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Chapter 14 - The Forbidden Library

The Academy of Wolves was ancient, older than many dynasties that claimed the empire's throne. Its stone walls bore scars from centuries of storms, its foundations rumored to rest upon ruins far older than men. Most students saw only classrooms, dueling yards, and banquet halls. But Lucian knew the truth: the academy hid more than it revealed.

He had not found it in his first life—not until it was too late, when whispers of forbidden knowledge had reached him secondhand, tainted by lies. But now, memory guided him. Now, he knew where to look.

And tonight, he would find it.

The academy's library was a cathedral of silence. Towers of shelves loomed in ordered rows, heavy with tomes bound in cracked leather. Tall windows let in only faint moonlight. To most, the library closed at midnight.

But Lucian had waited. He lingered in the shadows until the last lantern dimmed and the librarians departed, their keys jingling softly. Only when the door's lock clicked did he stir.

He moved like a shadow, steps muffled by memory. His fingers traced along shelves, pausing at a row near the northern wall. A history section, dull to any student. But here, beneath a shelf, was the imperfection: a seam in the stone.

Lucian crouched. His hand slid along the floor until it pressed a faint carving—a sigil almost erased by time. He pressed.

Click.

The shelf trembled. Dust fell. Then, with a soft groan, the wall shifted inward, revealing a narrow stair curling into darkness.

He descended with care. The air grew colder, heavier, tinged with the scent of dust and iron. His hand brushed against the rough wall as his steps echoed faintly downward.

At last, he emerged into a hidden chamber.

It was no ordinary room. Black stone columns rose like skeletal fingers, supporting an arched ceiling. Candles flickered to life on their own as he entered, casting ghostly light upon shelves carved into the walls. Books lay chained, scrolls sealed with wax.

The Forbidden Library.

Lucian exhaled slowly. So it exists.

He approached the nearest shelf. The books were marked with runes of warding—wards designed to scorch the hands of the reckless. But he had studied such marks before. He whispered the counter-runes under his breath, words that tasted like ash on his tongue. The sigils dimmed, allowing his fingers to brush the leather cover.

He pulled a tome free. Dust plumed into the air. Its title was in an old dialect: On the Heresies of the First Kings.

He opened it, scanning lines written in precise, furious script. It spoke of the empire's founders—not as divinely chosen, as the official histories claimed, but as usurpers who struck bargains with beings not of this world. Demons. Forgotten gods. Shadows bound in chains of oath.

Lucian's jaw tightened. So the empire was born not by crown, but by pact.

He replaced the book carefully, his eyes drifting further. Another caught his attention, sealed with black wax: The Ledger of Curses. He cracked the seal and read. This one catalogued rituals forbidden by the current age: blood-binding, shadow-calling, soul-marking. Magic that could enslave or destroy not armies, but legacies.

His pulse quickened. This knowledge… with it, I could cut not only flesh, but destiny itself.

Yet even as he read, a whisper brushed his ear.

"You should not be here."

Lucian's head snapped up. A figure stood at the edge of the chamber, cloaked in black, face hidden behind a silver half-mask. The presence was calm, deliberate.

Lucian's fingers closed the book with deliberate care. "And yet here you are."

The figure's head tilted. "Few find this place. Fewer still leave it."

Lucian's expression did not change. "If you mean to stop me, try. If not, then speak your purpose."

Silence stretched. Then, a low chuckle.

"Sharp-tongued. Fearless. Yes, the rumors were true." The figure stepped closer, boots silent upon the stone. "The crownless wolf walks boldly, even in forbidden halls."

Lucian's eyes narrowed. "You know my name."

"I know your story," the masked figure replied. "And I know the danger you court. Knowledge here is not meant for your hands."

Lucian's lips curved faintly. "Then why not strike me down?"

The figure's silence was answer enough.

Lucian turned back to the shelves, deliberately ignoring the watcher. He pulled another tome, opening it with calm defiance. "If you were truly my enemy, I would already be bleeding. Which means you're something else. A guardian, perhaps. Or a spy. Either way, I will read. Stop me, or stand aside."

The figure's chuckle echoed again. "Arrogant… but not wrong."

Lucian's eyes flicked up, catching the faintest gleam of approval in the masked stranger's gaze.

"Very well," the figure said. "Read. Learn. But remember: every page has a price. Every truth, a chain. When the time comes, you will find the cost waiting for you."

And like a shadow, the figure vanished, leaving only the echo of footsteps fading into the stone.

Lucian closed the tome slowly. His reflection stared back at him from the polished chain binding its cover.

"A chain, is it?" he murmured. "Then I will forge it into a weapon."

He stayed for hours, devouring knowledge. He read of curses that could bind bloodlines, of elemental rites that warped the rules of dueling, of sigils that tore open hidden doors. He traced them all into memory, burning each line into his mind.

By the time he left, dawn was breaking. The hidden shelf sealed behind him with a soft click, erasing all trace of the passage.

In the courtyard that morning, the academy buzzed as usual. Students hurried between classes, instructors barked orders. No one knew what Lucian carried in his mind now—knowledge long buried, secrets that could unravel empires.

Seren found him beneath the old willow, her expression sharp. "You disappeared last night. Again."

Lucian looked up from the book in his lap. "I was studying."

Her eyes narrowed. "Studying what?"

He offered a faint smile. "Things the empire prefers I not."

Seren exhaled, frustrated. "You're playing with fire."

Lucian's gaze hardened. "No. I'm feeding it."

That night, alone once more, he laid his quill to parchment.

The map of vengeance he had been drawing shifted, lines branching not only toward names and faces, but now toward rituals, wards, chains.

The wolf was no longer sharpening only his claws.

He was sharpening the very fire he would burn the empire with.

And somewhere deep beneath the academy, the Forbidden Library waited, patient, its books whispering to be opened again.

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