The Grand Library wasn’t fond of sound.

  I loved places like these. Before the armor, before the oaths, I used to spend afternoons bent over slates and wax tablets, chasing patterns most men considered frivolous, like ratios that reappeared in load-bearing arches or progressions hidden in interest tables.

  Sir Roland had despised them.

  He’d called libraries rooms where courage went to hibernate. Said that a man who spent too long among books began to believe every problem had already been solved by someone wiser, braver, or dead. That was fair. Compared to me, Sir Roland was definitely someone wiser, braver, and dead.

  As I came to my senses, Anabeth had stepped forward before I could announce myself and spoke with the precise calm of someone born to books. “Good morning! I hope I’m not interrupting. We’re searching for a section once referred to as the Provisional Archives of Knightly Affairs. Might you know if such a collection still exists?”

  The librarian steepled his fingers. “Knightly Affairs,” he repeated slowly. He closed his eyes, thinking. A long moment passed. “If it ever did exist under that name,” he said at last, “it would have been reorganized, or dissolved, or renamed to something less... romantic. I’m afraid there is no such section now.”

  “I see,” Anabeth said, “Thank you for your time.” She then turned to me and chirped, “No matter, Sir Henry. I once spent an entire year and three days inside a grand library. I can navigate one like a quarry swimmer reading the stone.”

  That did not sound healthy.

  She was already halfway down an aisle.

  It turned out she hadn’t been exaggerating.

  Anabeth ignored the newer wings entirely, bypassed the meticulously labeled sections on Applied Thaumaturgy and Civic Law, and went straight for the older stacks. She stopped before a sign etched in faded gold.

  ANCIENT MYTH

  Of course Knights had been reduced to myth.

  Time was of the essence. I’d trust Anabeth with finding the Archives, while I found the Treatise on Lightning to deliver to the Magistrate.

  “I will locate another classified document,” I said. “Do not disappoint me while I am gone.”

  Anabeth looked back over her shoulder, utterly unperturbed. “Okay!”

  From somewhere deep among the stacks came a scandalized whisper from the librarian. “Shhhh!”

  She turned to the source of the sound, then turned to me, leaned closer and whispered, “Okay!”

  I returned ten minutes later with the Treatise on my hand. It really wasn’t hard to find. The only reason why one would ever need someone else to fetch it for them was that they were lazy beyond belief.

  “Ah! You’re back!” Anabeth exclaimed, skipping toward me with the sort of energy that made bookshelves quake ever so slightly.

  I raised an eyebrow.

  “This,” she said, grinning, “should be what you’re looking for. Or at least, the nearest approximation, now that knights are no longer a thing.”

  I squinted at the gilded title.

  Armored Ancestors and Their Peculiar Habits: A Compendium of Metal-Clad Officials

  “Yes,” she added cheerfully, “apparently, when the bureaucrats decided knights didn’t exist anymore, they renamed the archives after whoever wore the most metal and caused the least paperwork. Seems fitting.”

  I took the book from her and flipped to the section that was supposed to list the knighthoods.

  The heading made me pause.

  Metal-Clad Neighborhoods and Their Inhabitants: A Survey of Administrative Excellence

  That’s what you call the Knighthoods? Hood doesn’t mean neighborhoods...

  Apparently, the archivists hadn’t stopped at the title. Every knighthood now had a new, painfully literal designation: the Silver-Plated District, the Iron-Encased Precinct, the Brass-Adorned Quarter. It was almost impossible to find which one was supposed to be the section for the Knights of Saint Merin.

  Or so I thought.

  Merin Neighborhood District

  I skimmed through the Merin Neighborhood District section, and the more I skimmed, the more my brows furrowed. The text stated,

  The last knighthood to have stirred the fields of Raslan met its undoing in protracted conflict with the eminent and universally feared Order of Twelvefold Flames. For decades they resisted, stubbornly, the inexorable tide of reform, or as later scribes uncharitably put it, the purge of all things not properly thaumaturgical. Swordplay, polearms, defensive postures, siegecraft of any stripe or clever contrivance: all were rigorously hunted, catalogued, or else politely reclassified as ‘curiosities’ for display upon pedestals, behind glass, or, in some more ambitious offices, behind three locks and a clerk.

