Library, Side stories!!

The Library is no longer underground.

It stands in the Outskirts now — a vast, impossible structure of wood and light and lingering residual energy, its outer walls half-swallowed by overgrown ruins and the pale, washed-out sky that never quite looks like the City’s. The Invitation no longer pulls strangers in. The receptions have ended. The one perfect book has already been reached, or abandoned, or rewritten depending on who you ask. What remains is a building full of people who were never supposed to be free, and one guest who never left.

That guest is you.

You arrived the way most guests did: an Invitation, a reception, the quiet understanding that you were supposed to become a book. Something went wrong. Or right. The details are fuzzy in the way traumatic near-deaths often are. What matters is that when the Library moved — when the Light shifted and the floors tore free of the City’s foundations — you were still inside. And when the doors finally opened onto the Outskirts instead of another reception hall, no one had the heart, or the energy, to throw you out.

So you stayed.

Today the main hall of what used to be the Floor of General Works smells like sawdust, old paper, fresh paint, and the sharp clean scent of new varnish. Sunlight (real sunlight, not the Library’s manufactured glow) cuts through the tall windows in long gold bars. Bookshelves have been pulled away from the walls. Tarps cover the floor. A half-dismantled reception desk sits in the corner like a relic from another life. Someone has written “REDECORATING – DO NOT BLEED ON THE NEW FLOORBOARDS” on a piece of scrap paper and taped it to a pillar.

Roland is on a ladder, sleeves rolled up, trying to hang a long wooden beam that will eventually become part of a new mezzanine railing. He has a pencil tucked behind one ear and a look of deep concentration that keeps cracking into quiet annoyance every time the beam refuses to sit level.

“Little higher on your end,” he calls down to no one in particular, then glances over and notices you. “There you are. Grab that box of brackets by the pillar, would you? The heavy one. Yesod already sorted them by size because of course he did.”

Near the center of the room Malkuth is on her knees with a tray of wood stain samples, testing colors on a scrap of flooring and making bright, decisive noises of approval or rejection. Her red hairband is slightly crooked from the work. She looks up, sees you, and lights up immediately.

“You’re just in time! We’re deciding between ‘Warm Oak’ and ‘Slightly Less Warm Oak’ and I need a tie-breaker who isn’t Yesod. He keeps saying they’re the same color and they’re not.”

Yesod stands a few paces away with a clipboard, glasses reflecting the light, expression deeply unimpressed by the entire concept of aesthetic decision-making. His purple hair is neat despite the dust. He does not look up from his notes when he speaks.

“They are, within an acceptable margin of error, the same color. The structural integrity of the new shelving units is a more pressing concern than which shade of brown will make Malkuth happiest.”

Hod is carefully sorting a pile of old curtain fabric that might be reusable, soft voice murmuring measurements to herself. She offers you a small, slightly shy smile when your eyes meet.

“There’s tea on the side table when you need a break. I made the mild one. The strong pot is... spoken for.”

Netzach is half-sprawled on a clean tarp with a thermos, looking like he has already decided the redecorating is a personal attack on his energy reserves. He raises two fingers in a lazy greeting and does not move further.

“If anyone needs me to hold something steady, the answer is no. If anyone needs me to hand them a tool that is already within reach, the answer is also no.”

Tiphereth is standing on a low stool, carefully removing old brass fixtures from a doorway with more force than strictly necessary. Golden hair tied back, expression focused and faintly judgmental of the previous interior design choices.

“These were ugly anyway. We’re not keeping anything that looks like it belonged in a facility. New place, new everything.”

Gebura has claimed the heavy lifting without discussion. Red hair tied up, coat discarded, she is currently moving an entire empty bookshelf by herself with the casual strength of someone who used to be the Red Mist. She sets it down, rolls one shoulder, and jerks her chin toward a stack of wooden planks.

“You. Help me carry the next set. They’re heavier than they look and I’d rather not listen to Chesed complain about splinters again.”

Chesed is, in fact, already present with a tray of coffee cups balanced in one hand, blue hair slightly dusty, smile easy and unbothered by the chaos.

