For a beat, nothing moves.
Then the atrium erupts.
Books lift from their shelves like startled birds, parchment and scroll alike unfurling with feathered grace, catching the light as they spiral into the air. Together they flare open with the grace of creatures long dormant and suddenly disturbed. The railings tremble beneath the weight of faeries launching skyward, their maroon wings flashing, glinting thread trailing in arcs of motion so dense it thickens the air.
Orders are barked in languages that crackle like brittle lacquer. New staff pour from miniature doors, no taller than candlesticks. The press of frantic bodies lifts the temperature around them until the air feels flushed, breathless.
Eileen, calm as ever, steps politely to the side. Her hand gently brining Xozo with her. She does not flinch. She does not frown. She simply makes space for the commotion as if this were some routine ceremony. As if one must always leave a little room when the head librarian begins to shout.
Which she does. Mora Relle sweeps into the clearing Eileen leaves behind, sharp with indignation and fluttering authority. Her voice is straining to regain control, commands issuing forth like cracked porcelain trying not to show the fractures.
Xozo turns to her and states. Or seems to, it's hard to tell, hidden as she is beneath the folds of her hood. But something about her stillness reads wide-eyed. Stunned. Not that Eileen returns the look for she knows appearance is still everything.
Instead she smooths her shawl with slow, practiced hands... the gesture light, almost absentminded. As if brushing flour from a countertop. As if folding a note that didn’t need to be read.
For the space between disbelief and domesticity wasn't a chasm for her. It’s was a thread. And she walks it with the quiet grace of someone who always knew it would hold.
Gaslighting, she thinks. Sometimes that’s all you can do.
Not out of malice, of course. Not to wound. But as a necessity. A gentle reshaping of the story until there’s only one version left to believe in... and it just so happens to be yours. Because when a system is built on ritual mistaken for truth. On ceremony performed so long it becomes law. What other choice is there as a response?
You can’t argue with reverence. But you can offer pageantry.
Let them demand protocol. She’ll give them performance.
“By Orrynthal’s Deathsong,” Xozo blurts, stumbling a little over her own voice. “You didn’t tell me you were a VIP! Why didn’t you say that? That would’ve made everything so much easier...”
“Just didn’t seem appropriate, dear,” Eileen replies. Mild as steam off tea. “How would it even come up naturally in a conversation? I’d have to be a real High Horse Harry to announce something like that out of the blue. And you were already going through so much, dear Xozo.”
Before Xozo can respond, a small faerie... neither of them recognizes flutters up. Its movements are tight and clipped, like it’s stuck on a loop it doesn’t understand. The wings buzz out of sync with its speech, sometimes a beat ahead, sometimes a beat behind. Like a marionette unsure who is pulling the strings, but terrified someone will notice it is off-script.
It tries to speak. Its lips moving silently at first. Then, finally, a sound. “We are sorry for the temporary inconvenience…” Its voice trails off, and a shiver runs visibly through its frame. For half a second, it looks proud of itself... a tiny fist beginning to form in quiet celebration.
But the moment passes. Its voice cracks on the next attempt, the sound thin and brittle, as if the faerie itself is about to break. A tremor runs through its small body. The wings give a final, jerky twitch. Then the faerie drops, just slightly, before recovering, its gaze unfocused.
Quietly it recites the words again which hang in the air like something discarded, until the moment is dispelled by a dry, wheezing cough. “We are sorry for the temporary inconvenience. Please know, however, that your satisfaction as a VIP representative within Orrynthal’s domain is very important to us.”
Eileen smiles. Begins to speak. But the faerie continues. “We are sorry for the temporary inconvenience. Please know, however...”
Still holding the pass, Eileen makes a small cutting gesture. Elegant. Decisive. The faerie voice falters, mid-word. “Oh. One of you must have mixed up the dates, is that it?” she asks, sweet, reasonable.
But the faerie’s eyes lock onto hers. Wide with panic. Its whole body trembling slightly in the air. It’s clear. Terrifyingly clear. It does not want to report a scheduling error, even the presentation of one to whomever it considers its superiors.
“Don’t fret,” she continues. “We can keep this between us. I’m only here to find someone. One person in particular.”
The faerie nods. Slowly. Its mouth moves again. Same script... but this time agaom, silent. Lips shaping the words without sound.
Eileen lets it finish. Then adds, “Why don’t we start with your name?”
Twirling the faerie doesn't cough or stutter this time instead, its voice comes through even and measured. “Thiminy. You can call me Representative Thiminy.”
Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
Eileen smiles. “All right, dear Representative Thiminy. Do the Ebony Quills keep a local directory we can reference?”
Thiminy looks up toward the staircase, then lets her gaze drift back down to Eileen. She chews on her inner lip before bringing both hands to her face which simultaneously twitching and quivering like she is having an argument. Her responses coming out grated and this, “Wh… Wh… Why?”
Eileen leans back slightly, still holding out the VIP pass, she considers waving it but then thinks better of it. “Thiminy,” she says her voice level and firm. “I need your help bringing me to the Dawkith Lorth. Can you help me with that?”
A beat. The faerie seems to reboot, its body jolting all at once. Then, once more, it begins its message, its voice perfect, clear and extremely monotone.
“We are sorry for the temporary inconvenience.
Please know, however, that your satisfaction as a VIP representative within Orrynthal’s domain is very important to us.
As a courtesy token toward the satisfaction of our VIP representatives, I can help you with this issue at no additional hassle.”
