2.44 – Back to the Archives

After a fun afternoon of games, we made plans for our evening over dinner.

“Your tell is obvious, Juliana,” Igasnov said, laying down a winning hand. He scooped up the coins. “You smile when you’re certain. What’s the plan for the archives?”

We pushed a piece of lamb around the plate. “Shift into an ant. Walk through a crack in the wall.”

Igasnov leaned back, shaking his head. “Too simple. They’ll have wards against shapeshifting; it’s the first thing any archivist would do. You’ll trip an alarm before you cross the threshold.”

I hadn’t considered that possibility. If we were caught, we would be able to break free, but there could be a massive amount of collateral damage in the process. We might also lose the opportunity to find the information we needed.

I then had a sudden thought: perhaps Juliana didn’t have to go. I could, just not in a physical body. I hadn’t actually tried interacting with anything yet, but maybe it was something I could manage.

“I could try astral projection. I can move freely as a spirit with no physical bounds,” I suggested.

“I’ve never heard of an ability like that,” Igasnov admitted.

“It is quite rare, so I suspect their detection methods won’t account for that scenario.”

Igasnov swallowed a mouthful of boiled vegetables. “Well, at least they won’t be able to capture you. What will happen to your body during this time?”

I figured a half-truth was best here. “Think of it like this,” I said, choosing the words carefully. “My spirit can leave this body and travel unseen. Juliana remains here, but part of my attention will be elsewhere—searching the archives.”

“That sounds incredibly complex. I don’t think I can fully comprehend it, but if it works, that should give you a solid alibi, too,” Igasnov responded.

We finished the rest of our dinner. It was basic fare, but suitably tasty.

“How about you split your personality now? We can continue playing cards while you are gone,” Igasnov suggested.

I nodded before detaching from Juliana’s body.

I watched as Juliana’s posture instantly shifted.

“I’m afraid my card-gaming skills will not be sufficient enough to best you this time,” I heard Juliana say as I phased out into the city.

I utilised our uncanny sense of direction and ability to fly, heading straight for the archives. The sun had just set; the sky was still bright, but the land below had grown dark. The absence of sensation had become harder to bear since I had taken up residence in a physical body. I had grown accustomed to the weight of limbs, the press of air against skin, the ordinary intrusion of the world—and now there was nothing, just the hollow fact of moving through space without touching it.

Within a short period, I arrived at the archives. I floated up to the exterior and, without slowing down, phased straight through the solid masonry. I could see the thick stone bricks as I passed through, eventually emerging into the same reading room I had visited earlier in the day.

The tables were now cleared of any reading materials, and the room was dark and perfectly still. I drifted through the solid wooden door leading deeper into the archives.

The adjoining room was incredibly expansive, filled with towering bookcases, loose papers, and bound volumes. The rows of shelves were packed tightly together; there must have been at least two hundred aisles.

I was hit by the sudden realisation that finding anything in this archive was no small task. I began inspecting the labels on each aisle. They bore letters, but there seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the categorization.

The first row was simply labelled 'AGX'. I examined some of the books within the stacks; the titles on the spines were merely dates and locations. I needed a systematic process—some way of tracking down the specific records—otherwise, I was going to be trapped here for far too long.

Then it struck me: I just had to locate the exact books I had viewed earlier. They were highly likely to be stored near other related volumes.

I flew between the rows, rapidly scanning the spines for a familiar title. It took more than sixty passes before I found the gap on the shelf where the books belonged. A faint scent of the archivist’s pipe tobacco hung in the air. I followed it to a wooden cart at the end of the aisle, piled high with returns. There, wedged between a land survey and a book of naval charts, was the ledger: Ravencrest Suspects.

I reached out and tried to grab the book, but nothing happened. My phantom hand passed straight through the binding.

I focused my mind, trying to levitate the ledger into the air, but it did not move an inch. The limitations of my spectral form were glaringly apparent: I was completely unable to interact directly with the physical world.

Frustration welled up within me. I had gotten so close, yet I had no way of uncovering what I needed to know.

I could not touch, but I could create. A stray thought had once killed a woman. Focused intent had brought Juliana into the world. The power was there; I just needed to shape it into something small enough to be a key, not a cudgel.

What I needed to do now was manifest a creature I could actively control—something that would not look entirely out of place scurrying through a city archive. A rat.

I focused my mind on the exact shape and anatomy of a rat. The air in the room shifted, and several pages ruffled as a small rodent materialized on the floor below me. I quickly seized control of the creature, feeling the world violently shrink around me.

My sense of smell sharpened intensely. I could pick up the scent of aging leather bindings, dusty parchment, and myriad new odors I had never experienced before. Remarkably, I could actually smell exactly where the archivist had walked, and gauge how long ago he had been there.