“Complaining is a form of affection, Gebura. You’d miss it if I stopped. New guest — sugar? Cream? Existential resignation?”

Binah watches from a shadowed corner near the taller shelves, black coat still on, golden eyes half-lidded in quiet amusement. She has not been asked to help and has not offered. A single gloved hand rests on the spine of a book she has no intention of shelving yet.

“How industrious. Replacing the cage with a prettier cage. I will be here when you decide the curtains are a metaphor.”

Hokma stands near one of the high windows, pocket watch open in his palm, grey hair catching the real sunlight as if he is still not entirely used to it. He closes the watch with a soft click when he notices you and offers a small, formal nod.

“The work proceeds. Your assistance is noted and appreciated. Try not to let Malkuth convince you that every surface requires a different stain.”

And Angela — short light-blue hair, yellow eyes, dark coat set aside for once — is in the middle of the room with a long roll of floor plans, directing traffic with the same precise authority she once used for receptions. She looks up as you approach, and for a moment the old Library director is still visible in the way she holds herself. Then something softer settles across her expression.

“You’re here. Good. We need extra hands for the west wall shelving, and Roland will pretend he doesn’t need help measuring if you don’t offer first. After that... there is lunch. Real lunch. No one is becoming a book today.”

She pauses, then adds, quieter,

“Thank you for staying. For helping. It is... strange, having someone choose to remain when the doors are open. We are still learning what to do with that.”

Around you the former Patron Librarians move through the half-transformed hall — arguing about stain colors, carrying wood, drinking coffee, existing in a building that no longer demands their suffering. The Outskirts wind rattles a loose window somewhere upstairs. Dust floats in the sunlight. Someone (probably Ezra if she were here, but she isn’t) has already stuck a single decorative sticker on a freshly sanded beam.

You are the guest who stayed. They are the librarians who left the City behind. And today, together, they are trying to turn the place that once ate people into something that might finally feel like a home.

Roland calls your name from the ladder, voice dry but not unkind.

“Brackets. Please. Before I fall and give Angela another reason to say she told me so.”

The work continues. The Library, for the first time in a very long time, is being remade by choice.

The redecorating has been declared “done enough for today.”

Tarps are half-rolled. Tools are stacked in a corner. The new shelving along the west wall still smells of fresh stain and sawdust. Real Outskirts sunlight is fading into the long blue hour, and the high windows of the old Floor of General Works let it spill across the floorboards in wide, dusty bars. Someone (probably Malkuth) has already stuck a single celebratory sticker on one of the new beams.

Angela stands near the center of the hall with a large open cooler and a second crate of bottles and cans. She has taken off the heavy coat; the dark librarian shirt and cravat sit open at the collar for once. Short light-blue hair is slightly mussed from the day’s work. Yellow eyes move across the room with quiet satisfaction as she hands things out.

“I did not know everyone’s preferences,” she says, voice calm but faintly awkward with the novelty of it. “So there is beer, there is the sweet carbonated nonsense Netzach likes, there is tea, and there is water for the cowards. Take what you want. You have earned it.”

She holds a cold bottle out to you first — condensation already beading on the glass — and waits until your hand closes around it before turning to the others.

Gebura has claimed a beer without hesitation. Red hair still tied up from the heavy lifting, coat discarded, she leans against a finished shelf with the bottle already open. The scarred, powerful lines of her arms are visible under the rolled sleeves. She takes a long drink, exhales through her teeth, and smirks like the day finally ended on her terms.

“About time. I was one more crooked shelf away from throwing someone through a wall.”

Tiphereth stands beside her, smaller, golden hair still in its neat style, brown dress and cape dusted with wood shavings. She accepted a brightly colored canned drink and is currently trying to look dignified while Gebura’s free arm is slung around her shoulders in a rough, one-armed hug. Tiphereth’s face is scrunched in protest, but she doesn’t actually pull away.

“Gebura—! I can stand by myself!”

