The librarian did not sleep. Some dragons did, but this one had chosen a task to fulfill.
Many dragons had hoards: riches, jewels, or powerful artifacts. This one's hoard was knowledge.
It was dark beneath the Magnus Halls, but no sconces were lit, nor was any other source of light present.
Dragons had no need of light to see.
The shelves stood strong and proud, without any dust littering them. There were scrolls sealed with wax no longer manufactured and grimoires that mumbled in their bindings.
Though not all dragons wore clothing, the librarian wore a great mantle over its winged shoulders. It stood on two legs, making it as tall as the shelves.
Tonight, it stretched its wings in the inner chamber of the library, where rare folios slept.
But something had rustled the librarian.
There was so rarely a visitor down here. And yet now, there was a sound to be heard: the turning of pages.
The man had not asked for permission.
He had simply… entered.
The door to the archive had been locked. The seal on it bore the librarian's personal sigil, as agreed upon with the principal of this generation, Py Promio.
And yet the mage had bypassed it. Without breaking it. Without even touching it, perhaps.
The librarian stood still in the upper alcove, tail curled beneath it like a monk in silent contemplation.
Below, the mage moved among the scroll racks with a lantern lit only faintly. A light that would not glow for most, though the dragon's eyes could easily discern it—an illusionary glow projected only for those attuned to it.
Thoughtful. Respectful of the dark.
He wore no armor. Nor did he cloak himself in shadows, trying to hide his presence. He was no thief. The only thing he wore was a robe faded by time.
He was not searching idly, nor was he looking hastily. His hands moved with care, passing over titles without touching them, pausing only when something warranted scrutiny.
One scroll was drawn. Then another. Then a third.
The librarian inhaled through its nose and descended silently on clawed feet. Its form was vast, and yet it did not seem to brush a single shelf.
The mage was not startled. He turned slowly and calmly.
"You bypassed my sigil," the librarian said.
"I read it," the mage replied. "And I obeyed its spirit. I've made no copies, and I've touched only what I knew I needed. I will handle everything with care."
The librarian stepped beside him, clawed hand curling into a humanoid gesture of patience. "Your assurances are generous but unnecessary. Who are you? If the man-principal Py Promio had allowed you to come here, he has not informed me."
The man bowed his head slightly, though not low enough for the librarian's taste.
"I am Vellichor," he said.
The librarian said nothing. A shudder went through its body.
Though Vellichor, Dread Mage, was not known as a dragon slayer, there were more than enough stories that he had vanquished more than enough of the librarian's species.
The librarian turned its head, eyes narrowing. "Why come here, mage of war and memory? Why the archive? These are not battle texts. Not anymore. I am not one of honor upon the fields of action. I hold no glory for you."
It seemed Vellichor thought the situation over.
For a moment, he didn't answer. A dreadful moment for the librarian.
"I see," he said. "You think I came here to kill you."
The librarian's wings tensed. Not a threat—not yet—but the coils of its muscles bunched subtly beneath its mantle.
A predator's caution. A scholar's dignity, affronted.
"You entered without summons," the librarian said. "Passed my seal. Knew I was here. And you are… you. A man who has boiled souls in their casings. Who once sank a flying city by unweaving its own wards. You do not wander."
Vellichor smiled. But it was not a cruel smile. It was not even amused. It was faintly tired.
"I do not wander," he agreed. "But I do teach. I thought the archives were open to faculty," he said. "I should have asked. But I assumed, foolishly, that they were like the others I've seen. Mostly empty, mostly ignored. And…" His eyes rose to the dragon's. "Guarded by something scary. But you seem to be more terrifying in story than in person."
"You speak plainly."
"I do not want to speak otherwise. Not anymore."
The librarian stepped closer, its talons clicking softly on the polished tile. "You say you are a teacher."
"I am," Vellichor said. "I am teaching Construct Crafting. Golemancy."
The dragon tilted its head. A plume of cool breath flared from its nostrils.
"Show me," it said.
Vellichor obliged without hesitation.
He opened the scrolls on a table.
Each was old but intact, kept clean by the same reverent hand that had restored their catalog entries. He unrolled them fully, careful not to break the creases.
The first was a treatise on Mana Channel Stabilization in Clay Forms, penned by a High Binder in the Third Age.
The second detailed Binding Glyph Harmonies: How the placement of primary tethers near joints could improve or ruin the flow of energy across limbs.
The third was a strange one: a fragmentary scroll with only sketches and no author, showing various man-like constructs in artistic, even emotional, poses.
A golem standing beside a grave. Another shielding children from rain.
The librarian examined each and, for a long time, said nothing.
At last: "You chose well. These are not dangerous texts."
"They are elegant ones," Vellichor said, and meant it.
"And the purpose?"
"To prepare my students for work that will not impress anyone," he replied.