The light of the chamber faded, and with it, so did
the present.
Michael blinked, and the room was gone.
In its place, candlelight flickered on stone walls.
The scent of old parchment and jasmine incense drifted through the air,
blending into a warmth that tugged at the deepest parts of his memory. He stood
at the threshold of a room he hadn't seen in years—a room he thought was gone
forever.
It was his mother's study.
Books were piled in teetering stacks on every
surface, scrolls unfurled across the desk, half-covered with notes in her
hurried, looping handwriting. Maps with penciled annotations, symbols, and
red-thread lines pinned to a cork-board. Dust motes danced in the dim glow,
suspended like stars in some tiny, enclosed universe.
And there she was.
Sitting at her desk with her glasses perched low on
her nose, lips pursed in concentration, flipping through a leather-bound volume
older than either of them. She looked tired but determined, the way she always
did when she was on the edge of discovering something that mattered.
"…It's not just a myth," she murmured to herself,
unaware of the phantom presence watching her. "The temple is real. The library
is real."
Michael's breath caught. He wanted to call out to
her, to rush forward and wrap his arms around her. But he couldn't move.
Couldn't speak. This wasn't a dream—it felt more like a memory preserved in
amber, reanimated by the magic of the Library itself.
His mother turned the page, her brow furrowing as
she read aloud. "'Only those bound by blood and burden may find the path. A
guardian waits, and through him, the doors will open.'" She paused, eyes
narrowing in thought. "Bound by blood…"
She looked up, as if sensing something—something
just beyond her reach. Her fingers hovered over the page, tracing a faded
symbol: a spiral that curved in on itself, identical to the one Michael had
seen etched above the temple entrance.
"I should have told him," she whispered, more to
herself than anyone else. "But he was too young. He wouldn't have understood."
Michael felt a chill ripple through him. Had she
meant to prepare him for this? Had she known he would someday follow her
footsteps into the jungle, into the library hidden beyond time?
She stood slowly, crossing the room to open a drawer
he'd never noticed before. From it, she pulled a small, leather-bound
journal—worn, almost falling apart. Her fingers trembled as she held it, as if
she felt the full weight of the secrets inside.
She opened the journal with the care of someone
handling sacred scripture. Pages filled with hand-drawn sketches, ancient
glyphs, and translations fluttered as she flipped through, searching. Then, she
paused on a page. Her fingers hovered.
There, drawn in black ink, was a symbol Michael had
only seen once before—when he stood before the massive doorway inside the
temple. A circle surrounded by shifting lines and stars. Beneath it, in his
mother's handwriting: "The seal of the Wandering Library.
Always moving. Always watching."
She sat back in her chair, exhaustion etched into
every line of her face. Her voice dropped to a whisper. "If you're seeing this,
Michael… I hope you forgive me."
The air seemed to ripple. Michael stepped forward
unconsciously, drawn by her words, by the ache in her voice.
"I wanted to tell you," she continued, eyes
glistening, "but I had to protect you. I didn't know how deep this went—not
then. The Library… it's more than just a legend. It's alive, Michael. It chose
me once. And one day, it might choose you."
Michael's heart pounded.
"I left clues," she said, looking directly at a
point in the room—right where he stood. "Little things. Stories. That compass
you found in the attic? It belonged to Merlin himself. He left it behind for
the next seeker."
She reached for a photograph on the desk—one of her
and a much younger Michael, at the edge of a forest trail, laughing. She
touched the image with trembling fingers.
"I don't know what will happen to me," she
whispered. "But I know the Library is calling again. And I have to answer."
Her voice cracked. "Michael… if you ever find this
place, don't be afraid. You're stronger than you know. And you're not alone."
The light shifted again, dimming. The study began to
dissolve into shadow, books fading, maps curling away into mist. His mother was
the last to vanish—still seated, still watching the journal in her lap, as if
waiting for him to arrive.
Then everything vanished.
Michael gasped and staggered backward. The chamber
returned around him. The scent of incense gone, replaced by the old-paper musk
of the Library. The candlelight was steady. He was alone again—but changed.
A tear rolled down his cheek. He didn't wipe it
away.
The Library had shown him something
precious—something hidden.
A promise.
A warning.
And a beginning.
The memory faded, but the weight of his mother's
voice lingered in his chest. "That compass you found in
the attic… it belonged to Merlin himself." The words
echoed like a challenge and a call.