  In short, if it was not sanctioned thaumaturgy, it was either dead, relic’d, or remanded to that peculiar limbo historians reserve for noble failures. And the Order, as history (and surviving paperwork) attests, spared no effort in ensuring that all traces of errant valor were rendered thoroughly inconvenient.

  I paused. Hold on.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The Order of Twelvefold Flames were the practitioners of the very thaumaturgy that Anabeth herself wielded. They were the single largest, most dominant order across all the realms. Could it be that their dominance wasn’t merely a matter of numbers or skill? That they had systematically destroyed every other school of martial and magical knowledge? Was that why their power seemed absolute, unquestionable, inevitable?

  Anabeth peered in and read over my shoulder (more like my arm, since she was only tall enough to reach my shoulder). I kept reading.

  After the final defeat, the magi undertook, with commendable thoroughness and an almost endearing zeal, to expunge every trace of the Knighthood of Saint Merin, that no errant soul might ever hope to restore it. Yet one leader, Sir Kaelren of the Shattered Crest, had the foresight of a man who knew history better than fate. He did not yield entirely to despair, but instead concealed, dispersed, and artfully disguised the relics of his order, so that in some distant century a devoted knight might, by diligence or audacity, recover them:

  The Crest of Saint Merin – concealed within a water-carved grotto near the Mistveil Peaks, where the currents are cold, clear, and mineral-rich enough to preserve metal without corrosion. Shielded by natural stone and the labyrinthine channels of the cave, it has survived the centuries, awaiting the hand bold enough to claim it.

  The Standard of Saint Merin – carefully stored ten feet beneath the streets of Dunriche, in the forgotten vaults of the city’s old armory. Wards, laid by watchful smiths and minor thaumaturges, still thrummed faintly with defensive enchantments, resisting time, decay, and the occasional curious clerk. Only those who knew the old city beneath its modern facades could even hope to descend safely, let alone recover the banner.

  The Plate of A Thousand Oaths – the original suit of armor, deposited in the Eternal Forgery, a natural fire-cave beneath the volcanic cliffs of Ashfen. Flames that had burned unchecked for generations licked the walls, yet never consumed the rock, and somehow the armor lay untouched within, preserved by the heat that might have melted lesser metals. To reach it required both courage and cleverness: natural hazards, searing corridors, and the constant threat of collapse made this a trial worthy of a knight.

  The Longsword of A Thousand Oaths – consigned to the sealed reliquary of the forgotten eastern monastery in Chujang, adjacent the Jade Kingdom, where the mountains bite harder than any man and the wind carves vigilance into stone.

  The Bloodstone Sigil of Saint Merin – a small talisman carved from bloodstone, its surface veined with crimson streaks that seemed to pulse faintly in low light. It was interred deep within the Sable Hollow of Mourning, a forgotten cavern beyond the Sorrow Peaks, where necromancers were rumored to linger and the air was thick with whispers of the restless dead.

  Even the book that chronicled the order itself was not spared the necessity of deception. No longer titled with the grandeur it once bore, it had been given a mundane and bureaucratic guise, cataloged among the studies of metalwork, heraldry, and minor civic offices.

  Together, these five relics formed the tangible heart of the Knighthood’s legacy, and to reunite them was to awaken both its ceremonial legitimacy and the Boon of Saint Merin, power beyond comprehension reserved for the most devoted of knights.

  Power beyond comprehension.

  Perhaps this explained why I was born with no aetheric manipulation. Perhaps Sir Roland barely had any either. Either we had lost the blessings of Saint Merin, or the Saint commanded a form of magic entirely apart from the aether, one that flowed only through devotion, discipline, and the convergence of the relics themselves.

  And then there were the locations.

  It started almost innocuously enough: a grotto in the Mistveil Peaks. Manageable. Then ten feet underground in Dunriche, past wards, and forgotten vaults. Still reasonable, if claustrophobic. Next came Ashfen—the Eternal Forgery. It was getting unreasonable now.