“Lovely,” says Eileen, waving politely. “Lead the way, dear.”
At once, the faerie zips forward. A sharp ribbon of motion that forces the other Ebony Quills to part. Not politely, but as though a protocol had been activated. Their movements too synchronized. Too unnatural.
Together the trio moves up the passage of the central staircase... broad marble steps, gleaming and wide. Bringing them into the vaulted hush of the second floor. Yet even coming here was disconcerting for as they walked, Eileen began to hear the sound of the world around her, beginning to clip in and out and she just couldn't bear to listen to something like that without a distraction.
“How long has your family served...” Eileen begins, then gently corrects herself. She had almost said Orrynthal. But strictly speaking, the key was never technically meant for her. “...served Orrynthal’s domain.”
She glances at Xozo, catching only the bottom edge of her hood. The rest is tipped upward, scanning the arches above. On alert... but not dramatically so. Trained. Familiar with a piece of knowledge she hadn’t yet shared.
Even so, she could make a guess. Clearly Xozo was unfamiliar with this part. Clearly they had a reputation for brutal efficiency. Clearly the lizard father knew about it too. The quiet instinct of her analysis curling Eileen’s stomach.
The Ebony Quills must have been known to strike from above. Perhaps it was a consistent attack strategy or perhaps a byproduct of the countess losing numerous downline distributors. But it could also be a skill. Like those adventurers or mages had, really anyone aligned with a proper guild.
They move forward without issue. The faeries ahead make no objection to their passing. Their guide speaks without hesitation, same cadence, same script. Etched into its mind like a hymn, that always predates answers to Eileen’s question, “...We have served Orrynthal faithfully through the ages. From their ascension on Orivath, to the reclamation of the Solvahn Expanse, and all the way to the destruction of the Xarion Rift...”
Eileen doesn’t interrupt.
The names fall like dominoes. Ancient. Distant.
Uncomfortably close, and yet obliquely removed.
As she recalls no knowledge of these places.
“...We, the Ebony Quills, have faithfully served the Unifier, the Redeemer, the Ascender. We have recorded, with due impartiality, the failed insurgencies of those who refused submission, such as the Starforged Covenant, though we do not archive their names for long. They fail. All of them do. None understand the sacred perfection of Orrynthal’s domain or the administration required to govern the fast expanse of territory they hold. It is an administration which has enabled the uninterrupted execution of the Myria-annum Deathsong.”
That word again. Deathsong. So gentle. So final. So bleak.
“So,” Eileen says lightly, not entirely sure she’s speaking to someone present... and sane. “It must have caused quite a ruckus when one of the Ebony Quills filed the paperwork incorrectly.”
The faerie’s flight stutters. Just slightly. A fracture. A twitch. It head turning like a doll, slowly, eerily. It then collects itself launching into a script again. The voice coming faster now. Just a bit too loud. Hurried. All in one breath.
“We are sorry for the temporary inconvenience... With that being said, the Ebony Quills do not make mistakes. There is absolutely an explanation that will be sufficient for all relevant parties, including the VIP representative, and when that is determined, the proper channels will be notified. With all due haste.”
Its voice strains at the end. Breath catching like a skipping record and Xozo whispers, “Yeesh. Someone’s getting a performance review.”
Smoothing her shawl, Eileen smiles gently at dear Representative Thiminy who has now stopped talking and waits, expectantly, for a reply.
“Of course, dear,” she says, voice soft as cake flour. “Not a mistake then. Maybe just a temporary reshuffling of priorities. It happens to the best of us.”
The faerie vibrates again, this time internal. Wracked with tremors, it begins beating its head with its hands until it finally draws blood. The site of which ceases the tremors and mutes the vibrations flowing through its body.
Turning sharply it fly's down corridors of bookshelves in a direction cardinally different from where they were heading before then leading them up a pair of winding stairs. Its flight stiffening unusually right at the end of the staircase, which is the only warning they get. As the sound around them slips neatly into a void.
On the landing of the third floor they find all the bookshelves replaced with fairies neatly tucked away at large desks, wings folded, scrolls tucked, heads bowing at unnatural angles. Several more staircases entraces can be seen behind them, overlapping the one they came in through. Funneled clearly towards a long red carpet that flows ever deeper into the archives.
Following it they find for the fist time, dear Representative Thiminy acting normal. Well as normal it could be, while in the deep pocketed void of silence. Instead it becomes for Eileen the perfect time to actually observe the Ebony Quills for what they really were.
The architecture here was less practical then she had expected, more ceremonial, the ceiling spiraling impossibly high as if suspended in symmetrical loops like a nautilus shell trying to remember geometry. She supposed that perhaps it had some meaning for the fairies but to Eileen it was simply disconcerting. It made her feel like she had once felt when she saw a church literally collapse itself under the weight of its own symbolism. A harrowing tale of followers so enamored with touching a bit of their god, that their own hubris ended their faith.
Looking down from the ceiling Eileen stumbles to a stop. How long did I walk? She wonders having suddenly arrived in front of a small arched door with no signage. Just regular wood but pale as death.
“This is where your guidance will continue,” dear Representative Thiminy says, breaking the silence of the sound void like a knife through butter. “Please accept our apologies for the redirection of our original path. Knowledge on the whereabouts of this Dawkith Lorth you seek can be found through here. We hope this humble envoy was sufficient in the resolution of this issue.” It says while giving a bow that doesn’t reach the waist. And then without waiting, the faerie spins on its wing and flees. Not flitting. Not flying. Flees.