Word travels fast in sanctified halls.
So I might've let slip—accidentally on purpose—that my mysterious draconic mentor was none other than Kierkegaard the Magnificent. The Kierkegaard. The flame of the East. The last rune-tongue. The one whose farts were said to ignite prophecies.
The older deacons nodded sagely. Of course. Of course. They remembered the name. Revered the name. Likely copied footnotes off his scrolls back when they had hair and knees.
But then came the problem. A young one.
Narrow face. Book-hugging posture. Probably alphabetized his own cutlery. He squinted at me over his lens-enhanced spectacles with the suspicious clarity of youth not yet broken by bureaucracy.
"Pardon, initiate," he said, voice wobbling on the edge of polite correction. "But Kierkegaard the Magnificent was… reportedly slain. By the Sisterhood. Flayed. Inscribed. And, um… his skeleton is currently on display in the Amazonian Taxidermy Museum. Under glass. Next to the pickled centaur foetus."
The old deacons blinked. Muttered. Frowned.
I let out a gasp. Clutched my chest. Took one wobbly step back and collapsed onto a pew like a sack of tragic onions.
"Yes!" I wailed. "Yes, those harpies—those vicious, unwashed murderesses—they took him from me!"
Everyone froze. Even the candles seemed to hesitate.
"I was but a girl," I whispered, trembling. "And yet… I personally retraced every sacred rune from his bones. Onto fine parchment. Rune by rune. Tear by tear."
"Gods," one of the old deacons muttered.
"Too bad," I added, sniffing, "that those savage women forced me to plant every scroll in their sacred garden. Used them as fertilizer for their foul, phallic eggplants."
The young deacon looked horrified.
"That's… not in the official records," he stammered.
"Of course it's not," I hissed. "They rewrote the records. They have scribes!"
Then I cried. Oh, I cried. Beautifully. Subtly. Soulfully. One of the older deacons handed me a monastic hanky. I made sure it came back slightly damp and tragically scented.
By the end of the afternoon, I had three personal study cubicles, extra lamp oil, and a fruit basket "to help ease the memories."
I gave the young deacon a wink as I passed.
He did not wink back.
***
So there I was.
Stone bench biting into my thighs. Papyrus on lap. Quill in hand. Ink slowly drying in the well like my will to live.
The lecturer—robed, bearded, and at least three centuries stale—was mumbling in archaic Lepintci, a language that sounded like someone gargling gravel while being strangled with consonants.
"Neh-pahr-thul ek rehma-soh dih VEL-ip khurran mah—"
I was nodding off.
My eyes crossed. The words melted into meaningless mouth soup. My notes consisted of a spiraling doodle, an accidental inkblot that looked like a nervous bat, and a tiny message:
"Help. This is my hell."
I mumbled under my breath. "Why am I here. I've never had a day of real school in my life. Not even temple basics. And now I'm trapped in a stone oven of vowels…"
Why did I even say yes to this? Why did I think this would work?
Then something changed.
The cadence.
The rhythm of the lecture—slow, ponderous, like dragging a body uphill—began to shift. Words gained weight. Became crisp. Urgent. Dangerous.
I sat up. Around me, the air thickened.
Students—real students—began murmuring under their breath. At first scattered. Then… synchronized. Like the whole amphitheater had caught the same fever.
The chanting built.
Soft. Then louder. Then louder.
"Eh-semmil... K'toth... reh-vahn..."
The ink on my page quivered.
The lecturer's voice cracked—then shifted into something higher. Buzzing. Wet.
I blinked.
…The chanting built.
Soft. Then louder. Then louder.
"Eh-semmil... K'toth... reh-vahn..."
The ink on my page shuddered. I swear it twitched.
Then it happened.
The lecturer's voice cracked. The air split sideways. And for one agonizing heartbeat, she was no longer human.
She swelled. Morphed. Skin slid. Limbs tucked in. What stood—no, wriggled—before us was a human-sized grub worm. Pale, segmented, obscene. Its mouth opened with a hiss like wet parchment being torn.
I couldn't scream. I couldn't breathe. I could barely exist.
And then—snap.
Back. Human.
Standing there like nothing had happened. Just a stern old woman with chalk dust on her sleeve and a voice like a forgotten tomb.
No one moved.
