“Wretch!“ He heard the word slicing through his sleep as his eyes shot open, breath catching in his throat.

  The voice and the tone alone were enough to jolt him into motion, scrambling upright in reflex, his body moving to obey before his mind could fully catch up. The soft kicks landing on his chest were wholly unnecessary in their petty cruelty. But then again, perhaps that could be said about many things— about himself, and certainly about the man currently towering over him, leather toes meeting ribs with grim efficiency.

  His vision was still blurry, his hearing a bit muffled and dull as if his head was dunked underwater, but still even through the blurriness and muffled world he could feel it, the tempered anger radiating off from the man in front of him, like heat from a flame, he could feel the grim scowl shadowing his face even though he could not yet see it. That fury had the weight of years, it felt like it existed before he was even alive and it pressed on him physically as much as the kicks. He knew who this was of course, he didn’t need sight or sound to know. He didn’t need those to know who it was, even though he felt half dead from the sleep and pain the amount of people he knew who would wake him up so violently was cursedly few, or perhaps blessedly few? However there was only one person who truly did so, that truly would wake him like this, it had become practice, a habit, a signature.

  Slowly, his vision began to resolve itself, sharpening itself with every blink, and slowly the vague and shifting figure standing before him was cut into his uncle’s visage by each blink, blurriness becoming lines, becoming features. The man stood holding a small wooden bowl in one hand, which he promptly and with no ceremony shoved into Verek’s chest.

  Verek, still running on instinct, quickly grabbed the bowl before it could spill. Almost without thought, instinctively you could say, he crouched and picked up one of the starchy papers from the wooden floorboards beneath him, which were his bedding against the hardened wood floor, holding it up as if performing a long-practiced rite, which technically it was.

  His uncle took the paper without a word, slapped it against the side of the bowl. Immediately, letters sparked into being on the man’s hand— bright and flowing, like ink made of molten gold and brass. They poured into the paper flowing like water and soaking into it as if it was dry soil, and a moment later, the stiff sheet transformed into a mushy, white, vaguely rice-like pulp on his bowl.

  Well... his uncle insisted it was rice, anyway. Verek was not so sure it could be called any type of food outside of ‘white wet slop’ and unlike others there was no way he would argue with his uncle about it. To him, it was little more than wet chalk, tasteless and textureless. Speaking of others, from the corner of his eye, he could already see them around the encampment seated and eating, their heads bowed over bowls of their own. He must have overslept then. He wishes he could say it was this mistake that caused him to be awakened like that, but he knew better.

  “Well?” His uncle’s voice snapped like a whip. Verek had about half a second, maybe less, to realize his silence had been taken as some form of defiance, before a hand lashed out and struck his face.

  “Thank you, uncle. I’m sorry, uncle,” Verek said quickly, lowering his eyes to his food, voice flat and small. The sting of the slap started to throb, the laughter of the others prickled against his skin, the dull pain of the earlier kicks, the penetrating stare of his uncle, his beating heart. All of it subsumed into a single unspeakable feeling, one he could not name or truly understand, so knotted it was. Maybe it was pain, anger, shame and much more, all of it coiling itself into something deeper, he couldn't really tell.

  But none of that mattered, his feelings didn’t matter. He pushed them away, like water running off clay, his emotions slid from his surface and soaked somewhere deeper, somewhere unreachable, where they couldn’t be touched. He stared at his uncle, expression carefully blank so that he would not see a single drop of defiance, it was a practiced thing, a habit, a signature.

  There was a contrast between them that couldn’t be ignored. Verek was tall—unusually so— lanky to the point of emaciation, his ribs clearly visible beneath his thin skin. His complexion was a somewhat sickly, pale shade that looked drained of life, which was not far off from the truth. His pitch black hair was cut short, almost shaved, barely a finger length, like he had tried to shear away something shameful, or perhaps hide something.

  In contrast, his uncle seemed carved from another material entirely, a man of marble against a boy of chalk. He was a head shorter, yes, but almost thrice as wide. His body was thick, if Verek’s body could be described with bony angles, his uncle’s could be described as a brutish blend of heavy muscle and healthy fat, his skin gleaming slightly with an oily sheen that hinted at health or indulgence, both really. A thick full mane of raven-black hair framed his head, cascading down into a full, lustrous beard that gleamed like polished onyx, while Verek’s facial hair was something you would see in a thirteen year old boy.

