Infiltration

It was biting cold, the kind Julius knew well. He crouched behind some grey rocks. The rough stone pressed against his thin shirt. Below him lay the House Vorlag settlement, looking dark and closed against the wind. A little grey smoke drifted from chimneys, showing people were inside the tough walls, but it didn't feel welcoming. He remembered the symbol on the guards: a fist smashing grain. It felt like a warning of difficult times ahead.

He watched for two days. Two cycles of bleak grey light fading into chilling darkness. He learned the rhythms of the settlement, the way people moved with slumped shoulders and downcast eyes, the way the guards walked their patrols on the thick stone walls, their spears held ready, their faces hard and watchful. This place wasn't just a collection of buildings; it was a cage, and House Vorlag held the key.

His goal, the Sundered Peaks, felt impossibly far, hidden beyond this hostile land. Charon's words echoed in the quiet emptiness inside him: Find the mirrored fragments! The key… it's not whole! Scattered… like reflections! He needed to cross this land, but charging blindly through Vorlag territory felt like walking into a trap. He needed information. He needed a path.

On the second evening, hiding closer to the walls as dusk thickened the shadows, he heard them. Two guards, changing shifts near the gate, their voices low but carried by a lull in the wind.

"...another turn guarding the Scriptorium," one complained, adjusting his spear. "That place feels weird. All those old books and the silence."

"Lord Vorlag wants those records kept safe," the other replied, his voice flat. "Especially the old maps and the lineage scrolls. He worries about… echoes." He spat onto the dusty ground. "Waste of good guards, if you ask me. Who'd be stupid enough to try and get in there?"

Scriptorium. The word snagged Julius's attention. Records. Old maps. Echoes. It sounded important, heavily guarded. A place Vorlag protected. Maps could show him a way through these lands, a way to avoid patrols, a way to the Peaks. And maybe, just maybe, records mentioning 'echoes' or old lineage might hold another piece of the puzzle, another clue about the fragments, about the Starborn Charon spoke of. It was a desperate gamble, born of necessity. He had to get inside.

He watched the Scriptorium for the whole next day. It wasn't its own building, just a low tower connected to the town's outer wall, near a corner where fewer people went. It looked older than the surrounding structures, built of darker, more weathered stone. Guards patrolled the wall section nearby, but their route took them away from the tower's base for short intervals. The tower itself had narrow, slit-like windows high up, too small and too high to be useful. But the roof… the roof looked flatter than the others, and the back wall, facing away from the settlement's main paths, seemed less watched.

He needed the darkness. He needed the stillness Elara had taught him. Be the stone. Quiet as the dust before the storm. Breathe slow. Feel nothing. Be nothing.

Night came, deeper and colder than before. The sliver of moon offered little light, hidden often by fast-moving clouds. Perfect. Julius waited until the deepest part of the night, when the settlement sounds died down to muffled coughs and the ever-present howl of the wind. He watched the guards pass on the wall above the Scriptorium. One rotation. Two. He timed the gap.

Now.

He moved from his hiding place, a shadow detaching itself from other shadows. He kept low, feet moving silently over the packed earth and loose stones. The wind tugged at his tunic, threatening to betray him with noise, but he moved with it, using its gusts to cover the faint sounds of his passage.

He reached the base of the Scriptorium tower. The stone was cold and rough beneath his fingers, offering better holds than he'd expected. He looked up. It wasn't impossibly high, but it was high enough to make his stomach clench. He remembered Roric's strength, Elara's fierce love. He thought of Charon, vanishing into light and ozone. Live.

He began to climb.

His fingers were small and numb from the cold. He searched the old stone wall for places to hold onto. His old boots made soft scraping sounds as he found spots for his feet on thin ledges. He moved slowly, deliberately, testing each hold before trusting his weight to it. He didn't think about the drop below. He didn't think about the guards who might return any second. He focused only on the next handhold, the next foothold. He became the climb. He became the stone he clung to.

When he was halfway up, his foot slipped. Small bits of loose stone fell down the wall. It sounded really loud because it was so quiet. Julius didn't move. He pushed himself flat against the cold stone. His heart was pounding like crazy. He held his breath and listened hard. The wind howled. A dog barked far off, one time, two times, then it was quiet again. There were no shouts. No one sounded an alarm.

He waited a moment longer, letting the fear wash through him and pass. Then, carefully, he resumed his climb.

The top edge of the wall felt rough under his searching fingers. He pulled himself up the last few feet, muscles straining, and rolled silently onto the flat roof. He lay there for a moment, gasping softly, the wind whipping around him, tasting the grit in the air.

The stone roof sloped a little. In the center was a heavy wooden trapdoor, level with the roof. It was likely locked from below. No use. He looked around the edges. Near the back, where the tower touched the main town wall, he found a dark hole. Not a window, maybe a vent or just an empty spot. It was small – he could probably just fit through.

He crawled towards it, staying low. He peered inside. Darkness. The smell of stale air, dust, and something else… dry and papery. He listened. Silence, except for the wind outside. This had to be it.

Taking a deep breath, he pushed himself into the hole feet first. The stone rubbed his clothes. It was a tight fit for his shoulders. He slid down into the dark. His feet found nothing for a moment, then hit something hard inside with a soft sound.

He dropped the last couple of feet, landing crouched on a stone floor. He was inside.

The air inside was still and smelled strongly of old paper and glue. It was completely dark. The only sounds were his own breathing and the faint sound of wind outside. Rows of shelves filled with scrolls and books stretched back into the darkness. He couldn't see what they held. He was inside the Scriptorium. Now, the real challenge began.