The Journey, Book 2; Chapter 11 - Previous Chapter
Chapter 12: Secrets
Rubian stood in the heart of the restored library, the silence pressing in on him like a living thing. He had used one of his orbs to undo the ruin left behind by Thomaz’s flames. Where once there had been charred remains and shattered shelves, now stood towering cases of polished wood, carved with the intricate leafwork of Elven design. The shelves were laden with ancient tomes and scrolls, their bindings creaking softly under the weight of centuries. It looked exactly as it must have been, a temple to knowledge and memory, glowing under the warm light of oil lanterns and flickering candles that dotted the room like fallen stars.
And yet, despite his efforts, despite everything, it was all for nothing.
Rubian sat at the largest of the library’s tables, its surface wide enough to hold a feast, now buried under stacks of books he had already scoured. His hands, blackened with dust and ink, turned page after page, his sharp eyes devouring the curling Elven script. He was fast and efficient, his mind cutting through the tangled web of histories and songs, but the answers he sought continued to slip like water through his fingers.
Ancestry. That was what Thomaz demanded. The history of the Elven bloodlines, the truth of their beginnings and their gods, their connection to the magic that even now lay dormant in the bones of the world. Rubian had searched for months. Every dawn he woke with the same thought burning in his skull: Today, I will find it. And every night he left with the bitter taste of failure coating his mouth.
His patience was wearing thin.
Another page turned. Another useless line of poetry about forests and stars, written in riddles that served no purpose. “Nothing,” Rubian hissed under his breath, slamming the book shut with a dull thud that echoed through the vast chamber. He reached for the next tome, but before he could open it, something inside him broke loose.
With a guttural sound, half-snarl, half-cry, he swept his arms across the table, sending the heavy tomes flying. They hit the marble floor with dull crashes, their pages splaying open like broken wings. The sound reverberated through the empty space, and the flames of the nearest lanterns flickered wildly, shadows dancing madly across the walls.
Rubian leaned against the table, his chest heaving, the tips of his fingers pressed hard into the polished wood. He felt the frustration boiling up his spine like fire. He had rebuilt this place brick by brick, shelf by shelf, thinking that maybe, just maybe, the knowledge would reveal itself if the library was restored to its former glory. But books were not loyal, and history was not merciful.
“You’re mocking me,” he whispered, his voice ragged, his eyes scanning the rows of shelves as if the library itself might answer. His voice carried, bouncing back to him in hollow echoes. “You know what I’m looking for, don’t you? And yet you give me nothing.”
The silence answered him, but it was not an ordinary silence. It had weight. It pressed on his ears, like the pause before a storm breaks. Rubian straightened, his eyes narrowing as the hairs on his arms lifted. The lanterns dimmed for the briefest of moments, the flames bowing as though to some invisible breath.
He shook his head. “No,” he muttered, dismissing the chill crawling up his spine. “I’m tired. That’s all. Months of this…” He bent to retrieve one of the fallen tomes, its spine cracked from the fall. When he picked it up, his hand trembled. He wasn’t sure if it was from rage or from something deeper, a creeping sense that he was not as alone as he thought.
Rubian dropped heavily into the chair again, running a hand over his face. He needed help, but there was no one left to ask. Thomaz had seen to that when he ordered every Elven scholar, every dwarf with knowledge of the ancient tongue, to be silenced, or worse. Those who hadn’t been executed had fled, their knowledge scattering like embers in the wind. He was alone, utterly and irreversibly.
The candlelight wavered again, pulling his attention. He stared at the nearest lantern. Its flame rippled unnaturally, like it was being pulled toward something deeper in the library. He frowned and turned, scanning the aisles of books. For a moment, he thought he saw something move—just a shadow, slipping past the end of a row.
“...Hello?” The word left his lips before he could stop it.
Only silence answered.
Rubian rose from his chair, the sudden scrape of wood against stone ringing harshly in the quiet. He grabbed the lantern from the table and began walking slowly between the shelves. His boots clicked against the floor, each step echoing as though the library were stretching larger around him.
He stopped near the back wall, where the oldest books were kept. These shelves were filled with scrolls bound in twine, their parchment yellowed and brittle. He set the lantern down on a shelf and ran his fingers along the bindings, feeling for anything unusual. If the library was rebuilt by my power, he thought, then its secrets should remain intact.
