Strax took the last step down the staircase, his heels echoing dully on the ancient stone floor. The hall that opened before him was immense—a space that seemed to have been carved out of the belly of the mountain, as if the world outside had forgotten its existence.
Before him, rows upon rows of bookshelves stretched as far as the eye could see, some bent under the weight of ancient volumes. The dark wooden towers were covered in a thick layer of dust that looked like dead snow. There were books piled on the floor, stacked in corners, and even open on tables covered in cobwebs, as if someone had left them unfinished centuries ago.
The air was heavy, smelling of damp paper, aged leather, and the faint trace of mold. Each breath seemed to pull ancient memories into the lungs. Above, rusty chandeliers hung from creaking chains, swaying slightly with the cold draft blowing from the depths of the room, causing shadows to dance on the walls like curious specters.