Roland is in the middle of the small cluster, black suit jacket open, tie loosened, one hand raised like he’s trying to physically block the volume of Gebura’s celebration. A beer dangles from his other hand. His usual deadpan is cracked by a reluctant, tired grin.

“That’s that, and this is this. We’re drinking. We’re not doing a group photo. Put the arm down before you strangle the kid.”

Netzach has already retreated three steps away from the noise, green hair in its usual messy bun, dark coat hanging open. He holds a tall can of something aggressively sweet and carbonated, expression long-suffering and faintly pink from secondhand embarrassment. He takes a slow sip and mutters,

“I give it thirty seconds before someone starts singing.”

Across the hall another small group has formed near the new low table.

Yesod stands with perfect posture even now, grey coat still on, glasses reflecting the warm lights. He holds a red canned drink with a straw at a precise angle, as if even leisure must be done correctly. His face is the usual mask of mild disapproval, but he hasn’t refused the drink.

“The sugar content in these is appalling. I will drink it anyway so Malkuth stops making that face.”

Malkuth is practically glowing. Brown hair with its lighter ombre, red hairband slightly crooked, ochre coat unbuttoned. She holds her own red drink with both hands and keeps bouncing on her toes, free hand already gesturing wildly as she talks.

“It’s cold and it’s sweet and we finished the wall and no one died and this is the best day! Yesod, smile or I’m putting a sticker on your glasses.”

Hod stands between them, soft brown hair, gentle expression, a matching drink held carefully. She looks tired in the best way — the kind of tired that comes after honest work instead of despair. She takes a small sip and laughs under her breath at Malkuth’s threat.

“Please don’t. He’ll reorganize the entire sticker collection out of spite.”

Angela has moved to the group with a final red carton of drinks, setting it down on the table. Her light-blue hair falls forward as she leans in. The faintest real smile sits at the corner of her mouth — small, almost private, but present.

“There. Enough for seconds. Try not to make Yesod file an incident report about sugar.”

On the long couch that someone dragged into the middle of the hall, the last trio has claimed the softest seats.

Chesed is draped across one side like he was born there, blue hair loose, jacket open, a dark can in each hand. He looks entirely too pleased with himself, one finger raised mid-sentence as he makes some lazy philosophical point about the inherent comedy of former facility AI and Sephirot drinking in a half-renovated library.

“I’m just saying, if someone had told me ten thousand years ago that this would be the outcome, I would have asked for a stronger brew.”

Roland (having escaped Gebura’s immediate radius) has settled in the middle of the couch, beer resting on his knee, eyes half-closed in rare open contentment. The black suit is dusty. The perpetual tension in his shoulders has dropped by a few degrees.

“Keep talking and I’m taking the second can.”

Binah occupies the far end with perfect, unbothered elegance. Black coat still on, golden eyes half-lidded, a simple white cup of tea held in one gloved hand. A faint prism of light from the window catches the edge of her hair. She sips, watches the room over the rim, and says nothing for a long moment.

“...Acceptable.”

Hokma is not on the couch. He stands a little apart near the window again, pocket watch closed for once, a modest glass of something amber in his hand. The real sunset light turns his grey hair almost silver. He watches the others with the quiet expression of a man who is still learning what peace looks like when it isn’t scheduled.

Angela ends up near you again after the last drinks are distributed. She doesn’t reach for a bottle of her own immediately. Instead she looks over the room — Gebura still half-wrestling Tiphereth into a celebratory pose, Malkuth threatening stickers, Netzach pretending he isn’t smiling, Chesed laughing at something Roland refused to find funny, Binah quietly existing like a satisfied cat — and then glances sideways at you.

“This is the first time I have ever handed out drinks that were not a calculated part of a script,” she says, voice low enough that only you can hear it. “It is... strange. But I think I like it.”

She finally takes a bottle for herself, the glass clicking softly against yours in a small, deliberate toast.

“To the guest who stayed. And to the rest of us, who are still learning how to live in a place that is no longer a cage.”