A strange impulse made him pull one of the scrolls out at random. He unrolled it, expecting the same indecipherable poetry. But this one… this one was different. The script was darker, written in a language he didn’t fully recognize, sharp, elegant strokes that twisted in ways that made his head throb just by looking at them.
The air around him shifted. He felt it, a faint breeze, impossible in the sealed library. The lantern flame flared, casting his long shadow across the shelves.
Rubian’s pulse quickened. “What are you?” he murmured, tracing one of the letters with his fingertip. The parchment felt warm beneath his skin. Alive.
Behind him, there was a faint click.
He spun, heart pounding, just in time to see a seam in the back wall reveal itself, a hidden door, stone grinding against stone as it slowly cracked open. A sliver of darkness lay beyond, deeper than any shadow.
Rubian’s breath caught. Months of searching, and all it took was his frustration to shake something loose. Perhaps the library hadn’t been mocking him after all. Perhaps it had been waiting.
Rubian stepped into the narrow passage, his lantern casting an eerie gray glow that crawled across the damp stone walls. The air was colder here, heavier, as if it hadn’t been disturbed in centuries. He moved carefully, each footstep echoing softly, the silence pressing in from every side. The flickering light stretched his shadow tall and thin, making it seem as though something else followed just behind him.
The passage sloped downward, winding like the roots of an ancient tree, until it opened into a wide, circular chamber. Rubian froze, breath catching in his throat. This room was unlike the restored library above, this was untouched, preserved as if time itself had been barred from entering.
The walls were lined with towering shelves, each one sagging under the weight of scrolls, tomes, and tablets. Dust shimmered in the air like tiny stars disturbed by his arrival. Rubian slowly moved forward, his eyes scanning each row with the precision of a hunter tracking prey. His fingertips brushed over cracked leather bindings, lingering over words he could barely make out through layers of grime and age.
Then, halfway down one row, he stopped dead.
An entire shelf stood before him, unlike the others. Every spine was marked with the same sigil, an ancient Elven crest depicting the Tree of Life. Rubian’s heart began to pound as he read the faded inscription above the shelf.
“Ancestral Lineages of the Firstborn.”
His hands shook as he pulled free the largest tome, its weight heavy with centuries of forgotten truths. He flipped it open, the parchment crackling under his touch. Each page was covered with intricate genealogies, names written in shimmering ink that hadn’t dulled despite its age.
And then he saw it.
The name Vivi leapt out at him like fire, etched in bold Elven script. His stomach tightened as he read the lines connecting his name to another: Tivor.
Vivi… has an older brother? Rubian’s pulse quickened. He turned the page, tracing the family tree back further, and there, at the roots, the truth struck him like a thunderbolt.
Braiden.
Braiden, the first ever Dragon Rider.
Rubian’s knees nearly buckled as he stared at the revelation. This wasn’t just a record of Elven ancestry. This was a weapon. The bloodline of the first dragon rider still lived… hidden in the veins of Thomaz’s greatest enemy.
Rubian’s lantern burned low, its flame casting sharp, twitching shadows across the open pages of the tome as he continued to trace Vivi’s genealogy line. His fingers followed the twisting branches of the family tree, each name a puzzle piece he tried to fit together. There was nothing, no mention of Nekonata or Tarasque, no connection to the ancient horrors he had hoped to uncover. Instead, the names grew stranger and more obscure as he read, like whispers of long-forgotten ancestors whose stories had been swallowed by time.
Then, one name stopped him cold.
Matthaios.
Unlike the others, this name was scrawled with purpose, etched into the page in dark, almost frantic ink. Beside it, in rushed handwriting, a single word was added, “Corruptor.” The ink bled slightly into the parchment, as though the word itself was toxic. Rubian’s pulse quickened. Who was Matthaios? What had he done to earn such a title?
Unease crept into his bones, but curiosity drove him forward. He flipped through the pages again, going back to the start of the genealogy, his eyes scanning the names with renewed intensity. Then his breath hitched.
How had he missed this?
Just beneath Vivi’s name, written in elegant, fading script, was another. A smaller branch, delicate but undeniable.
Elvina.
Rubian’s hand trembled slightly as he touched the name. Vivi… had a daughter? No record of this had ever reached Thomaz, or anyone else.