  Physically, the only trait they had in common were their green eyes. Both green, but even then they were of different shades, different materials. His uncle’s were dark and dull—“like emeralds,” he’d claim with pride. Verek’s were bright, clear, almost—“like cheap glass,” his uncle would sneer, a hint of an emotion Verek could never place on his voice. Their clothes only widened the gap. Verek wore a tunic and pants made from rough paper fiber, beige-white and brittle to the touch. No shoes, no gloves. Just enough to keep him from freezing, but barely.

  Their clothes only widened the gap, highlighting the difference between them. Verek wore a garment tunic and pants made from rough paper fiber, beige-white and itchy to the touch, no shoes nor gloves, it was just enough to keep him from freezing and protect his decency. His uncle, meanwhile, was wrapped in opulence, blue silk tunic and leggings that shimmered with the light, a green canvas jacket embroidered with wolves, black shoes of leather and vellum polished to a mirror sheen. In short, he was clearly the most rich and powerful man around, none other had this quality of clothing, none had the means to show this much authority and superiority in their clothing. It showed all others who ruled here. It made sense of course, he was the one with the spell to make food, clothing and weapons, even though it was others that prepared and truly used them.

  It made sense that he gave nothing of those to Verek,well it made sense to everyone else apparently, since they never objected to it. That was just how things were. That was what made sense to them.

  “Hey now, Rous,” came another voice, casual and needling.

  “Leave the baby alone, let him eat so he can skitter off already. We need more squiggles, yeah? And he’s already late.” Said Nadros.

  He wasn’t speaking out of kindness, Verek knew that all too well. It wasn’t compassion, camaraderie or any type of positive feeling that made him say that. It was a provocation, a needle into his uncle’s side , which would only make Verek’s life more unpleasant. Nadros liked to poke the bear, even if it made the rest of them miserable. Especially if it made Verek’s life harder.

  Nadros was the second-most richly dressed among them, his clothes an ensemble of brown linen and red boiled leather, the heart-piece a striking crimson marked with a stylized golden fireball stamped at its center. Not real gold, but close enough to shine and seem precious. The red matched his hair, a wild ginger mane of hair and beard growing wilder by the day.

  Verek wanted to eat now but held himself, years of living with the man telling him he should absolutely not start eating now without his permission. His uncle would see it as him taking permission from Nadros over his, or some other form of betrayal.

  So he waited, along with everybody else, a stillness settling over the camp, a silent tension coiling around it like a snake readying itself to strike, as the two men stared at each other.

  He felt a thrum inside of himself, like an echo of his heart beating during conflicts, he could feel the beat travelling his flesh and bone, hitting his bones like rushing water, almost as if his body was just waiting for the first attack to come, preparing itself. That wouldn’t happen of course, no attack was coming, none that he could see.

  He didn’t see the way his uncle’s middle and ring finger touched as his index and pinky spread apart, a sure sign, a tell, that he was about to summon a weapon. He didn’t see Nadros’ index finger raising slightly, his thumb tucking deeper into his palm. He didn’t see the only three women of the camp subtly communicating with their eyes, the youngest of them signaling to the stone pillars, the only place that would be standing if a fight broke out, nor did he see the men picking out their nearest allies, friends or accomplices with flicks of the eyes. He didn’t see the way the camp seemed divided between his uncle and Nadros.

  Cumulus was the only one really moving, the old man’s scarred bald head and blind eyes swiveling around.

  The seconds slowly piled on as the silence deepened, sweat started to form on a few people’s brows, his heart beat felt loud. Then his stomach growled. Nadros slapped his knee and laughed.

  “Oi boy, you didn’t tell me there was a kitty on your stomach, ay?” Nadros said while grinning, the others started to laugh too, some forced nervous chuckles. Verek didn’t laugh, nor did his uncle. “You hungry? Working too hard?” Nadros said, his grin becoming a placid smile.

  “Why are you hungry, boy?” His uncle turned to him and asked through gritted teeth.”You stayed longer and brought less, what do you need food for?” Verek didn’t say anything, for there was no answer that would be good enough to satisfy the man. His uncle opened his hand, palm down as bright letters flashed and a single piece of paper shot up, a waste of gramarye, made solely for his own pride and a message. In a single movement he grabbed the paper and cast another spell, transforming it into more rice slop on his bowl.

  “You’re going down that door you found,” the man growled. “And you better bring something worthwhile. Or you will have no food tomorrow. We don’t need layabouts.” He continued, then turned and left, clearly happy with the little barb directed at Nadros.