No one reacted.
Except me.
I stared at her. Then at the others. Then at my notes—still twitching, still wrong.
"Did that happen?" I whispered.
The boy beside me glanced over and frowned like I'd just asked what two plus two was.
I swallowed hard.
"No," I muttered. "No, no. I'm sleep-deprived. I'm delusional. I didn't just watch a respected scholar morph into a larval horror and back again like it was an interpretive dance."
I rubbed my eyes.
She was still human.
But something inside me was not fine.
For the first time in weeks—not since the chains, not since the desert, not since waking up tangled in a demon's tail—I was truly scared.
"What if I'm finally cracking?" I whispered.
And the ink on my papyrus blinked. Again.
***
I slammed the door to my chamber. Locked it. Wedged a chair under the handle for good measure.
The room was austere: one narrow cot, one prayer shelf, and one hideously judgmental portrait of a former Grand Archivist who looked like he personally banned joy.
I kicked off my cursed clogs—those ugly, foot-punishing pearwood atrocities—and grabbed a piece of charcoal from the incense brazier. Scraped it across the floor, sketching a summoning circle I'd once seen etched into the bottom of a demon-run casino bathhouse.
Kneeling, I whispered the invocation in something that might've been Infernal or very poorly-pronounced Morian street slang.
The circle pulsed. The brazier flickered.
Then—puff—sulfur, smoke, and sin.
"Girl, are you insane?"
Gregory appeared mid-snarl, shirtless, barefoot, and holding what looked like a half-eaten fig and a goblet of questionable fluid.
"Summoning me here? Into a demonic death trap? Into the holiest of holies this side of the Inner Sea? What's wrong with you? Do you want me exorcised?!"
I sat on my heels, wide-eyed. "Gregory. The lecturer. She turned into a worm."
He blinked.
Paused.
Then nodded slowly. "Well, hello. And why, pray tell, did you think I needed you for this little errand?"
My mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You never told me this place was cursed!"
"I said it was dangerous."
"You said it was dusty!"
"I said it was deeply warded."
"You said bring extra underwear in case of ink leaks!"
He sighed. "Saya, this place is cursed even by hellspawn standards. This place makes purgatory look like a pleasure cruise. That book isn't just guarded by killer runes. It's nestled in a pocket of reality so bent, it eats causality for breakfast."
I stared at him.
He took a sip from his goblet. "And now you've summoned me into it."
"You're fine," I waved. "You're already cursed."
He paced inside the circle. "I'm not invulnerable, you lunatic. This place has wards that could neuter a balrog."
"Wouldn't be the first time," I muttered.
"What?"
"Nothing."
I stood, furious. Charcoal smudged my knees. My linen robe smelled like candle wax and betrayal.
"Gregory, you tricked me into infiltrating a place even demons are afraid of!"
He didn't flinch. Just took another bite of fig and gave me his best crooked grin.
"Babe, you literally made a pact with a devil."
I jabbed a finger at him. "A devil-in-waiting. Your horns haven't even finished growing."
He scoffed. "Semantics. Trickery is literally in our job description. If we weren't tricking mortals, we'd lose our license."
I paced in a tight circle. My blood was boiling and I couldn't even blame it on foreplay.
"You could've warned me," I snapped. "Given me an actual briefing. Maybe a safety tip. Told me the head lecturer was an interdimensional grub in a toga!"
He raised a brow. "You seemed so confident. All that talk about divine resonance and instinctive rune reading…"
"You were much nicer when I was riding you," I snarled.
He chuckled, low and dangerous. "You were much quieter."
I crossed my arms. "This is abuse."
"This is delegation."
He leaned toward me, eyes gleaming like sin under torchlight.
"Now be a good little demon puppet… and get me that book."
I flipped him off with both hands.
He blew me a kiss and vanished in a puff of smug smoke.
***
I don't get lost.
I grew up in the alley-maze of lower Seebulba, where dead ends often had teeth and you learned directions by smell and swearing. My compass might be cracked, but it points true—especially when I'm running from trouble.
So when I clopped down the same hallway for the third time—same blindfolded bust, same pathetic candle that flickered like it was dying of shame—I stopped.
Clop. Clop.
