Chapter 43: The Threshold of Dust and Ink

I rubbed my cheek for a moment before reaching out to grope at Zeimer’s chest robes. Feeling something rigid inside his pocket, I pulled it out to discover a cherry-red lollipop wrapped tightly in translucent plastic. It seemed the blunt end of the plastic stick had been the culprit behind the sharp prick to my face.

“A lollipop?”

Zeimer offered a distinctly sheepish smile.

“You’ve seemed rather down these past few days. I brought it along to give to you earlier, but since you barely touched your breakfast, I worried your stomach was acting up and hesitated.”

I stared intently at the confection resting in my palm, lightly scratching at the clear wrapper with the pad of my thumb. Because Claire had clipped my fingernails so brutally short a few days ago, the plastic didn’t give way as easily as I had hoped. Nevertheless, I remained nestled within Zeimer’s embrace, contentedly picking at the wrapper for the remainder of our journey.

When I suddenly realized Zeimer’s steady strides had ground to a halt, I raised my eyes. He was looking down at me with a soft smile. His fine, highly aristocratic facial structure appeared exceptionally sharp and striking as the bright morning light traced the contours of his visage. Glancing away from his chest to survey our surroundings, I realized we had already arrived before the grand facade of the Imperial Library.

Zeimer carefully lowered me onto a stone bench positioned just outside the entrance. The library itself was framed by a beautifully manicured perimeter garden, vibrant with winter flora. After ensuring I was settled comfortably, Zeimer dropped onto one knee on the paved earth, looking up at me as he gently extracted the candy from my fingers. I patted the vacant space on the bench beside me, inviting him to sit, but he stubbornly remained in his kneeling posture, keeping his eyes locked onto mine.

Within Zeimer’s capable hands, the stubborn plastic wrapper parted from the candy with effortless ease. He had always possessed a remarkable, natural dexterity with his fingers. The crinkling plastic vanished entirely into his palm, revealing the brilliant, artificially crimson orb of the confection. I extended my hand, expecting him to pass it back.

“Say ah—.”

Rising smoothly to his feet, Zeimer bypassed my extended palm entirely, delicately sliding the lollipop past my lips instead. The moment the candy settled over my tongue, a sharp, sweet-and-sour flavor burst across my palate. It tasted exactly like its color—an intense, vibrant red. Saliva immediately pooled in my mouth, and my cheek puffed outward as I rolled the candy to one side.

With the brilliant sunshine fracturing directly behind Zeimer’s silhouette, his facial expression was cast into a deep shadow, rendering his thoughts unreadable. I drew in a long, deep breath. Cutting through the intense sugar scent of the candy, the crisp, fresh aroma of the garden’s damp soil washed over me, laced with the biting, clean chill of mid-winter. In moments like this, I was acutely aware that I had always existed closer to the literal pulse of this world than anyone else.

I reached both arms out toward Zeimer—a silent, wordless plea to be held once more. Having been separated from his immediate warmth for only a few minutes, my sensitive frame was already beginning to tremble from the encroaching cold. Because I was actively refraining from circulating my mana, the sharp chill found every loose seam in my garments, seeping directly into my skin. Before hoisting me back into his arms, Zeimer leaned down and wrapped his frame tightly around mine in a deep, unhurried embrace. Our chests pressed flat against one another without a single pocket of empty space; this time, his steady breath cut through the generic scents of nature, enveloping me entirely. Like two rhythmic instruments slowly falling into alignment, the steady thumping of our hearts gradually overlapped until they beat as one.

The public sectors of the Imperial Library remained entirely unchanged since my last visit. The air was still thick with lazily dancing motes of dust, permeated by the comforting, ancient scent of decomposing parchment and the rhythmic, scratching cadence of quills against paper. Everything was exactly as it had been before we marched off to the front lines of the war.

Cradled securely within Zeimer’s arms, I softly directed him through the labyrinthine aisles, steering him toward the specific alcove I had frequented most during my earlier days. It was the sector dedicated entirely to introductory magical theory.