  “Yes uncle. Thank you uncle.” He said before quickly stuffing the white slop food down his throat with practiced efficiency. He finished the food in record time, easily done since this was the first time he had double the food. The texture was still the same awful soggy pulp, but he was good enough at slurping it down that he barely felt the weird taste and consistency of the food, and of course his body didn't care about those things, only that it was food to nourish him.

  As he stood to leave, he passed by Cumulus, reaching out with a quiet reverence. A soft touch, first his index, then his middle finger on the older man’s shoulder. Cumulus gave a faint, tiny smile and silently mouthed ‘Be safe’. It was perhaps the only kindness Verek had received all morning. No, not perhaps definitely. Cumulus was the only one who had a shred of care for him. Verek nodded, a tiny miniscule gesture, even though the old man had no way of seeing it, and moved toward the edge of the encampment. Their encampment had four openings, each framed by two stone pillars, which brought safety during the shuffles and shifts; it was lit up by a large crystal chandelier on the ceiling above. He picked the one he had left through yesterday, the same path as before, the same passage that had led him to the damn door. He took a deep breath, and so he went.

  The corridor, like so many others in the Library, was oppressive in its sameness, much the same as all others he had seen all his life: a dark wooden floor, polished to a faint shine. The walls were lined with identical tall shelves that touched the wood ceiling, the books as always were more variable, all shelves were filled to the brim with them, many with different colors, shapes and sizes, though mostly were just made of hard or soft papercovers, velum and leather being much more rare. And above, spaced with perfect symmetry, were lightstones embedded into the ceiling, glowing ever faintly but unfaulty. Cumulus had said much about them, though very little could be proved, as with most of his fables and stories.

  Verek walked in silence, his bare feet whispering against the smooth wood, his breath quiet. He wanted, desperately wanted, to reach out, to brush his fingers against the books as he passed. To take one down and leaf through its pages, even though the letters were nonsense to him, who knew maybe one of them would have drawings. Cumulus said there were men who could read them without magic, but Verek was a bit skeptical because the languages varied too much, each book might be completely different than the one next to it, how many languages would one have to learn?

  He sighed and kept moving. He couldn’t afford to stop or slow, he was too close to the others still, and the memory of his uncle’s voice hung heavy over him. He still needed to reach the damn door, thinking about it caused a small shiver of fear. He knew he was close to the camp, he knew there shouldn’t be anything dangerous around, he knew he could jog or run instead of quietly and deliberately walking. But he didn’t, he didn’t want to get closer to the door at all, you could triple his food and still he wouldn’t want to. He would have traded not having food for the next three days, three days of agonizing hunger, gladly, so he would not need to go down the door, not that it would work. His uncle told him to go, so he had to.

  Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

  Gramaryes appeared all over his skin—shimmered into being—rippling and flowing like centipedes and snakes. Letters and symbols of myriad shapes, sizes, colors and fonts, all slithering and curling across his arms, his chest, his face, his body. Moving along in perfect synchronized order, shifting and dancing in a rhythm his mind couldn’t follow. He didn’t command them, could not command them.

  His face morphed into a rictus of anger, shame, hatred, his features constantly cycled from one emotion to the next, expressions intensely flowing almost as fast as the multicolored letters on his body. He clenched his fists, exhaled slowly, then spread his fingers and started counting in his head, trying to get his emotions back under his control. By the time he succeeded in calming his swirling emotions, he was in front of the door.

  It stood in the right in the middle of the corridor, a malachite-colored door of wood embedded in a cube of gray stone which touched the ceiling. The door’s handle was an oval of tarnished brass, old and untouched for who knew how long, and just below it was a keyholeThe door’s handle was an oval of tarnished brass, old and untouched for who knew how long, and just below it was a keyhole.

  "Lucky" for him, it had been unlocked when he found it. And it still was, it seemed, as he opened it a cold gust of air brushed against his face like a whisper. The sudden chill made him close his eyes, and as he opened then he stared down into darkness and grey stone. The darkness was almost complete, only the light of the corridor illuminating the first few stony steps forward, there were no lights down the stairway, only blackness and so he could not see how far down it went, he could feel the cold air carrying a subtle scent of stone. He knew, logically, that it led only one Layer down. A single step deeper into the Library’s impossible depths. But it may as well have been a chasm into the abyss. He stared down at the pitch black darkness and swallowed. His feet standing hesitantly at the edge, he could not stop thinking about what would happen when he went down, logically he knew the worst thing that could happen to him was slipping. He knew that of course, he knew there were no creatures inside, that it was too cold and there were no books. No books so no insects, so no small animals to eat the insects and so no big animals to eat the small animals.

