Chapter 45: A Fragile Solace and the Silent Watcher

After leaving the restricted vault, locking the door securely behind us, and witnessing it vanish seamlessly back into the masonry, I had finally returned to my quarters carrying a few select volumes that had caught my interest. Since it had been so long since my last visit to the library, I had desperately wanted to linger a bit more to combed through the other aisles. However, Zeimer had been entirely unyielding, adamantly insisting that the luncheon hour was fast approaching. Under his stubborn pressure, I was ultimately forced to blindly scoop up whatever was within arm’s reach and make a swift exit. Naturally, I could have simply requested him to fetch specific titles on my behalf, but relying on someone else was fundamentally different from personally surveying the shelves and hand-selecting a text. Moreover, a tiny, petty part of me simply didn’t want to ask a favor from the man who had just rapped my forehead.

Despite his heavily congested schedule, Zeimer had evidently carved out his entire morning just to spend it by my side; the very moment he delivered me safely back to my chamber, he assisted me in changing my clothes and departed in an immense hurry. After sharing lunch with Claire, spending a brief window of time with Felix during his routine afternoon visit, and indulging in a short nap, I spent the remainder of the afternoon delightfully inspecting my new literary acquisitions.

While the activity resembled mindlessly flipping through pictures rather than performing any rigorous academic reading, it proved to be an immensely engaging way to pass the quiet hours. My mundane daily routine had slowly been drifting into a state of tedious boredom, so this brief excursion to the library acted as a much-needed catalyst, lifting my spirits considerably.

Once dinner concluded, I clicked on the small lamp resting atop the nightstand, intending to read a few more pages before settling down to sleep. Zeimer had failed to materialize at his usual evening hour, suggesting he had no intention of dropping by tonight. Consequently, I had managed to perform a basic wash entirely on my own, slipped on a pair of thick wool-knit socks, and completed my preparations for bed.

Tap, tap.

“Ian.”

Accompanied by a soft knock, the heavy door swung open to reveal Zeimer. Within the dimly lit confines of the bedroom, his pristine white hair seemed to absorb the shadows, casting a deep, heavy silhouette across his features.

“You aren’t asleep yet, are you?”

Zeimer advanced toward the bed with long, sweeping strides. He was still clad in his formal traveling cape, indicating he had just returned from some distant excursion, and he radiated that same metallic, faintly oceanic aroma. I reached over to set my book down and adjusted the dial on the nightstand lamp to elevate the brightness. Following Felix’s absolute horror during a previous visit, the volatile, mana-infused lighting apparatus had been permanently replaced by a remarkably stable artifact lamp powered strictly by refined magic stones.

Stepping fluidly to the bedside, Zeimer settled into the armchair without even pausing to shed his heavy cape. He thrust his hand deep into the interior pocket of his vest, clearly intending to extract something.

“Give me your hand. I brought a gift for you.”

“A gift? What is it?” I inquired, my tone laced with genuine curiosity as I brought my palms together and extended them toward him.

While it wasn’t a landmark occasion or a special holiday, Zeimer frequently brought me minor tokens, so the gesture wasn’t entirely unprecedented. I extended my hands under the assumption that it would be another mundane marketplace confection—perhaps a piece of pulled taffy or a small assortment of hard candies. My eyes traced the distinct, remarkably thick bundle he was maneuvering beneath his robes.

What Zeimer ultimately placed into my open palms was a significantly heavy, irregular object wrapped meticulously in multiple protective layers of coarse brown parchment, bound tightly with a length of rugged hemp twine.

While I mindlessly cradled the heavy parcel, lightly turning the shape over in my hands and lifting it to my ear to give it an experimental shake, Zeimer smoothly adjusted the wooden bed-table over my lap. Resting the bundle atop the smooth surface, I pinched the knotted tail of the hemp ribbon and gave it a firm tug. The coarse, scratchy fibers unraveled against my skin, and I eagerly began to peel back the thick layers of paper.

“Slow down. If you handle it so roughly, you might end up breaking it.”

Hearing that the contents were fragile enough to break, my fingers instantly froze over the parchment. Judging strictly by the solid, unyielding weight of the parcel, I had confidently assumed the object inside was constructed from some durable material; being told it was highly fragile left me distinctly disoriented.