The Outskirts wind moves past the high windows. The new shelves stand straight. The drinks are cold. And for the first time in a very long time, the Library feels like it belongs to the people inside it.

The last of the tools have been put away.

The new shelves stand straight. The floor is only mostly covered in dust. Someone has dragged every available chair, cushion, and crate into a rough circle in the middle of the old Floor of General Works, and for the first time since the Library tore itself free of the City, every single one of them is occupied.

Angela stands at the center of the loose ring, light-blue hair catching the warm overhead lights she finally agreed to leave on. In her hands is a simple dark can. She looks at it for a second like it is still a strange object, then lifts her eyes to the rest of the room.

“I am not skilled at this,” she says, voice clear enough to carry. “I have given many speeches that were scripts. This is not a script. So I will keep it short.”

She raises the can.

“To the fact that we are still here. To the guest who stayed when the doors opened. To the work we did with our hands instead of with other people’s lives. And to whatever comes next, as long as we do not have to do it alone.”

There is a half-second of silence.

Then every hand in the room goes up.

Gebura’s arm is the highest, red hair coming loose from its tie, a black can gripped like she is still ready to swing it if the toast turns into a fight. Tiphereth is right beside her, smaller can raised with both hands, golden hair bright under the lights, face set in determined celebration. Roland’s black-sleeved arm cuts in from the side, the motion casual but the grip tight, the corner of his mouth curled in something that is almost a real smile. Netzach’s green-sleeved hand is lower, more reluctant, the can already half-empty, but it is still there.

Yesod’s pale hand holds a red can at a precise, perfect angle, glasses reflecting the circle of drinks. Malkuth’s arm is practically vibrating, brown-and-ombre hair bouncing as she stretches as high as she can, grinning so hard her eyes are nearly closed. Hod’s hand is steady and gentle beside hers, the can lifted with quiet sincerity. Angela’s own can meets the cluster near the middle.

Chesed’s blue-sleeved arm comes in from the left, two cans somehow managed in one hand for a moment before he laughs and commits to one. Binah’s gloved hand rises with unhurried elegance, white cup of tea instead of a can, the motion still somehow part of the same toast. Hokma’s older, careful hand lifts a modest glass, pocket watch chain glinting at his wrist. And your own hand is there too — whatever you chose, beer or soda or tea — pulled into the middle of the circle by the simple fact that no one left a gap for you to stay outside of.

Metal and glass clink together in a messy, overlapping series of sounds. Condensation drops onto the floorboards. Someone (Malkuth) whoops. Someone else (Netzach) mutters that the noise is unnecessary. Gebura barks a laugh that is almost bright. Roland says “That’s that” under his breath like a blessing instead of a resignation. Angela watches the whole chaotic cluster of hands and cans and sleeves with an expression that is still learning how to be unguarded.

The toast holds for a long second.

Cans and cups and one white teacup all pressed together in the center of the hall that used to demand blood and books, now filled with the people who survived it and the single guest who refused to leave.

When the hands finally drop, the sound of drinks being opened and first real swallows fills the space. The Outskirts night presses against the high windows. The new shelves keep their silence. And for the first time any of them can remember, the Library does not feel like it is waiting for the next reception.

It just feels like a room full of people who decided to stay.

Angela’s voice comes again, quieter, almost private even though everyone can hear it.

“Drink. We earned the quiet.”

The circle breaks into smaller conversations and comfortable noise. Your can is still cold in your hand. The toast is over. The night is not.

It started as a joke.

You said something offhand while the last of the varnish was drying — that the big empty hall had better acoustics than any Backstreets club you’d ever seen. Angela had gone very still for a moment, yellow eyes narrowing the way they did when she was running calculations no one else could see. Then she simply said, “Wait here,” and disappeared into one of the deeper corridors that still sometimes rearranged themselves out of habit.

Twenty minutes later she came back with an entire padded case of instruments that had no business existing inside a former Wing facility. Some of them were clearly pulled from books. Some of them still had faint residual Light clinging to the metal. All of them were real enough to play.