  Nothing inside, just stone and air. Still, he could not see in the darkness and so what guarantee did he have that there was nothing inside that could hurt him? He wanted to scream. To slam the door shut and bolt, but he was afraid of what would hear him if he did. It could be some form of creature or his uncle that heard him, both bad options for him.

  It just…it didn’t even make sense! Why him, why did it have to be Verek to go down, why not his uncle, who was stronger? Why not the brave hunters, who had weapons and stomachs full of food? Why not Nadros, who could shoot fire from his fingers now? He didn’t have weapons, he didn’t have the physique, he didn’t have spells. No spells, not weapons, no strength to spare. Only gramaryes, all he had were gramaryes, so precious many gramaryes. More than all the others combined. All the kindling in the Library without a single way to make a spark.

  “Crowshit,” he muttered under his breath, feeling some resolve sprout from his anger. All it took was a single step inside for his resolve to wilt. The cold stone floor met his feet and sent a single sharp tendril of cold up his body. Still, he moved forward, hands on either side of the narrow stairwell wall, fingers dragging across the even surface like his life depended on it. There were no handrails. Of course there weren’t, because why would there be handrails on a dark ancient stone stairway? Those sounded too useful, too good for his miserable little life.

  And so, down he went. Step by step, quietly and calmly, not cowardly he tells himself, he descended the stairs.

  The deeper he went, the colder it seemed to get, a sharp, biting cold that gnawed at his skin and sucked the breath from his lungs. It made sense really, the stone was cold and there was no light to heat it up and so the air became equally chilly. The air was still, oppressively so, and each footstep rang out with eerie clarity. Up above, his steps had been quiet. Here, they echoed like bells. He continued down each step into the darkness, and every footfall kept shooting tendrils of cold and fear into his body, crawling up his legs and spine before coiling in his gut, it almost felt like the darkness was trying to consume him, make him part of it, like an embrace.

  His breath hitched in his throat as he became hyper aware of his own body heat. His heartbeat kept thundering in his chest as the darkness pressed around against him, no longer an embrace, each tendril of cold becoming a sharp fang into his body, he could almost see the wounds, almost see the heat seeping out of his body as his heart beat like a war drum against a silent enemy that simply didn't exist.

  His heart felt so loud, his breathing felt loud, his steps felt loud. There is nothing here, he thought. He was the only thing inside the stairs making any type of noise. There is nothing here but me. He couldn’t help but wonder how many people had walked down these stairs, how many walked back up, how many disappeared in this darkness.

  He made the mistake of turning back to glance at the door above him. He wanted to see the light and try to pull strength from it. Instead, all he felt was a pull, a desperate, primal, animalistic urge to run back into the light, to flee the darkness, to leave this cursed stairwell behind and go back to the camp, even if it meant hunger.

  But he didn’t, why would he go back up? What is waiting for him? Nothing, there was nothing for him up there.

  He bitterly laughs, imagining telling his uncle that he could not go down because he was afraid of the dark. The others would never have this problem, they have light spells bound. Not him, all he has is…

  The letters appeared again, as if summoned by the thought, dancing and twirling along his body. His body bloomed with color and motion, the living calligraphy of the Library whirling along his arms, curling around his fingers. They don’t really do anything, they cannot, but seeing them move calms him, centers him, watching them gives him strength. The darkness isn’t swallowing him, the cold is not freezing him, he is simply playing tricks on himself, feeding his own fear. Going back empty-handed will cause real harm to him, he focuses on that and once again begins his descent.

  It is easier this time, each step is a small act of defiance against the darkness, each easier than the last. He can’t help but chide himself, becoming so scared of ambience. He quickly reaches the end, and after fumbling a bit, opens the bottom door. He blinks several times to adjust to the light and is met by a familiar sight, bookshelves of course, identical to the ones above, with the exception of the books themselves.

  He looks down, feeling a strange softness under his feet, a green wool mat. It was old but intact, and the moment his toes sank into its surface he felt a small amount of warmth back into his body, a sharp contrast against the relentless chill of the stone. It almost felt like an act of kindness.