I looked down at my pearwood clogs. Ugly. Rigid. The left one always slightly louder. I'd been listening to them echo this same stone corridor over and over like a drunk goat on a xylophone.
"Nope," I muttered. "Nope, nope, n—clop."
I turned. Marched the other way. My heels bit into the stone like divine punctuation.
Ten steps later—same bust.
Now the candle winked at me. Or maybe flickered. Or maybe I was losing it.
"Okay," I said, grinding my teeth. "Geometry doesn't work like this. Even cursed geometry."
Then came the whispers.
Not from the walls.
From the books.
Tiny, smug, spine-bound traitors. Their pages fluttered as I passed. Their covers creaked open like joints cracking in anticipation.
"She's lost."
"The clogs led her astray."
"She walks in circles like her thoughts."
"Should've brought the goat."
"Gregory warned her. Did she listen?"
"Of course not. Pretty feet, empty head."
My jaw clenched. My grip tightened on the hem of my robe. My toes, aching inside the wooden atrocities I called shoes, screamed for vengeance.
I turned a corner. The hall split into three.
Then flickered.
Then merged into one.
Then went dark.
Clop. Clop.
I took another step. The echo came before my foot hit the ground.
And the bust?
Gone.
***
I opened the first door.
It looked like a prayer chamber—plain walls, kneeling mat, incense holder. Then something shifted.
Phase flicker.
Blood. Not just spattered—smeared. Arcs. Symbols. Painted in spiraling, eldritch script across every surface. Some of it fresh. Some of it ancient and cracked like it had been crying for centuries.
Then—blink—normal again. Mat. Incense. Silence.
I closed the door. Quickly.
Next chamber.
Opened it.
The Archdeacon.
Naked.
Standing.
A horned succubus kneeling in front of him, head bobbing with religious fervor and very unholy sound effects.
I made a noise somewhere between a gag and a snort. Closed the door fast enough to almost trap my fingers.
My heart thudded. Was that real?
I cracked the door again.
Empty.
Just a cot. A book. And a small shrine to the Old Saints.
"Oh," I muttered. "So this is how the game's played here."
I leaned my forehead to the cool wood of the door.
"This isn't about knowledge," I whispered. "This isn't about the book. This place is a goddamn morality maze."
And then I laughed. One short, bitter burst.
"Ohhh, that's why Gregory picked me. No morals. Immunity to enlightenment. Scientific curiosity long since replaced by tits and spite."
I stepped back. Straightened my robes. Tugged my veil lower.
"Well fuck you too, Gregory."
***
I found it at last.
The Grand Library.
A monolithic door of runed basalt flanked by burning braziers and draped with incense-thick air. At its base, knowledge hummed—deep, ancient, and almost… wet. Like something alive was thinking inside.
I stepped forward.
No guards.
Just an old man seated cross-legged on a cushion of faded velvet.
Blind. Bearded down to his navel. Skin the color of old parchment. One hand rested on a gnarled cane, the other cradled a monstrous feline—mottled black, with too many joints in its tail and a tongue that flicked like it was tasting souls.
The old man sniffed.
Loudly.
"You are not an initiate," he said.
I smiled sweetly. "Yet."
"You smell… uninformed."
"I bathed recently."
"You reek of shortcuts. Of glossed-over footnotes. Of someone who thinks 'Demotic Lepintci' is a herbal infusion."
The cat blinked one slow eye at me. Pupil vertical. Iris… shifting.
I cleared my throat. "Perhaps there's been an administrative error. I'm here on personal study leave. Divine scholarship. Sponsored by Kierkegaard the Magnificent."
The old man stilled.
The cat's hackles rose.
"That name is not spoken lightly."
"Oh, it was. Very lightly. With great fondness."
"You seek entry to the Lower Sanctum," he said.
"Only a peek."
"Have you passed the Tests of Arcane Ascendance?"
"Debatable."
"The Ordeal of Theoretical Binding?"
"Define 'ordeal'."
"Begone," he said, voice sharp now. "This is sacred ground. Not for the curious. Not for the charming. Certainly not for the half-literate."
My jaw dropped.
"You—did you just—smell my literacy level?"
The cat hissed.
I backed up, clogs clicking against the stone like guilt.
"This is not over," I muttered. "I've faked miracles before, you crusty old codex."
But he was already humming again.
The cat licked its paw.