  Then Chujang, literally a thousand miles away, and by reaching meaning traversing through the most hostile terrains known to men. I winced just thinking about it.

  And finally... the Sable Hollow of Mourning. A necromancer’s playground with whispering shadows and death-scented corridors. Home sweet home, should Anabeth ever get over her excitement and decide this was ‘fun.’ She might get a hard on upon the mentioning of it alone.

  Yes. This would get progressively nastier.

  I closed the book slowly, heaving a heavy inhale. The pieces were all here. Every scrap of history, carefully hidden, painstakingly preserved. The path forward was no longer merely a curiosity. This was the beginning of reclaiming something far older, far greater, and far more dangerous than anything I had yet dared to imagine.

  And I wasn’t sure if I was prepared for any of this yet.

  I looked up. Anabeth was studying me intently, her eyes bright with that uncontainable spark of mischief that suggested she already knew more than she should.

  “So?” she prompted, tilting her head. “Where are we going now? Oh! I saw a glimpse of an underground cave—ooooh, sounds fascinating. Or are you going on an extended—” she wiggled her fingers—“pilgrimage to Chujang? Oooooh! I hear they have marvelous skewered meat. But that would take more than a month… If you ever feel like travelling to Chujang, can you wait until summer break? I can apply for extended leave by then. My parents will not be happy, but they can’t do anything if I file it under sanctioned academic travel. Clause seventeen, subsection C: External study and cultural immersion. Or is it subsection D? I must check again. And before you ask, I can assure you I am very diligent with my studies, Sir, so you need not worry about my progress.”

  I wanted to speak, but I could not find a single moment to put a word in. How long could she monologue for?

  “Oh, not that you have to let me accompany you or anything… but maybe you’d appreciate a companion to cool off your head on a hot summer day! Purely for safety, of course. Summer expeditions are statistically riskier due to heat fatigue, dehydration, and very possibly compromised judgment. A lone researcher is a liability; a paired one is responsible. Any review board would agree. Heat would also be a real problem if you wish to travel to Ashfen! Or maybe the Sable Hollow? Mmmm… skeletons. I thought that place was a myth. Please tell me you will travel to the Sable Hollow.”

  She clasped her hands together, eyes already distant. “You know, people always assume bone magic is necromancy, which is simply inaccurate. Bone is a structural medium, not a spiritual one. Osseous tissues hold residual resonance remarkably well, especially in arid environments. Necromancy is about animating will, but osteomancy is just… reading what’s already there. Stress fractures tell stories. Density variations record impact. You can reconstruct entire battles from bone scatter alone.” She made a small, slicing gesture in the air. “Besides, skeletons don’t do anything. They’re inert, and very polite. Also, the Sable Hollow skeletons are supposedly pre-Imperial, which means their thaumic imprint predates modern spell contamination. Clean data! Well—clean-ish. There might be ambient curse drift, but nothing a grounding sigil can’t mitigate. I brought chalk. I always bring chalk. Ritual salt, too. You never know when you’ll need to draw a circle. Or seven.”

  HOW LONG COULD SHE MONOLOGUE FOR?

  “Shhhh!” Came the librarian’s voice again.

  “I’m sorry!” She said, then leaned closer to me and whispered. “Of course, Mistveil Peak is also fascinating. High-altitude mana thinning causes resonance echo, which is a very rare phenomenon. Though the cold could interfere with fine motor control, which might be inconvenient if you’re—well—holding a sword. Or a book. Or me. Hypothetically.” She coughed. “Chujang is warmer, but the ley lines there are wild. Beautifully wild. Skewered meat aside, their spice blends are alchemically fascinating. Capsaicin-based stimulants, excellent for circulation. I could write a paper or two.”

  She finally stopped, breathless, blinking as if she’d just realized she was still speaking.

  “So...” She tilted her head. “If you were to choose… would it be Mistveil Peak, Ashfen, Chujang… or the Sable Hollow?” She left out Dunriche for some reason.

  No. None of that.

  I lifted the Treatise on Lightning between us. “The Magistrate. First, we deliver this to the Magistrate.”