Page 20 of Wings of Shadow
I wander through the maze-like aisles, my fingers trailing along the spines of books, feeling foolish and out of place. Suddenly, the worn red steps beckon, a crimson invitation up to the store’s legendary second floor. Each step creaks beneath my weight, a wooden whisper of countless stories—visitors, readers, dreamers who have climbed this same path before me.
Something tugs at me—a subtle, insistent pull that goes beyond mere curiosity. I’m not climbing these stairs so much as being guided, each step feeling less like a choice and more like a predetermined path.
As I reach the top, the space opens into a world both familiar and strange—shelves pressed close, books stacked in precarious towers, soft light filtering through dusty windows.
The fae are mischievous creatures. What if this is all some elaborate prank? What if?—?
My thoughts screech to a halt as my hand brushes against something that feels... different. I pause, backtrack a few steps. There, nestled between a worn copy of The Tempest and a pristine edition of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, is a book that seems to shimmer ever so slightly when I look at it from the corner of my eye.
Heart racing, I reach for it. As my fingers make contact, I sense a subtle vibration, like the hum of distant machinery. Instinctively, I know this is it.
I glance around, making sure no one is watching, then pull the book. Instead of coming off the shelf, it tilts backward with a soft click. The entire bookcase swings inward, revealing a hidden door.
For a moment, I stand frozen, awe and disbelief warring within me. Then, with trembling hands, I reach for the key in my pocket. It slides into the lock as if made for it, turning smoothly.
The door swings open, and I step through, half-expecting to find myself in some fantastical realm. Instead, I’m greeted by what appears to be a simple extension of the bookshop—quiet, cozy, lined with shelves upon shelves of ancient-looking tomes.
At the center of the room stands a large, ornate desk. Behind it sits a man, his head bent low over a stack of books, a quill moving swiftly across parchment as he catalogs. His hair is a mane of chestnut waves, falling past his shoulders. Even from this distance, I can see the sharp angles of his face, the golden tan of his skin. There’s something almost... feline about his features.
I approach hesitantly, clearing my throat. “Excuse me,” I begin, my voice sounding unnaturally loud in the hushed space. “I was wondering if you could direct me to the, um, travel section?”
The man looks up, and I have to stifle a gasp. His eyes are a startling amber, with vertical pupils that contract as they focus on me. But it’s his mouth that truly gives me pause—as he parts his lips to speak, I catch a glimpse of keen fangs.
“Travel section?” he echoes, his voice a low growl. “This isn’t some mundane tourist trap, girly. What are you really here for?”
As he speaks, I notice his ears—pointed like Niamh’s, though he lacks her ethereal grace. The sharp tips peek through his hair, marking him as fae despite his gruff demeanor.
I swallow hard, thrown off balance by his curt manner. “I... I’m not sure, exactly. I was given a key, told there was knowledge here that I needed to find.”
He snorts, a sound somewhere between amusement and disdain. “Of course you were. Let me guess—divination? Prophecy? That sort of thing?”
My eyes widen in surprise. “How did you know?”
His nostrils flare slightly as he inhales. “You’re a witch,” he states matter-of-factly. “One of them seers. I can scent your type a mile away.” He jerks his thumb toward a section off to the right. “Third aisle, second shelf from the top. Don’t touch anything you’re not prepared to understand. And anything you read must never cross your lips—especially on the other side.”
With that, he returns to his work, effectively dismissing me. I stand there for a moment, processing his brusque manner. Then, shaking off my stupor, I go to the indicated section.
As I round the corner of the third aisle, I stop short, my breath catching in my throat. The shelves here seem to melt away, giving way to a small clearing surrounded by towering trees. Their branches intertwine overhead, creating a canopy that filters the light into dappled patterns on the forest floor.
I blink rapidly, trying to make sense of what I’m seeing. This can’t be real—we’re in the middle of Paris, for heaven’s sake! And yet... the scent of loam and wildflowers fills my nostrils, a gentle breeze rustles the leaves overhead, and I can hear the distant trill of birdsong.
In the center of the clearing stands a single pedestal upon which rests an ancient, leather-bound tome. Its cover, a deep midnight blue. As if in a trance, I approach it, my fingers reaching out to trace the embossed golden letters: “Book of Vaelmir: A Volume For Seers Only.”
The moment I touch the book, the world appears to shift around me. The symbols beneath the title begin to glow softly, pulsing with a rhythm that matches my heartbeat. The colors of the surrounding forest become more vivid, the sounds sharper. I have the dizzying sensation of standing on the edge of a great precipice, poised between two worlds.
With shaking hands, I lift the Book of Vaelmir from its resting place. It’s surprisingly light, yet I can feel the immense power contained within its pages. As I open the cover, a soft whisper of ancient magic caresses my skin, and I know, with absolute certainty, that this book was meant for me to find.
I take a deep breath, steeling myself for what I might discover.
The first page bears an inscription in flowing script: “To those blessed with the Sight, may this book illuminate the paths of destiny.”
The rest of the pages are filled with intricate diagrams, elegant script in languages I’ve never seen before, and illustrations that seem to move when I’m not looking directly at them. But as I focus on the text, something extraordinary happens.
The symbols on the page start to shift and dance, coalescing into images that bypass my eyes and form directly in my mind. It’s as if the Book of Vaelmir is communicating with me on a level beyond mere sight or language. Scenes play out in my thoughts—visions of past events I couldn’t possibly have witnessed, glimpses of potential futures that take my breath away.
I see great gatherings of supernatural beings, their forms shimmering and shifting. I witness battles waged with magic so potent it warps the very fabric of reality. Amidst these scenes, flashes of the Shadow Wars emerge—moments from the ancient conflict that reshaped the supernatural world centuries before my time. The images are fragmented, but I can sense the overwhelming forces at play, the relentless struggle between light and darkness that threatened to tear reality apart.
And through it all, I sense a thread of destiny, a path that seems to lead inexorably to... me.