The narrow, single-aisle space sandwiched between two massive bookshelves—a place I had sworn never to return to if I ever managed to reclaim my status within the palace—remained comfortingly, heartbreakingly familiar.

I had spent so many hours in this exact corner that I could have blindly recited the precise coordinates of every single text from memory. Instinctively, my hand reached out toward the volume I had reviewed more times than any other. Sensing my intention, Zeimer shifted his weight, pressing his frame closer to the shelving so I wouldn’t have to strain my arm.

Foundational Magic III: Fundamental Axioms of Offense and Defense and Practical Applications.

I slipped the book from its slot, turning past the heavy cover to expose the checkout ledger stamped on the inner sleeve. The magical parchment was designed to automatically record the true name of any borrower; looking down at the thirteen total entries spanning the page, my own name was inscribed ten times in consecutive succession. Though it stood as the most celebrated introductory textbook in the Empire, most aspiring sorcerers of noble birth simply purchased their own personal copies, leaving the library’s text largely untouched by anyone but me.

“Would you prefer to sit somewhere while you read?” Zeimer inquired, watching the pages rustle softly as I flipped through them.

Closing the cover with a dull thud, I offered a quiet nod. I wondered if the text would look any different to me if I read it now. Back then, lacking the fundamental literacy required to seamlessly parse complex academic phrasing, I had been reduced to awkwardly stitching together isolated magical terms, reading by rote fragments. Fortunately, when the Goddess had implanted the reservoir of mana into my core, she had simultaneously flooded my mind with an unnatural comprehension capacity, allowing me to absorb a vast wealth of intelligence from those disjointed terms alone.

Across the room, a plush armchair resting beside a massive arched window flared with a brief, vibrant blue light before settling back into normalcy. Zeimer had evidently woven a warming enchantment across the fabric. As anticipated, the upholstery radiated a deep, inviting heat the moment I settled into the cushions. I pulled my knees tightly against my chest instead of letting my feet dangle toward the floor; the library’s armchairs were exceptionally large and deep, making this curled posture vastly more comfortable.

The cherry flavor of the lollipop still coated my tongue. Just as Zeimer had noted, the turbulent sleep that had plagued me over the past several days had left my disposition incredibly brittle, but the steady influx of sugar against my palate seemed to coax a fraction of the tension from my mind. Furthermore, returning to a library that had once felt like a literal bed of nails with an entirely unburdened spirit brought a strange, profound sense of novelty to my chest.

Allowing my fingers to mindlessly split the pages, the spine naturally gave way to the exact section I had pored over most during my training. A wave of bittersweet nostalgia washed over me as my eyes traced the old paper—until a sudden detail caught my attention, causing me to freeze.

“Ah.”

“What is it?”

The faint exclamation had slipped past my lips involuntarily. Zeimer, who had been mindlessly skimming a separate text beside me, raised his eyes instantly to probe for the cause of my distress.

“This… this ink stain right here.”

“What about it?”

“It happened a little over five years ago. I accidentally knocked an inkwell over and stained the margin. The head librarian gave me a truly horrific scolding for it.”

I wrinkled my nose slightly as the memory of my old, hopelessly clumsy self resurfaced. It wasn’t a particularly pleasant recollection, but the sheer absurdity of the boy I used to be felt intensely comical now. I let out a soft, breathy chuckle; though the sound resembled a deflating sigh more than a genuine laugh, it was an amusement nonetheless.

Zeimer’s features hardened instantly, a look of profound bewilderment locking his expression into place. “They scolded you over a single drop of spilled ink? Who exactly was it?”

“I honestly don’t remember their face anymore,” I replied, shifting my eyes back to the text.

“Over something so utterly inconsequential?”

Zeimer muttered the words under his breath, sounding thoroughly scandalized. I simply dismissed his shock with a faint shake of my head. For someone like Zeimer, who had been revered as an absolute prodigy since infancy and lived his entire life as an exalted Grand Mage, the mundane miseries of my baseline human existence were separated by a chasm far too wide to bridge.