Chapter 12: Secrets
Rubian stood in the heart of the restored library, the silence pressing in on him like a living thing. He had used one of his orbs to undo the ruin left behind by Thomaz’s flames. Where once there had been charred remains and shattered shelves, now stood towering cases of polished wood, carved with the intricate leafwork of Elven design. The shelves were laden with ancient tomes and scrolls, their bindings creaking softly under the weight of centuries. It looked exactly as it must have been, a temple to knowledge and memory, glowing under the warm light of oil lanterns and flickering candles that dotted the room like fallen stars.
And yet, despite his efforts, despite everything, it was all for nothing.
Rubian sat at the largest of the library’s tables, its surface wide enough to hold a feast, now buried under stacks of books he had already scoured. His hands, blackened with dust and ink, turned page after page, his sharp eyes devouring the curling Elven script. He was fast and efficient, his mind cutting through the tangled web of histories and songs, but the answers he sought continued to slip like water through his fingers.
Ancestry. That was what Thomaz demanded. The history of the Elven bloodlines, the truth of their beginnings and their gods, their connection to the magic that even now lay dormant in the bones of the world. Rubian had searched for months. Every dawn he woke with the same thought burning in his skull: Today, I will find it. And every night he left with the bitter taste of failure coating his mouth.
His patience was wearing thin.
Another page turned. Another useless line of poetry about forests and stars, written in riddles that served no purpose. “Nothing,” Rubian hissed under his breath, slamming the book shut with a dull thud that echoed through the vast chamber. He reached for the next tome, but before he could open it, something inside him broke loose.
With a guttural sound, half-snarl, half-cry, he swept his arms across the table, sending the heavy tomes flying. They hit the marble floor with dull crashes, their pages splaying open like broken wings. The sound reverberated through the empty space, and the flames of the nearest lanterns flickered wildly, shadows dancing madly across the walls.
Rubian leaned against the table, his chest heaving, the tips of his fingers pressed hard into the polished wood. He felt the frustration boiling up his spine like fire. He had rebuilt this place brick by brick, shelf by shelf, thinking that maybe, just maybe, the knowledge would reveal itself if the library was restored to its former glory. But books were not loyal, and history was not merciful.
“You’re mocking me,” he whispered, his voice ragged, his eyes scanning the rows of shelves as if the library itself might answer. His voice carried, bouncing back to him in hollow echoes. “You know what I’m looking for, don’t you? And yet you give me nothing.”
The silence answered him, but it was not an ordinary silence. It had weight. It pressed on his ears, like the pause before a storm breaks. Rubian straightened, his eyes narrowing as the hairs on his arms lifted. The lanterns dimmed for the briefest of moments, the flames bowing as though to some invisible breath.
He shook his head. “No,” he muttered, dismissing the chill crawling up his spine. “I’m tired. That’s all. Months of this…” He bent to retrieve one of the fallen tomes, its spine cracked from the fall. When he picked it up, his hand trembled. He wasn’t sure if it was from rage or from something deeper, a creeping sense that he was not as alone as he thought.
Rubian dropped heavily into the chair again, running a hand over his face. He needed help, but there was no one left to ask. Thomaz had seen to that when he ordered every Elven scholar, every dwarf with knowledge of the ancient tongue, to be silenced, or worse. Those who hadn’t been executed had fled, their knowledge scattering like embers in the wind. He was alone, utterly and irreversibly.
The candlelight wavered again, pulling his attention. He stared at the nearest lantern. Its flame rippled unnaturally, like it was being pulled toward something deeper in the library. He frowned and turned, scanning the aisles of books. For a moment, he thought he saw something move—just a shadow, slipping past the end of a row.
“...Hello?” The word left his lips before he could stop it.
Only silence answered.
Rubian rose from his chair, the sudden scrape of wood against stone ringing harshly in the quiet. He grabbed the lantern from the table and began walking slowly between the shelves. His boots clicked against the floor, each step echoing as though the library were stretching larger around him.
He stopped near the back wall, where the oldest books were kept. These shelves were filled with scrolls bound in twine, their parchment yellowed and brittle. He set the lantern down on a shelf and ran his fingers along the bindings, feeling for anything unusual. If the library was rebuilt by my power, he thought, then its secrets should remain intact.