What if I’ve already managed to damage it?

Sensing the sudden flash of anxiety written across my features, Zeimer let out a soft sigh. He unclasped his heavy cape, tossed it over the back of his chair, and gently intervened, taking the parcel from my hands to systematically peel back the remaining layers himself. Within his dexterous fingers, the stubborn wrapping parted in a matter of seconds.

“Wow……”

As the final layer of brown paper fell away, a soft exclamation of genuine wonder escaped my lips. Nestled within the packaging was a bottle of exquisitely refined ink alongside three premium, masterfully crafted quills. They didn’t belong to a unified set, suggesting he had meticulously hand-selected each individual quill and ink pairing to ensure they were perfectly optimized for my physical needs.

Naturally, by Felix’s direct imperial decree, Ilya had already furnished my desk with an abundance of luxury inks and writing utensils. Yet, while those items were undeniably opulent, their barrels were designed with exceptionally thin, fragile shafts that required an immense amount of delicate control to manipulate. Furthermore, the accompanying ink possessed a rapid-drying formulation engineered specifically for high-speed administrative transcription—details that had evidently weighed heavily on Zeimer’s mind. I recalled overhearing him muttering to himself a few weeks ago, thoroughly bewildered as to why an otherwise pathologically attentive secretary like Ilya would commit such an oversight.

The quills Zeimer had brought were masterfully counter-weighted toward the base, possessing a moderately thick, beautifully contoured barrel that felt neither too light nor too heavy in the hand—an elegant, refined piece of minimalist design. The ink was similarly understated: a deep, lustrous midnight-blue fluid formulated with a slightly lower viscosity to ensure a smooth, effortless glide across the page.

Internally marveling at Zeimer’s impeccable discernment, I wrapped my fingers around one of the barrels; the smooth wood conformed to my grip so flawlessly it felt as though it had been custom-molded to my exact hand shape.

As I excitedly twisted the cap off the inkwell to inspect the fluid and traced the soft plumage of the quills with my fingertips, Zeimer casually twirled his index finger in the air. The heavy rings adorning his hand caught the lamplight, casting sharp, flashing glints across the ceiling.

“Turn it over. I had an inscription engraved along the spine.”

Carefully rotating the thick barrel of the quill, I exposed the reverse side of the shaft.

‘IAN’

My name was beautifully carved into the polished surface, executed in an exquisite, flawless intaglio. It was rendered precisely in my own handwriting—the one piece of script I was capable of executing with absolute, breathtaking perfection.

A sudden, suffocating tightness seized the space between my chest and my throat, and a powerful wave of emotion surged violently through my veins. Zeimer held me in far higher regard than I could ever begin to fathom. A piercing sorrow bled into my heart. In my current, hollow state, there was absolutely nothing left for me to offer him in return—especially now that I had permanently bound my fate to Felix’s path.

I instinctively leaned forward, intending to throw my arms around Zeimer in a sudden embrace, but I caught myself mid-movement, freezing into an incredibly awkward, strained posture. The physical angle was uncomfortable enough on its own, but a deep sense of embarrassment suddenly paralyzed my limbs; I realized that displaying such unbridled joy would make it look as though I had instantly forgotten the entire grievance from this morning.

Though he watched my internal struggle play out with absolute clarity, Zeimer didn’t reach out to bridge the distance or pull me into an embrace. Instead, he smoothly introduced a entirely separate topic. While I felt a minor wave of relief at the distraction, a small, lingering pang of disappointment brushed against my mind regardless.

“Let me look at your forehead. Let’s see if it’s bruised.”

Leaning forward from his seat, he raised a bare hand and gently swept my dark bangs away from my brow. His pale wrist, marked by the faint blue tracery of prominent veins, shifted back and forth across my field of vision. Zeimer’s eyes narrowed into a serious, intensely clinical gaze as he meticulously examined the skin for any sign of trauma.

My forehead was completely pristine. Having sustained a catastrophic catalog of injuries throughout my life, there was absolutely no scenario where I wouldn’t have been aware of a genuine bruise. I had merely complained earlier because the emotional grievance of the moment had vastly outweighed the minor physical sting.