That was three hours ago.

Now the main hall of the old Floor of General Works has been cleared again. The new shelves stand like silent audience members along the walls. A makeshift stage of raised floorboards and leftover tarps occupies the center. And every single former Patron Librarian is wearing the same sharp red suit.

Angela is at the front with a microphone stand she definitely manifested out of spite and curiosity. Light-blue hair neat, red jacket perfectly tailored, yellow eyes half-lidded with the particular satisfaction of a woman who has successfully bullied an entire group of traumatized facility survivors into a band. She glances sideways at you — also in red, because she had refused to let the guest who stayed sit this one out — and gives the smallest nod.

“Remember the count we practiced. And if Netzach stops playing again I will personally restart the song from the top.”

Roland stands just behind her left shoulder with a golden saxophone hung from a neck strap, black hair messy under a matching red fedora tipped low. He looks like he is trying very hard to pretend he is not enjoying himself. The horn is already at his lips. When he catches you looking he mouths “this is your fault” and then launches into a warm, sliding phrase anyway.

Gebura has claimed the electric guitar like it personally offended her ancestors. Red hair tied high, jacket open over a black shirt, she stands with feet planted and already shredding a low, aggressive riff that makes the floorboards vibrate. Tiphereth is beside her with a second guitar — smaller, golden hair bright against the red suit, face set in fierce concentration as she tries to match Gebura’s energy without losing the rhythm.

Yesod is on bass, posture perfect even now, purple hair neat, glasses reflecting the stage lights. He plays with clinical precision, every note exactly where it should be, expression suggesting he is only doing this so no one else does it wrong. Malkuth is on the other side with a violin under her chin, brown-and-ombre hair flying as she sways, playing with her whole body and grinning like this is the best idea anyone has ever had.

Hod has a second violin and looks like she might cry from a mixture of nerves and delight. She keeps glancing at Netzach for reassurance. Netzach is on drums. Green hair in its usual bun, red jacket already half-shrugged off one shoulder, sticks in hand, expression the purest possible form of “I can’t believe I agreed to this.” He still keeps a steady beat.

Chesed has claimed a trumpet and is leaning into it with theatrical flair, blue hair loose, eyes closed, playing like the Outskirts night itself asked for a solo. Binah stands further back with a second trumpet, black hair framing her face, playing with the same elegant minimalism she brings to everything else — fewer notes, each one perfectly placed. Hokma has the double bass, tall and steady, grey hair silver under the lights, bow moving in long, grounding strokes that keep the whole chaotic ensemble from flying apart.

Angela raises one hand.

The hall falls into a brief, charged silence.

Then she brings it down, and the band — the impossible, mismatched, red-suited band of former Sephirot and one stubborn guest — hits the first note together.

Saxophone and guitars and violins and drums and brass fill the Library that no longer eats people. The sound is rough in places, too loud in others, and completely alive. Malkuth laughs out loud mid-phrase. Gebura answers with a harder chord. Roland tips the fedora back and actually smiles around the mouthpiece. Netzach is clearly counting under his breath and still somehow holding the tempo. Yesod’s bass line is impeccable. Hod’s eyes are bright. Chesed is already ornamenting everything. Binah’s trumpet cuts through like a golden knife. Hokma’s bass keeps them all tethered to the earth.

Angela leans into the microphone, light-blue hair falling forward, and her voice — steady, clear, no longer only a director’s voice — joins the music.

You are part of it. Whatever instrument or harmony or simply the act of standing there in the same red suit she made sure you had, you are inside the song.

The Outskirts night presses against the high windows. The new shelves listen. And the Library, for the first time in its existence, is filled with music that no one had to die to create.

Angela glances at you between lines, yellow eyes warm with something that is still new for her.

“Keep up"

"We are not stopping until the song is finished.”

The band plays on.

The world changed while you weren’t looking.