Time itself seemed to dilate as my tiny heart beat at a frantic pace. I could feel a fierce hunger rising within my gut; the biological need to eat was practically insatiable.

I took a moment to adjust to walking on four legs, scurrying toward the target bookcase, then using my newfound claws to scale the towering wooden frame.

I soon found myself perched directly in front of the familiar books. The next challenge: how to pull the heavy ledger from the shelf.

The ledger was immovable. I couldn't pull it, but perhaps I could push. I squeezed behind the stack of books, my small body wedged between the leather bindings and the rough wood of the shelf. Bracing my hind legs, I pushed with all my might. It scraped forward an inch, then another. With a final, desperate shove, the heavy volume tipped and fell, striking the flagstones with a boom that echoed through the archives.

I scrambled down the shelving to the floor and prized the heavy cover open with my snout. I was immediately met by a sketched portrait of a man’s face, with a table of details listed beneath it.

Name: UnknownCause of Death: Slain by guard upon initial attack, blunt force trauma to the chest.Place of Origin: Presumed CyrllInventory of items in possession: Black cloak, Leather Armour, Leather boots, Short sword, Hand crossbow, twenty bolts, quiver and orders from Cyrll (see appendix collection)

One detail immediately stood out to me: this individual was carrying no rations and was armed with a short sword, which was not a typical primary weapon for a standard infantry soldier. It was possible they had left their supplies at a nearby encampment, however.

I needed to see these recovered orders to understand the exact reasoning behind the authorities believing Cyrll was responsible for the massacre.

I frantically flipped over more pages, greeted by additional sketches of faces and brief descriptions of how each assailant had died. What struck me most was how identical each sheet was; aside from the specific cause of death, they all contained the exact same inventory information. Furthermore, it was highly suspicious that every single foot soldier carried a copy of the attack orders on their person. Why would standard grunts need them? Wouldn’t only the commanding leadership require written directives?

After navigating through another fifty pages of repetitive information, I finally found it: a detailed sketch of a dark elf woman.

Name: Drisnil (presumed)Place of Origin: RavencrestCurrent Location: Unknown. (Note added two years later: Due to the nature and skill of her disguises, the manhunt has ended.)Involvement: Potential connection to raiders, wanted for questioning regarding Holver massacre.Occupation: Mercenary, last active 763

I needed to find Drisnil. She might have the answers as to exactly what transpired that day.

Leaving the heavy book on the stone floor, I scaled the bookcase once more and located a loosely bound stack of paperwork. I climbed atop the pile and found a cover sheet clearly labelled Appendix.

I shoved the stack over the edge, watching the papers flutter down. This time, the impact was much more muted. I scurried back down to the floor and gnawed relentlessly on the binding twine until it snapped. The loose sheets scattered across the flagstones.

The majority of the pages were identical copies.

ORDERSAttack Ravencrest, slaughter everyone, do not be caught alive.Signed,Valaric

At the very bottom of the parchment was an ink stamp: a simple, stark image of a black hand.

My focus narrowed. A coincidence? Or was the syndicate that tried to murder Toby fifteen years older and far more deeply rooted than I had ever imagined?

From behind me, I heard heavy wooden doors swing open, and bright lantern light spilled into the archive. I glanced back to see several armed guards rushing into the room, their heavy boots thumping against the stone floor, chainmail clanking loudly.

“Quick, find the intruder!” one shouted.

The guards’ lanterns swept across the floor, catching on the scattered papers before landing on the fallen ledger. The rat, still chewing on the binding, froze in the light. Before it could bolt, a crossbow thwacked, pinning the creature through the spine to the book it was destroying.

“That rat seemed exceptionally feral. Collect its carcass and the paperwork it was destroying,” the lead guard ordered.

The second guardsman walked over, wrenching the bolt free to retrieve the book and the skewered rat, before hastily gathering the scattered appendix pages into a messy pile under his arm.

“I don’t know how a rat managed to get in here. The outer walls are magically sealed; nothing should be able to bypass them.”

The first guard nodded in agreement. “Yes, it is highly strange. We’ll see what the captain has to say about it. Grab the visitor logbook on the way out; it may provide us with a clue.”

The guard mentioned the visitor logbook, and a phantom knot tightened in my gut. Our names were in it, next to a request for Ravencrest files. Now those restricted files were on the floor, disturbed by a magically impossible rat. Coincidence was a shield that wouldn’t hold for an hour. There would be questions, then chains. We had what we came for—a name, Drisnil, and a place from her file that warranted questioning: Holver. I flew from the archive, knowing we had to be gone before dawn.