“It’s perfectly fine.”

“Right. I barely used any force to begin with,” Zeimer muttered under his breath, as if reassessing his own strength, before quickly reversing his stance and looking directly into my eyes. “No, I’m sorry. It was entirely my fault. I temporarily forgot that your body is no longer what it used to be, and I failed to properly calibrate my strength. I am truly sorry, Ian.”

The moment his fingers retreated, the dark strands of my hair fell back down, brushing lightly against the tips of my eyelashes. I blinked repeatedly against the tickling sensation. Noting my discomfort, Zeimer extended his hand a second time, gently tucking the stray locks securely behind my ear.

The movement felt slightly strained—a subtle, almost imperceptible hesitation tracking through his muscles. Sensing an anomalous shift in his usual baseline demeanor, I focused my gaze onto his features to parse the cause, but Zeimer immediately spoke up, cleanly severing my line of thought before I could delve any deeper.

“I’m just glad you seem to genuinely like the gift.”

“Yes. I love it completely. Thank you so much, Zeimer.”

I delivered the words with the absolute sum of my sincerity. Hearing my gratitude, a soft, genuine smile finally split his features. Listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, I returned my attention to the writing instruments, carefully turning them over in my hands.

For now, within the quiet sanctuary of this room, everything remained entirely at peace.

Though he recognized that an introduction to the chamber would become an absolute necessity eventually, the Imperial Archives stood as one of the absolute last places Zeimer ever desired to bring Ian. A sanctuary that had been granted a form of artificial sentience by the direct, primordial breath of the Dragon, the restricted vault was an intensely hostile, cutthroat ecosystem—a domain where a single misstep or perceived slight against the ancient authority could result in immediate, catastrophic bloodshed.

The underlying logic behind Zeimer’s intense vigilance prior to unsealing the gate was horrifyingly simple: to someone like him, who was merely a mortal vessel mimicking the grand design of the world, the ancient records concerning the primordial Dragon reacted with a violent, instinctive revulsion. Every single time he crossed that threshold to fulfill his duties as custodian, the ambient power saturated within the vault would actively manifest to assault his core.

Anchored within the deepest foundations of the imperial bloodline, the library of the continent never ceased its relentless expansion, continuously transcribing every minor ripple of history without losing a fraction of its concentrated power. Far removed from the deceptive facade of an ordinary reading room, every structural entity within that vault had been physically spun from the literal breath of the Dragon, possessing a collective, terrifying ego. And beneath the scrutiny of those sentient chronicles, Zeimer had frequently paid a toll in blood; at times, the vault would unleash a localized storm of razor-sharp wind to flay his skin, while at others, it would manifest crystalline spears woven from raw, condensed mana to impale his vessel.

Though the atmosphere within the vault today had been anomalously serene and peaceful, Zeimer had refused to lower his guard until their boots had completely cleared the threshold. He understood the terrifying reality better than anyone: the Dragon, much like himself, was an entity of absolute, unpredictable whim.

Fortunately, the lingering consciousness of the Dragon had chosen to welcome Ian with open arms. Only after crossing into the chamber and confirming that absolutely no hostile variables were gathering in the shadows did Zeimer finally allow the tension to bleed from his shoulders. The ancient will would never seek to actively dismantle the Hero—but when dealing with a primordial force, one could never truly account for every catastrophic variable.

Yet, just as he had allowed himself to relax within the surprisingly tranquil ambiance, a sudden shift shattered his peace.

Pausing mid-stride as he reviewed a text, Zeimer had raised his eyes only to find Ian staring with absolute, unblinking intensity at a specific fixture along the wall. In that single, frozen instant, the Grand Mage realized that the peaceful equilibrium they were enjoying was nothing more than a temporary, transient illusion.

As if drawn by the absolute, inescapable gravity of absolute fate, Ian’s eyes remained irrevocably locked upon the blacked-out canvas of the primordial history.

The ancient history of the continent seems to recognize Ian, and Zeimer is acutely aware of the terrifying destiny closing in on them.

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