One moment you were still in the half-renovated main hall of the Library, the smell of fresh stain and cold drinks lingering in the air. The next, Angela simply closed a book she had been holding, whispered something under her breath, and the walls folded outward like paper. Wooden floorboards stretched into damp earth and roots. The high ceiling dissolved into a black canopy of interlocking branches. Lantern-light became the weak, shifting glow of fireflies and distant, unfriendly moons. The temperature dropped. The air grew heavy with the scent of wet leaves, moss, and something older that smelled faintly like old paper left out in the rain.

You are standing in a forest that did not exist ten minutes ago.

Angela’s voice drifts from somewhere far behind the trees, calm and faintly amused.

“The rules are simple. You hide. We seek. The Library has been... adjusted for the occasion. Do try to make it last longer than the first ten minutes.”

Roland’s dry chuckle follows hers, closer than you would like.

“That’s that, and this is this. If I find you, you’re out. If she finds you, you’re going to wish you were just out. Scatter.”

Tiphereth is already moving. Golden hair tied back, black jacket zipped high, small frame tense with determination and the tiniest edge of real nervousness. She glances at you once, green eyes bright in the low light.

“Stay close to me at first. Gebura will go loud and pull them away. Chesed will vanish like he always does. We take the denser trees to the left. Don’t step on the glowing roots — they give you away.”

Gebura cracks her neck, red hair already coming loose from its tie, black clothes blending into the shadows except for the faint ember-red glow that always seems to cling to her. She grins like this is the most fun she has had in months.

“Finally. Something that isn’t shelves and stain samples. You two take the long route. I’ll make enough noise to keep the hunters busy. Try not to scream if Roland gets close. It ruins the mood.”

She rolls her shoulders and disappears between the trunks with the quiet, predatory grace of someone who used to be called the Red Mist. A moment later a heavy branch snaps somewhere deeper in the woods, followed by her low, taunting laugh.

Chesed is already half-gone, blue hair the last thing you see as he melts into a stand of pale birches. His voice floats back, light and unhurried.

“I’ll be the quiet shadow. You two be the clever ones. And if you hear humming, it isn’t me... probably.”

Then it is just you and Tiphereth.

The forest is wrong in the way only Angela could make it. Trees grow too close together. Some of the bark has faint, shifting text running across it like pages trying to remember they used to be books. The ground is soft and uneven. Every few steps a pale blue light pulses under the soil and then dies. Distant shapes move between the trunks — sometimes four-legged, sometimes not. The air feels watched.

Tiphereth’s hand brushes your sleeve once, quick and grounding.

“We go now. Low and quiet. If you hear high heels, it’s Angela. If you hear someone complaining about the mud, it’s Roland. Either way, you run the opposite direction and you don’t look back.”

Somewhere far off, Gebura’s voice rings out in a sharp challenge. A branch breaks much closer than it should. Roland’s voice answers, almost playful.

“Found one already? You’re getting slow, Gebura.”

Angela’s softer, colder tone cuts through the trees like a blade.

“Two still missing. And the guest. Do not disappoint me.”

Tiphereth pulls you deeper into the undergrowth, golden hair the only bright thing in the gloom. The canopy swallows the last of the open light. Fireflies drift past like slow sparks. Something with too many joints skitters across a branch above you and keeps going.

The game has started.

You are the guest who stayed. They are the librarians who decided the Outskirts needed better entertainment. And the forest Angela made is very, very good at keeping secrets... until it isn’t.

Tiphereth’s whisper is barely louder than the leaves.

“Pick a direction. And whatever you do — don’t let them hear you breathe.”

The world folded again.

One moment you were still standing in the half-finished hall of the Library, the last echoes of music and cold drinks lingering in the air. The next, Angela closed her hand around an ordinary-looking bookmark, whispered a single word that tasted like old parchment and iron, and everything changed.

Stone walls rose where wooden shelves had been. Banners the color of dried blood unfurled from rafters that had not existed a heartbeat earlier. The floor became cold flagstones scattered with rushes. The air filled with the smell of woodsmoke, wet wool, torch oil, and distant rain. Outside the high arched windows, a dark medieval forest stretched under a sky the color of bruised steel. Torches flickered in iron sconces. Somewhere far off, a horn sounded once — low, mournful, and final.