  He stayed there for a few seconds, luxuriating in the soft comfort of the mat. Then the moment passed, he stepped fully into the corridor and spread his arms slightly, letting the gramaryes reach out.He stayed there for a few seconds, luxuriating in the soft comfort of the mat. Then the moment passed, he stepped fully into the corridor and spread his arms slightly, letting the gramaryes flow from the new books into his hands, and then slither along his body like colored threads, coiling and curling against his fingers and arms. He clicks his tongue as he feels how little there are, unlucky. Not all books have gramaryes to offer, and even those that do only have a few to give, no more than fragments.

  A full book will only have enough gramaryes to form a single short sentence generally, many only have enough for a single word. Not that he knows what the letters, words or sentences mean really, for that you would need a spell. His mind once again thinking of the stories Cumulus told him.

  He looked around. Behind him, the stairs. Ahead was a shelf stretching off to both sides. He turned to the left, watching as the corridor ran straight for a while before bending out of sight. He turned to the right and immediately paused. There—halfway along the right-hand corridor—was a recess. A break in the uniformity. Something unusual.. Verek’s pulse quickened as he walked toward it.

  “Wow.” He says out loud. The recess was a square room, built into the wall as though someone had carved it deliberately into the Library. It was smaller than he expected, but rich in detail. The shelves within it were filled with larger books, many bound in actual leather, some dyed crimson, some dark green, others black as darkness. Some had their spines cracked but stood proud, embossed with gold leaf symbols and elaborate filigree.

  And in the center of the little room sat a large rug. It was rectangular and finely woven, vibrant green threaded with gold. A massive tree stretched across its surface—its roots sprawling outward in ornate knots, its branches lifting toward the corners of the rug. The vibrant green gleamed with vitality, while the gold seemed aged into a soft, mellow tone, giving the golden tree an aged look and natural feel.

  There were three objects atop it: a finely carved wooden chair with a high back, a small table of matching wood, and a large brass armillary sphere. His breath caught as he approached the armillary sphere, wanting to take a closer look, this is the first one he has ever actually seen in person, the other one simply being a picture in a book shown to him by Cumulus.

  It stood nearly waist-high, a lattice of interlocking brass rings forming a skeletal globe. The rings were etched with symbols, some familiar, most not. As he moved closer, the light caught on their surface, and the metal gleamed like a relic from a dream.

  He can’t help but softly whistle, almost involuntarily, as he inspects it. A sound of delight, a rare sound. The armillary sphere is a skeletal sphere of brass, lattices made of interlocking rings and hoops, there are angles where the rings intersect, Cumulus told him there is some debate about what each ring represents, especially since all of them have varied symbols. Right at the center of the sphere, through the open framework of the multiple rings, is a single golden cube. Apparently, just like the symbols, this changes a bit from sphere to sphere, some of them have a rectangle instead. Cumulus said it represents the Library.

  Verek reached out and gently nudged one of the rings. He watched as the entire mechanical marvel shifted with delicate precision. This close he can see how perfect the whole thing is, how delicate yet robust its construction is. He stared, transfixed, and let the moment stretch. Cumulus said it was made by the Library, and so made by magic, Verek had to agree, he could not imagine human hands creating such a little marvel. His eyes naturally wandered down, at its base was a red circle, divided into 13 parts, the Shifts of the Cycle, no Spins on this model. In the stories Cumulus told, there was something similar, months and years. Although in the stories their world didn’t reorganize itself like the Library does.

  He continues to play with the sphere with a smile on his face. Really, how can he not be happy, how can he not find this funny. Who would have thought such a treasure lay unnoticed just a short stairwell beneath the camp? No, not unnoticed, unreached. A single one of these things would be a good haul for any one of the hunters, yet they didn’t find it because they were too afraid to walk down a short flight of shadowy stairs, which they could have easily traversed with their spells, yet none of the others had dared the dark. Yet it is him down here, the cypher slave, not the ‘mages’.

  A grin broke across his face. He took one of the books at random and opened it. His grin turned into a genuine smile. It had pictures in it. At first there were maps, he had maps too, in his head. There wasn’t much point to drawing them. All it takes is a single Shuffle to make them wrong, and in a single Shift completely obsolete.

  The next drawings are of humans, he takes a moment to look at their clothing. So much opulence they have. Long cloaks of cloth, metal armor and helmets, large leather boots and gloves. Cumulus said there would be hundreds of people with clothing like these. He turned the page and saw drawings of a cow, the mythical creature that would be made into leather. It seemed to be resting in a vast field of grass. Grass was interesting, apparently it grew from the ground, the depictions always varied a bit. Sometimes it looked like a carpet, while at others it seemed like a field of green needles. He closed the book and put it back on its shelf, briefly wondering how many more have pictures in them, and moved back.