I continued to turn the pages for a long while, letting the old memories wash over me. I had to admit, my eyes could parse infinitely more data now than they ever could five or six years ago. Feeling a minor surge of pride at my own intellectual growth, I finally broke the silence, using the momentum to broach the true objective.

“Zeimer.”

“Mm?”

“What about the Imperial Archives?”

I finally brought forward the original purpose of our excursion. Zeimer’s countenance instantly soured, his profound reluctance flaring back to the surface. It seemed that despite his elaborate efforts to distract me with old textbooks and candy, my persistent desire to enter the restricted vaults was distinctly displeasing to him.

“They are located deeper within the foundations.”

“If we don’t head there now, I doubt we’ll make it back before the luncheon hour, don’t you think?” I reasoned, casting a meaningful glance toward the grandfather clock standing against the wall.

Despite feeling as though we had barely arrived, the gold hands were already marching steadily toward eleven o’clock. Knowing how pathologically sensitive Zeimer was regarding the regularity of my meal schedule, there was absolutely no scenario where he would allow me to remain un-fed past noon. If this confrontation with the past was truly un-voidable, I preferred to face it as swiftly as possible for my own peace of mind.

“You truly wish to go right now?”

“Wasn’t that the entire reason we set out this morning?” I countered, my eyes widening in genuine confusion. Zeimer looked thoroughly cornered, his jaw tightening as he wrestled with his enduring hesitation.

After a tense moment of internal debate, Zeimer finally rose from his seat. He readjusted his heavy cape, stepped up to the edge of my chair, and began to drape a thick overcoat across my shoulders—completely ignoring the reality that I was already wearing a heavy winter sweater inside a perfectly heated room.

“The restricted archives receive virtually no foot traffic and are completely sealed from sunlight. Unlike this reading room, the climate down there is intensely damp and frigid. It will feel significantly colder than the courtyard outside.”

Once he had finished buttoning the coat around me, Zeimer thrust his bare hand directly into the empty air, violently parting the fabric of space. The spatial rift tore open like a gaping maw before abruptly regurgitating my customized wheelchair onto the library floor. Catching the frame with flawless precision, Zeimer lowered it to the stone tiles without a single trace of surprise. He was meticulously attentive to every minor variable that might cause physical strain to my vessel, yet he remained absolutely unyielding in his refusal to cast a direct spell onto my body.

The distorted edges of the spatial tear rippled and knit back together, leaving the air completely pristine once more. Zeimer rolled the wheelchair flush against the side of the armchair. Instead of gathering me into his arms as he usually did, he slid his hands beneath my armpits, supporting my frame firmly as he coaxed me to my feet to transfer me to the seat. I moved my legs in a mimicking stride, relying entirely on his immense physical strength to shift my weight.

Surprised by this sudden departure from his usual routine, I shot him an inquiring look. Zeimer simply let out a low, weary sigh.

“Claire spoke to me yesterday evening. He noted that you haven’t been using your legs at all recently. You need to begin practicing short movements, even if it’s just a few assisted steps.”

Internally, I winced with profound aversion, though I kept my expression entirely neutral. He forces me to walk, and then what? Is he planning to march me out to meet a Dragon next? A bitter complaint welled up at the back of my throat, but I forced myself to swallow it down. My strategy remained unchanged: I would resist utilizing my failing body until the absolute last possible second. Wholly oblivious to the silent rebellion brewing in my mind, Zeimer took the heavy wool blanket resting over the back of the frame and tucked it securely across my lap.

“Brace yourself. It truly is freezing down there,” he warned, his voice adopting a teasing, malicious edge as he stepped behind the chair and locked his hands around the handles.

Separate from the crushing dread that accompanied the symbolic weight of my new clearance, a small, genuine spark of anticipation flickered in my chest as we prepared to cross into the forbidden depths of the Empire. Perhaps, deep within that sea of forgotten text, I might finally uncover the answers I needed to survive.

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