Michael stood in the heart of the Library, now
filled with a new urgency. His mother hadn't just stumbled into this world—she
had been chosen, just like him. And if the compass was as important as she made
it sound, then it might still be out there. Waiting.
He turned and began moving through the Library's
corridors. The shelves whispered around him, ancient tomes shivering in their
slots as if aware of his intention. The walls shifted subtly with each step,
archways folding into new doorways, aisles reshaping to guide him.
Then he saw it—an unmarked wooden door at the end of
a narrow passage, barely cracked open. Warm light spilled out in golden beams,
dust swirling in the air like ancient motes of memory. He stepped through.
It was a room he hadn't seen before.
Familiar.
The wallpaper was floral. A threadbare rug lay
beneath his feet. On one wall, a sun-faded painting of the two of them at the
lake house. His old bedroom door stood across from him, closed. To the side was
the attic entrance—pull-down stairs folded up against the ceiling.
Michael stared, stunned. "This is my childhood
home…"
The Library had recreated it.
He reached up and tugged the attic stairs down. The
creaking wood sounded exactly as he remembered. Step by step, he climbed into
the dim space above.
Dust swirled. Old boxes lined the walls. A broken
telescope. A cracked snow globe from Yellowstone. A shoebox labeled 'M – School stuff.'
Then he saw it: a leather-bound satchel, partially
hidden behind a crate of winter decorations.
He pulled it free, heart thudding.
Inside: journals, letters… and at the bottom,
wrapped in cloth, was the compass.
Michael unwrapped it slowly. The brass was old but
untarnished, etched with strange symbols around the edge. Instead of a single
needle, the centre held three, all spinning slowly, unnaturally, pointing in
different directions.
A note was tucked beneath it.
Michael,
If you're reading this, then the Library has
brought you to the edge. This compass doesn't point north. It points to
moments—important ones. People. Decisions. Threads of fate. Follow it, and it
will take you where you're needed most. But be careful. It's not always kind.
— Mum
Michael held the compass tightly. The spinning
needles slowed for a moment, as if sensing him, then jerked suddenly—one
pointing sharply toward a nearby wall of the attic.
He stared.
The wall rippled.
A doorway began to form
Michael's hand hovered over the compass for a
moment, feeling the cool weight of the brass beneath his fingers. The needles
had stilled now, pointing resolutely toward the newly forming doorway. It was the
kind of feeling that tugged at him like a force he couldn't ignore, pulling him
toward something he had yet to fully understand.
But there was a lingering doubt in his chest. He had
never asked for this. Never wanted to be thrust into a world of magic, mystery,
and impossible choices. Yet here he was, standing at the threshold of the
Library, holding an artefact that had been passed down by his mother. A compass
that seemed to pulse with its own purpose.
He closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep
breath. The air smelled faintly of dust, the familiar scent of old wood and
forgotten things. In the quiet of the attic, the weight of the silence pressed
against him, wrapping around his thoughts like a heavy fog.
What if this is too much? What if I'm not ready?
He opened his eyes, looking at the doorway that
shimmered like heat rising from the ground. His thoughts drifted back to his
mother's letter, the words echoing in his mind.
"It will take you where you're needed most."
But what did that mean? And why him? He wasn't
special—just an ordinary man caught in extraordinary circumstances. Yet
something deep within told him he was more than that, that this compass, this
Library, had found him for a reason. A reason he hadn't yet uncovered.
Michael set the compass down on a stack of old
books, letting its glow soften in the dim light. He took a step back and ran
his hand through his hair, trying to gather his thoughts. He didn't know what
awaited him on the other side, but there was one thing he did know: he couldn't
turn back now.
He grabbed a small satchel, tucking the compass into
it carefully. The room seemed to hum with anticipation as he buckled the strap,
as though the Library itself was watching. Listening.
He moved to the doorway, hesitating for a split
second. The unknown stretched out before him, vast and undefined. But the pull
was undeniable.
"Here goes nothing," he muttered, his voice barely a
whisper. He stepped through.
The moment Michael crossed the threshold, the world
around him shifted once again. The air thickened, as if time itself was
bending, and the light, that warm, golden glow, faded into an ethereal
twilight. The corridor he entered was narrow, its walls lined with dark,
swirling shadows, as though they were trying to pull him back into the unknown
depths of the Library. But the compass in his bag pulsed gently, reminding him
of his purpose.
He could feel the weight of the Library pressing
against him, its endless rooms and corridors stretching out in every direction.
