—tick… tick…—
Time had no teeth here, but Orion felt it gnawing anyway.
He stood at the center of the endless table, the blank book closed before him like a dare. Its cover was cool beneath his fingertips—smooth, unmarked, unreadable. The mist lingered at the edges of the clearing, neither advancing nor retreating.
Watching.
Above, the chandeliers swayed gently, candleflames whispering in a language only the library understood. Their light stretched long across the floor, painting the silence gold.
He couldn't stay.
Zhang's words echoed, quiet and merciless.
Survive first.
The library had been many things—a cradle, a classroom, a cage.
Now it was a past tense.
Orion pushed his chair back.
—scrrrrk—
The sound rippled farther than it should have.
He walked.
Each step carried him away from the table, the polished floor reflecting warped candleflame beneath his feet. He chose a direction at random, toward where the mist thinned and the half-seen shelves blurred into solidity.
As he approached, the world sharpened.
Shelves gave way to walls—paneled dark wood carved with swirling glyphs that pulsed faintly, like veins beneath living skin. The air felt denser here, expectant.
Then he saw it.
A door.
It hadn't existed before.
Or perhaps it had—waiting for him to be ready to notice.
Twice his height, grand and imposing, framed in filigreed brass and ebony. Runes crawled across its surface, etched deep and glowing with subdued gold. There was no handle.
Only a shallow depression at its center.
A handprint.
Orion's heart hammered.
Beyond this door lay outside. Danger. Opportunity. Whatever passed for a future in this realm.
He raised his hand.
Pressed his palm to the imprint.
—thoom—
The door swung inward without a sound.
Warm air rushed out to greet him—fragrant with blooming nightflowers, ozone, fresh bread, and incense. Sunlight poured through the opening, real and golden, flooding the library's gloom until the chandeliers' light seemed pale and artificial by comparison.
Orion stepped forward.
The door closed behind him.
—click—
Final.
He stood on a broad marble terrace overlooking a city that stole the breath from his lungs.
—whoooosh—
Elynor.
The name surfaced unbidden, whispered directly into his thoughts—as though the city itself had introduced itself.
Spired towers spiraled toward the sky, brass and crystal catching the sun in dazzling arrays. Arched bridges of white stone and filigreed metal spanned a vast river far below, their surfaces etched with glowing runes that hummed with restrained power.
Airships drifted lazily between towers—sleek hulls of polished wood and burnished copper, sails of shimmering silk billowing though no wind stirred. Steam curled from ornate vents along rooftops, mingling with sparks of raw magic that danced like fireflies.
The city was alive.
The streets below teemed with motion and color. People moved in flowing robes of deep indigo and emerald, silver embroidery shifting patterns as they walked. Half-capes fluttered, jeweled brooches glinting. Some carried staves topped with glowing orbs; others bore intricate gearwork devices that clicked and whirred softly.
A woman in scholarly spectacles argued with a vendor over a floating crystal. Two men in military-style coats with brass epaulets laughed over steaming mugs at an outdoor café suspended above a bridge. Children chased glowing motes that darted just out of reach, their laughter ringing bright and carefree.
Steampunk and high fantasy, fused seamlessly—arcane elegance driven by spell and machine alike.
Beautiful.
Overwhelming.
Orion looked down at himself.
Faded jeans. Scuffed sneakers. A plain gray hoodie that suddenly felt absurdly thin and out of place. His longer hair brushed his collar—the only visible mark that this world had touched him at all.
He didn't belong.
Yet no one stared.
A cluster of robed scholars passed nearby, deep in discussion about "resonance harmonics in aetheric conduits." Their eyes slid over Orion without pause. A vendor pushing a cart of glowing vials glanced his way—then away.
As if he were furniture.
Or architecture.
Or a ghost.
The indifference stung—and soothed—in equal measure.
Orion descended the terrace steps, boots clicking softly on marble, and emerged onto a cobblestone avenue alive with motion. Shop signs swung gently overhead:
The Gilded Cog — Arcane Prosthetics & Enchantments
Veil & Valve — Fine Teas and Precision Chronometers
Windows brimmed with wonders: clocks whose faces displayed branching futures instead of hours, jewelry pulsing with contained storms, books that hovered and turned their own pages.
The air hummed—conversation braided with casual spellwork, the soft hiss of steam valves venting scented vapor. Smells layered thick and rich: honey-glazed roasted nuts, ozone from a lightning-orb vendor, hot metal and oil from an open atelier.
Orion walked.
He let the flow of people carry him, senses straining under the onslaught. This was everything he'd ever read about—everything he'd dreamed of.
And yet he felt like an intruder.
A reader who had fallen into the pages and didn't know his role.
He paused beneath the shadow of a bridge arch, heart racing, and grounded himself the only way he knew how.
He raised his right hand.
Focused.
A small thing, he told himself. Private.
He imagined a faint glow cupped in his palm—a tiny orb of soft blue light, no larger than a coin. Invisible to others. Just for him.
Warmth bloomed.
—fzzzt—
The orb flickered into existence, steady and cool, hovering just above his skin.
Real.
His.
A smile tugged at his lips.
Exhaustion brushed the edges of his awareness—light, manageable. Proof that Zhang's lessons had followed him beyond the library.
He let the orb wink out.
—pop—
And kept walking.
No way back.
Only forward.
Survive. Learn. Grow.
The avenue opened into a bustling plaza ringed by fountains that spouted liquid starlight. Street performers conjured illusory dragons that soared overhead, scales catching the sun; musicians played instruments strung with threads of pure mana, melodies vibrating through bone and breath alike.
Orion threaded through the crowd—
—and felt it.
A wrongness.
Subtle. Insidious.
The air rippled, like heat haze on a winter morning. Near the edge of a fountain, cobblestones shimmered unnaturally. Colors inverted for a heartbeat.
—thmm—
Sound dampened in a tight circle.
A passerby stepped through the distortion without noticing.
But Orion's skin prickled.
Magic.
Unstable.
Or intentional.
Something—or someone—was testing the fabric of reality in the open.
The disturbance pulsed again, stronger now. Threads of raw imagination frayed at the edges, vibrating with barely contained force.
Orion slowed.
Every instinct screamed back away.
His feet carried him forward anyway.
The air cracked.
—krrrk—
A hairline fracture split the space before him, light bleeding through from somewhere impossibly deep.
Orion froze.
Too close.
The crack widened—
—and reality began to tear.