  He dropped into the wooden chair with a huff. It wasn’t comfortable, but he didn’t care. He swung his feet up onto the table and let himself enjoy it. Even if only for a few moments.

  Then his mood deflates a bit as he thinks about what will happen to all these things, the rug would become someone’s bed or cloak, the leather book covers will become armor, the table and chair would be broken down for scrap. And the armillary sphere, the intricate marvel would be broken down into weapons or jewelry. He finds it so distasteful, breaking such an sophisticated wonder to make petty rings, at least weapons have a true use. But then, he’s not the one in charge, and his uncle needs every little thing to try and maintain the illusion that he is a leader, that he is in control.

  It has been five long years now, five long years since his uncle was banished from their settlement. Five long years since he dragged him along, five long years of men following empty promises of magic and fortune into dark corners. Really, it's no wonder Nadros was gaining favor from the rest of the men, at this point anyone will do. Who knows, maybe even him ha. The situation was growing restless, each day building up to something, something would soon break. He could feel it. Still, his uncle has too much power, too many spells, and the men are too dependent on him, his magic. But it’s inching closer now though, he can see it, feel it, smell it, the slow desperation building into something. But who knows, maybe it will all resolve itself peacefully, Verek doubts that. Soon, very soon, chaos will happen, violence and blood and flame will happen and maybe, hopefully, a chance will appear amidst it. And five years of surviving off slop and fear, five long years of Verek being used like a tool, not a person, will end.

  Hopefully.

  He freezes. He hears the rustling before his peripheral vision sees movement. Something was moving near the shelf. In a single blink and leap, he repositions—sliding low, placing the table between him and the sound.

  His heart thudded in his chest and he immediately felt stupid, the movement was just a bunch of large silverfish along the shelf. He lets out a small breath, although…

  They are pretty big

  Cumulus had taught him that all insects were immortal, unlike men they just kept molting and molting and growing bigger and older, never stopping. He wondered how old these silverfish were, to grow to be the size of his lanky fingers. Also…

  Why are they moving towards me?

  He stared at the long, glinting bodies wriggling out from between books, the strange irregular spiky growths along both their antennae. body and tail and strange pale white patterns along their silver exoskeleton.

  At first, he just watched as they skittered towards him. Then their markings shimmered and flashed. And the insects charged towards him. Before he could shout, before he could even move they were on him, little insectile mouths biting down on his arm. Gramaryes quickly flared across his skin, and just as quickly was absorbed by the insects. Then they all burst into light particles and silver scales, leaving behind silvery coronas in his vision.

  He staggered, blinking through the afterimages, his heart pounding in his ears. still a bit stunned at what had just happened. The silverfish had magic abilities, probably mutated, then they attacked him, wanting to eat his gramaryes, and then…well, they literally bit more than they could chew. What a way to die, still somewhat fitting for such insects. He looked down at his arm. No blood. No damage. Just the fading trails of letters and a faint shimmer of residual light.

  He looks where they came from, and notices a few more crawling from behind the books. His interest is piqued, silverfish are not naturally magical, if they have mutated magic abilities it means they either ate or were around something magical, perhaps even a spellbook. He approaches the shelf and more silverfish come, more bites and more flashes. They just keep coming and biting and dying.

  Verek laughs, almost a bark of disbelief. “I have my own little light spell,” he muttered, a crooked smile forming.

  If only it was this easy against humans, sadly unlike insects, they have quite a bit more capacity.

  His eyes drifted to where they were emerging, after moving a few books he stared at the opening. It is not inviting, being a pitch black square hole in the shelf, tucked behind a row of oversized books, that is constantly spewing a dozen or more silverfish. Darkness seemed to ooze from the hole. Still, if there is a spellbook inside at the end mutating them…and more importantly all the silverfish keep biting and exploding into little light shows, and even though they are so big they are still not even breaking his skin. It’s safe, well safe-ish.

  What if there are bigger ones? Ones that can actually hurt me.

  But then what can he do? He weighed his options. Go back and tell the others? If there is a spellbook inside they will take it and he will never get it from them. If he tells them he will lose whatever is causing this.

  No. Not a chance. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

  Who knows, maybe, just maybe, he will get lucky.