The shelves whispered again, but now it was different—faint, disjointed voices,
snippets of conversations and half-forgotten histories, swirling around him
like the dust motes in the attic. He clenched his fists, feeling the cool
weight of the compass still in its satchel, a steady reminder that this journey
was no longer just about finding answers—it was about making decisions. About
walking into the unknown with the knowledge that whatever he found could change
everything.
Michael took a deep breath, steadying himself. This
was no longer a quiet exploration, nor an accidental stumble. The Library had
chosen him. The compass had led him here. And now, it was time to face whatever
waited in the shadows.
As he moved deeper into the passageway, the walls
seemed to close in around him, the space becoming more constricting. The air
grew colder, and the whispers, once faint, now carried an urgency. He quickened
his pace, drawn forward by the instinctive pull of the compass.
A door appeared before him, its edges glowing
faintly, though the light was more subdued than before. This one wasn't like
the other doors he had seen—the ones that appeared out of thin air or the ones
that led him to rooms filled with echoes of his past. This one felt different,
like it was the key to something far more significant.
His hand hovered over the handle, but before he
could touch it, the door creaked open on its own. The moment it did, the
temperature dropped even further, and a chilling breeze rushed past him,
carrying with it the scent of damp earth and forgotten places. Michael stepped
inside.
The room he entered was vast, stretching endlessly
into the distance, but it wasn't a room at all. It was a cavern, a place of
strange and ancient power. The walls were lined with thousands of scrolls,
their papyrus yellowed and fragile, bound by what appeared to be strands of
light rather than physical ties. The scrolls hummed with a strange energy, and
Michael could feel the pull of the magic in the air, thick and tangible.
At the centre of the cavern, illuminated by an eerie
glow, was a pedestal. Upon it lay a single object—a mirror, its surface smooth
and perfectly reflective, yet somehow alive with swirling energies beneath its
surface. It beckoned him forward.
Instinctively, Michael moved toward it, his heart
pounding in his chest. The compass in his bag throbbed in time with his pulse,
as if urging him to touch it. As his fingers brushed the edge of the pedestal,
the air around him hummed louder, and a voice—low and ancient—whispered from
the depths of the cavern.
"You are close, Michael. But the truth you seek will
come at a price. Do you still wish to know?"
The voice was both familiar and foreign, as though
it had always been there, waiting for him. He swallowed hard, glancing around
the cavern. The mirror seemed to shimmer with an unnatural light, and he knew,
deep in his bones, that this was what the compass had led him to. The truth. Or
at least, a truth.
But the question lingered in the air, heavy and
charged with meaning.
"Do you still wish to know?"
Michael hesitated. The weight of the moment pressed
down on him. Could he handle the truth? Could anyone? But in his heart, he
already knew the answer. This was why he had come. This was the reason he had
been chosen. He couldn't turn back now.
He took a deep breath and nodded, his voice steady
as he whispered, "Yes."
The moment the word left his lips, the mirror
rippled, its surface turning from a smooth reflection to something more fluid,
more alive. The room seemed to shift, the walls folding in on themselves, and
for a split second, Michael saw something—something that shouldn't have been
possible. A glimpse of another world, of another time, before it vanished into
the mirror's depths.
Then, without warning, the mirror sucked him in.
The world twisted around him, spinning faster than
he could comprehend. The air burned with a strange energy, and the ground
beneath his feet disappeared. He fell, tumbling through a void that felt both
endless and suffocating. Time itself seemed to stretch and warp, moments
colliding, past and future mingling in a chaotic dance.
And then, just as suddenly as it had begun,
everything stopped.
Michael landed softly on the ground, disoriented,
his body shaking from the overwhelming force of the journey. He looked around,
struggling to make sense of his surroundings. The world he found himself in was
unlike anything he had ever seen—vast, barren landscapes stretched out before
him, the sky a swirling mixture of colours, as though it was a canvas of pure
energy. The ground beneath his feet was cracked, like the surface of an ancient
desert, with strange, otherworldly plants growing from the fissures.
The air was thick with tension, as if the very
fabric of reality was fraying at the edges.
And then he saw it. Far in the distance, there was a
figure—tall, shadowed, and cloaked in darkness. Michael's heart skipped a beat.
He knew that figure, though he couldn't explain how.
It was the same figure that had appeared in his
dreams—the same figure he had seen in the mirror, just moments ago. And it was
walking toward him