wish to seek more answers, do it quietly."
But how could she stay quiet when the sky itself had begun to unravel?
She needed more than old maps and half-told truths. She needed something tangible. Something that had survived.
And she knew exactly where to look.
⸻
The Royal Archives were housed in the oldest wing of the palace, tucked away beneath layers of grand halls and forgotten passageways.
Ophelia had only been here once before, years ago, when she had still been an apprentice. The memory was faint—dust-heavy air, towering shelves, books so old their pages flaked at a touch.
The library of the dead.
A place where history was buried.
Tonight, she wasn't supposed to be here.
A single lantern burned low in the far corner, casting flickering light along the endless rows of bookshelves. The shadows stretched and curled between the towering stacks, swallowing entire aisles into darkness.
She moved carefully, her fingers trailing along the spines of books as she passed. Many of these texts were forbidden, their knowledge deemed too dangerous, too fragile to be known by ordinary scholars.
She wasn't interested in palace laws.
She was interested in what they had tried to bury.
⸻
After nearly an hour of searching, she found it.
A single shelf, tucked in the farthest corner of the archives, locked behind a thick iron gate.
The restricted section.
A shiver ran through her.
Ophelia knew she had no right to enter, but something deep in her gut told her that whatever she needed—whatever they had tried to erase—was inside.
She pressed her hands against the bars, testing them.
Locked.
Of course.
Her gaze flickered to the heavy iron lock hanging from the gate, its keyhole small and intricate. She needed a key.
She exhaled slowly, glancing over her shoulder. The library was still empty. No guards. No scholars.
No one to stop her.
Her fingers curled, pulse quickening. She didn't have time to search for keys. She needed this door open now.
Steeling herself, she drew back, scanning the gate. The lock was old but sturdy. She doubted she could break it, but perhaps—
She inhaled sharply.
The hinges.
If she could loosen them just enough—
She reached for a loose metal hairpin tucked in the folds of her cloak. Carefully, she wedged it between the iron and the aged wood, pressing forward just enough to feel resistance.
A small shift.
Then another.
The hinge groaned softly.
She stilled, heart pounding, waiting to see if the sound would echo.
Nothing.
The palace remained silent.
She pressed harder.
Slowly, painfully, the hinge shifted.
Then—a snap.
The bolt gave way.
She exhaled, slipping through the narrow opening. The restricted shelves loomed before her, their dusty spines untouched by time.
She ran her fingers along them, searching.
Something. Anything.
Then—her hand froze.
A single book sat apart from the rest, untouched by dust.
Its cover was blackened with age, its title scratched away as if someone had tried to destroy it.
Her fingers trembled as she reached for it.
She barely touched the spine when the room shuddered.
The lantern flickered violently. The bookshelves groaned.
A whisper curled through the air.
Ophelia whirled around.
Nothing.
But the air was wrong. It felt thick, charged, like a storm about to break.
She looked back at the book.
She had come too far to turn back now.
Bracing herself, she pulled it free.
The instant it left the shelf—
The entire library went dark.
⸻
The lanterns snuffed out all at once.
The air plunged into blackness, a thick, suffocating void.
Ophelia's breath hitched. She couldn't see. Couldn't move.
The silence was absolute.
Then—
A whisper.
Not from the air.
Not from the walls.
From right behind her.
"Ophelia."
Her blood turned to ice.
She spun around.
A figure stood just inches away.
Not human.
Not alive.
A shadow—twisting, stretching, its form shifting with the darkness.
But its eyes—
She could see them this time.
Not golden, like in her visions.
Black. Hollow. A void where a soul should be.
It reached for her.
Ophelia stumbled back, slamming into the shelf.
The book slipped from her grasp, hitting the floor with a hollow thud.
The figure moved forward.
The shadows curled around her feet, twisting, pulling—
Ophelia snapped out of her terror.
Run.
Her mind screamed it before she did.
She turned sharply, shoving through the narrow space between the bookshelves, her breath ragged.
The darkness moved with her.
The whisper followed.
"Forget the name."
"Forget the name."
"Forget the name."
She reached the iron gate, shoving through the narrow gap she had made—
The instant she crossed, the air shifted.
The pressure vanished.
The shadows halted.
The figure—gone.
Ophelia collapsed against the cold stone, chest heaving.
Her hands were shaking violently, but she forced herself to look down.
The book.
It was still in her hands.
Her breath came faster.
It had tried to stop her.
The Forgotten had tried to erase it.
And that meant—
Whatever was inside was never meant to be found.
She swallowed hard, the weight of her discovery settling deep in her bones.
Slowly, carefully, she rose to her feet, gripping the book tightly.
She needed to get out of here.
She needed to know the truth.
Before they came back.