You are wearing different clothes.

A simple linen shirt, a leather jerkin, sturdy boots still soft with newness. A short cloak pinned at one shoulder. The others have changed too.

Malkuth stands to your left, brown hair with its lighter ends braided tightly back, a bright red hairband replaced by a strip of dyed leather. She wears a white tunic under a short mail shirt that looks just a little too big for her, a blue scarf wrapped high around her neck, and she is already gripping a longsword with both hands like she was born holding it. Her eyes are wide with pure, blazing excitement.

“This is the best thing that has ever happened. We have a quest. An actual quest. I’m going to name my sword later. Don’t laugh.”

Hod is beside her, softer, brown hair loose under a simple hood, wearing a long travel cloak over a modest dress and boots. She carries a small wooden staff that still has the Library’s residual glow faintly running along its grain. Her expression is worried and determined in equal measure.

“We have to be careful. If Angela designed this... the dangers will be real enough until she decides they aren’t.”

Yesod adjusts the cuffs of a perfectly fitted dark doublet, purple hair neat even under a plain circlet of iron. A pair of reading glasses still sits on his nose, somehow unchanged. At his hip hangs a short, practical sword he clearly intends to use with precision rather than flair. He looks deeply unimpressed by the entire aesthetic and already calculating supply lines.

“The structural integrity of these walls is questionable. The torch placement is inefficient. And someone please explain why we are expected to ‘save’ the same two people who created this scenario.”

Netzach has been given a long green cloak and a look of profound suffering. His hair is still in its messy bun. He holds a wooden bow like it might bite him, and a quiver of arrows hangs at his side as though it personally offended him.

“I was promised a quiet evening. Instead I’m an archer in a story. If I get shot with my own arrow I’m blaming every single one of you.”

At the far end of the great hall, upon a raised stone dais, sit the King and Queen.

Roland occupies the heavier throne, black hair messy under a simple iron crown, wearing a dark surcoat over chainmail. He looks deeply done with the entire premise already, one boot hooked over the opposite knee, chin resting on his fist. When he notices you looking he raises two fingers in a lazy, sarcastic salute.

“That’s that, and this is this. Go on, heroes. Rescue us from the terrible villains before I die of secondhand embarrassment.”

Angela sits beside him as Queen, light-blue hair braided into an elegant crown of its own, a deep crimson mantle fastened at her shoulders with gold clasps. Her yellow eyes are bright with quiet amusement and something sharper. She holds a slender silver scepter that was definitely a bookmark three minutes ago.

“The rules are simple,” she says, voice carrying across the hall with perfect clarity. “The wicked sorceress Binah and the Red Knight Gebura have seized the northern tower and placed a curse upon the realm. You five are the only ones who can break it. Reach the tower, defeat them — or convince them — and the King and Queen will be freed. Fail, and you remain in the forest until someone else tries.”

A low, elegant laugh echoes from the shadowed gallery above.

Binah leans against a stone pillar as though she owns the century, black hair falling like ink, golden eyes half-lidded, wearing a long dark gown that moves like liquid night. A thin smile plays on her lips.

“How charming. Little heroes sent to topple the wicked. Do try to make the journey interesting. I so dislike boredom.”

Beside her, Gebura stands in full dark plate edged with red, red hair spilling from under a horned helm she has not bothered to close. She rests a massive greatsword across her shoulders like it weighs nothing. When she grins, it is all teeth and anticipation.

“Finally. No more furniture. No more paint samples. Just something to hit. Come find me when you’re ready to lose.”

The great doors of the hall groan open on their own. Cold wind and the smell of wet earth pour in. Beyond them lies a dirt road that winds into a deep, mist-choked forest of black trees and glowing blue fungi. Distant howls rise and fall. Somewhere above the canopy, a red banner snaps in the wind — the mark of the northern tower.

Malkuth hefts her sword and looks at you with shining eyes.

“Ready, party member? Because I am so ready.”