A strange impulse made him pull one of the scrolls out at random. He unrolled it, expecting the same indecipherable poetry. But this one… this one was different. The script was darker, written in a language he didn’t fully recognize, sharp, elegant strokes that twisted in ways that made his head throb just by looking at them.
The air around him shifted. He felt it, a faint breeze, impossible in the sealed library. The lantern flame flared, casting his long shadow across the shelves.
Rubian’s pulse quickened. “What are you?” he murmured, tracing one of the letters with his fingertip. The parchment felt warm beneath his skin. Alive.
Behind him, there was a faint click.
He spun, heart pounding, just in time to see a seam in the back wall reveal itself, a hidden door, stone grinding against stone as it slowly cracked open. A sliver of darkness lay beyond, deeper than any shadow.
Rubian’s breath caught. Months of searching, and all it took was his frustration to shake something loose. Perhaps the library hadn’t been mocking him after all. Perhaps it had been waiting.
Rubian stepped into the narrow passage, his lantern casting an eerie gray glow that crawled across the damp stone walls. The air was colder here, heavier, as if it hadn’t been disturbed in centuries. He moved carefully, each footstep echoing softly, the silence pressing in from every side. The flickering light stretched his shadow tall and thin, making it seem as though something else followed just behind him.
The passage sloped downward, winding like the roots of an ancient tree, until it opened into a wide, circular chamber. Rubian froze, breath catching in his throat. This room was unlike the restored library above, this was untouched, preserved as if time itself had been barred from entering.
The walls were lined with towering shelves, each one sagging under the weight of scrolls, tomes, and tablets. Dust shimmered in the air like tiny stars disturbed by his arrival. Rubian slowly moved forward, his eyes scanning each row with the precision of a hunter tracking prey. His fingertips brushed over cracked leather bindings, lingering over words he could barely make out through layers of grime and age.
Then, halfway down one row, he stopped dead.
An entire shelf stood before him, unlike the others. Every spine was marked with the same sigil, an ancient Elven crest depicting the Tree of Life. Rubian’s heart began to pound as he read the faded inscription above the shelf.
“Ancestral Lineages of the Firstborn.”
His hands shook as he pulled free the largest tome, its weight heavy with centuries of forgotten truths. He flipped it open, the parchment crackling under his touch. Each page was covered with intricate genealogies, names written in shimmering ink that hadn’t dulled despite its age.
And then he saw it.
The name Vivi leapt out at him like fire, etched in bold Elven script. His stomach tightened as he read the lines connecting his name to another: Tivor.
Vivi… has an older brother? Rubian’s pulse quickened. He turned the page, tracing the family tree back further, and there, at the roots, the truth struck him like a thunderbolt.
Braiden.
Braiden, the first ever Dragon Rider.
Rubian’s knees nearly buckled as he stared at the revelation. This wasn’t just a record of Elven ancestry. This was a weapon. The bloodline of the first dragon rider still lived… hidden in the veins of Thomaz’s greatest enemy.
Rubian’s lantern burned low, its flame casting sharp, twitching shadows across the open pages of the tome as he continued to trace Vivi’s genealogy line. His fingers followed the twisting branches of the family tree, each name a puzzle piece he tried to fit together. There was nothing, no mention of Nekonata or Tarasque, no connection to the ancient horrors he had hoped to uncover. Instead, the names grew stranger and more obscure as he read, like whispers of long-forgotten ancestors whose stories had been swallowed by time.
Then, one name stopped him cold.
Matthaios.
Unlike the others, this name was scrawled with purpose, etched into the page in dark, almost frantic ink. Beside it, in rushed handwriting, a single word was added, “Corruptor.” The ink bled slightly into the parchment, as though the word itself was toxic. Rubian’s pulse quickened. Who was Matthaios? What had he done to earn such a title?
Unease crept into his bones, but curiosity drove him forward. He flipped through the pages again, going back to the start of the genealogy, his eyes scanning the names with renewed intensity. Then his breath hitched.
How had he missed this?
Just beneath Vivi’s name, written in elegant, fading script, was another. A smaller branch, delicate but undeniable.
Elvina.
Rubian’s hand trembled slightly as he touched the name. Vivi… had a daughter? No record of this had ever reached Thomaz, or anyone else.