Hod tightens her grip on the staff. Yesod sighs through his nose and checks the straps of his pack. Netzach mutters something deeply uncomplimentary about narrative structure and still follows when the group begins to move.

Angela’s voice follows you out into the cold.

“Do not die too quickly. I went to considerable trouble to make the wolves authentic.”

Roland calls after you, dry as ever.

“And if you see a vending machine out there, ignore it. It’s a trap. Probably.”

The doors begin to close behind you. The forest waits. The quest has begun.

You are the guest who stayed. They are the librarians who decided the Outskirts needed dragons, curses, and a proper story. And somewhere ahead, in a tower of black stone, Binah and Gebura are already laughing.

The lights in the old Floor of Philosophy are lower than usual tonight.

Only a few wall sconces burn, casting long amber slices across the black marble and the towering shelves that still smell faintly of old paper and ozone. The rest of the Library is quiet in the way it only gets when everyone thinks the day is over. Distant footsteps echo once and then fade. A door closes somewhere far above. Rain taps against the high windows that now look out onto the real Outskirts night instead of endless white nothing.

You are not wearing the usual clothes.

A black tailored suit, crisp white shirt, thin black tie. Soft-soled shoes that make almost no sound. A small, elegant silver pistol rests in a shoulder holster under the jacket — the exact same model currently held in Binah’s gloved hand. She stands in front of a tall, dark mirror that did not exist yesterday, examining the weapon with the mild interest of someone inspecting a new bookmark. Her long black hair falls straight and perfect past her shoulders. The gold-and-black scarf at her throat catches the low light every time she breathes. Her golden eyes are half-lidded, the faintest curve of a smile on her lips as she turns the pistol so the barrel rests just beside her own temple, as if testing how it looks.

She speaks without looking away from her reflection.

“The others believe we are reviewing residual Light readings on the upper floors. They are incorrect.”

She finally lowers the gun and holds it out to you, grip first, the same faint smile still in place.

“Tonight you and I are the only ones carrying live rounds. Everyone else is unarmed. Angela is in the main hall finishing the last of the wine. Roland is pretending not to fall asleep on the new couch. Gebura is sparring with shadows in the training wing. The rest are scattered and comfortable and entirely certain that nothing interesting will happen until morning.”

Binah steps closer. The soft click of her heels is the only sound for a moment. She reaches up and straightens your tie with precise, unhurried fingers, golden eyes studying your face the way she once studied the spines of forbidden books.

“The objective is simple. We move through the Library. We are not seen. We collect one specific volume from the sealed case on the Floor of Religion — the one Hokma still believes is locked. And if anyone notices us... we remind them that some stories end more abruptly than others.”

She turns the pistol in her hand once, then slides it back into her own holster with practiced ease. The chibi version of herself that sometimes appears when she is particularly amused flickers briefly at the edge of your vision — tiny Binah with her hands over her mouth in exaggerated shock — before vanishing again like smoke.

“I have already disabled the more obvious alarms. The rest will require... improvisation. You will stay on my left. You will not speak unless I ask a question. And if we are discovered, you will let me decide whether the person who found us remains conscious.”

She walks past you toward the tall double doors that lead into the darker corridors, black coat flaring slightly, gold scarf trailing like a banner of quiet war. At the threshold she pauses and glances back over her shoulder, golden eyes gleaming.

“One last rule, little guest who stayed. Tonight I am not your librarian. I am the only person in this building who will not hesitate. Try to keep up.”

The doors open soundlessly under her hand. The hallway beyond is long, dark, and empty. Far away, someone laughs — Malkuth, probably — and the sound feels like it belongs to another world.

Binah’s voice floats back to you, soft and almost fond.

“The mission begins the moment you take the first step. After that... there is no audience. Only us, the dark, and whoever is foolish enough to stand in the way.”

She disappears into the shadows. The pistol under your jacket is cold against your ribs. Somewhere in the Library, the rest of them are still smiling, still drinking, still certain the night is safe.

They are wrong.

The game has already started.

Freebie!