The staff was running now, their hurried footsteps echoing through the room as they scrambled to retrieve the medicine Rodrick had demanded.

  "Go. GO!" Cordelia’s voice cut through the static in my head, sharp, commanding, urgent. I could hear her—barely. Feel her hands gripping my shoulders, shaking me, grounding me. But it wasn’t enough. I was slipping again.

  If this was anything like the first time, I knew exactly what came next. I was small. So helplessly, insignificantly small.

  Hundreds. Thousands. Millions.

  Oh, those are numbers again. No—not numbers. Heads.

  Necks. Eyes. Teeth.

  The countless writhing, twisting, snapping heads of a beast beyond counting encircled me, shifting in and out of sight like a storm of shadows, their golden scales glistening in a firelight that didn’t exist. The hydra. My hydra.

  I felt Cordelia again, shaking me harder now, calling my name, her words losing shape as my mind was devoured, swallowed whole by the overwhelming presence of the entity surrounding me.

  I was prey.

  I was nothing.

  I was the hydra’s meal, the offering to its hunger, the next sacrifice in an unbroken cycle of consumption and renewal.

  But then—

  Softness.

  The sensation struck like a contradiction. Scales should be rough, jagged, like blades honed from centuries of war. But these? These were smooth, warm, like polished metal.

  And then—laughter.

  A deep, guttural sound, rumbling from the pits of a thousand throats, a chorus of voices speaking in perfect unity.

  "No, boy. We won’t eat you."

  My vision fractured.

  I was no longer in Rodrick’s home. No longer curled at the breakfast table with Cordelia looming over me, no longer bound by the waking world.

  I sat at a grand, impossibly long table, stretching into infinity.

  A mansion surrounded me, its walls shifting like the inside of a living thing, its architecture warping and realigning itself every time I tried to focus on a detail. The ceiling stretched into a golden abyss, columns of ivory and obsidian twisting around each other like living vines. The air smelled of ink, of parchment, of something ancient, something wise.

  And seated across from me—

  Them.

  Not one. Not ten. Not a hundred.

  Thousands.

  Each identical, each a perfect reflection of the last, all dressed in regal finery, gold-trimmed cloaks draped over their shoulders, their reptilian eyes locked onto me with the weight of ages.

  They spoke in unison, their countless voices layering atop one another like a hymn sung by a thousand throats.

  "Your father made a deal with us."

  The words sent a shiver down my spine.

  "He offered us the final death we sought—a death not by sword, nor spell. Not by bow, nor gun. We desired a different battle. A battle of wit. Of reason. A war not fought with weapons, but with thought."

  I swallowed hard, my throat dry. Hubert, my father. Of course.

  "He presented us with a challenge we could not solve, yet he could. A riddle we could not answer, yet he did. A force we could not overcome, and yet he stood unbroken."

  Their golden eyes gleamed, the memory replaying through their collective minds as they continued.

  "We have thousands of minds. He had one. And still, he bested us."

  The weight of their words pressed into my chest, settling like a lead weight in my stomach.

  Hubert Duarte, the man who gambled with fate itself. The man whose Arte, Fortune, twisted the world’s favor in his direction.

  He had outwitted a hydra of infinite intellect and left them defeated.

  "Our spirit lingers here, though we know our body has long since passed. We are but a fragment of who we once were, but we have no regrets. Our brood thrives. Our progeny are strong. Our line remains unbroken. And so, we have no desire to devour you, Alexander."

  A pause. A moment of absolute silence. Then—

  "Use our gift well. You will need it."

  Their voices lowered, filled with something heavier now. A knowing. A certainty.

  "We have seen where you go, what you do."

  My blood ran cold.

  They knew.

  They knew what lay ahead of me.

  The golden abyss of the ceiling trembled. The mansion groaned, shifting, twisting, collapsing in on itself as the vision began to dissolve.

  The hydra spoke one final time, its countless voices turning to one.

  "Look up the book: The Archimedes Principle."

  The mansion shattered.

  I gasped—truly gasped, my lungs burning as I lurched forward, slamming back into reality.

  Cordelia was hovering inches from my face, her hands still gripping my shoulders, her expression a mixture of relief and frustration.

  Rodrick, still seated at the table, barely glanced my way as a servant hurried in, vial in hand.

  The room felt too small now, the walls closing in, my heart slamming against my ribs as the echoes of their words burned in my mind.

  The Archimedes Principle.

  I didn’t know what I would find.

  But I knew this—

  I needed to find that book.

  I reached for the vial with trembling fingers, my body still wracked with the aftershocks of whatever had just happened. The Hydra—no, my Hydra—was gone, but its words lingered, tangled in my thoughts like a web I couldn't unravel. The Archimedes Principle. A book. A clue. A warning.

  If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Rodrick didn’t even look up as I uncorked the vial, tipping the thick, bitter liquid past my lips. LR3. A standard recovery formula, infused with mana stabilizers and a mild sedative to dull the worst of whatever this transformation was doing to me. It burned going down, but the fire in my veins lessened—not gone, but dulled, like embers left in the wake of an inferno.

  Cordelia, still perched close, scrutinized me with those piercing gemstone eyes of hers. “What did you see?” The words weren’t gentle. Not concern—just cold, clinical interest.

  I exhaled slowly. I wasn’t sure how to explain it. How do you describe being unmade and reconstructed by knowledge itself? How do you convey the feeling of drowning in equations that shouldn’t exist? Of sitting across from a dead god, one that my father of all people had bested in a battle of wits?

  So instead, I kept it simple. “I saw the Hydra.”

  Cordelia’s lips pressed into a thin line. “And?”

  I set the empty vial down, flexing my fingers as sensation returned to them. “It spoke to me. It told me I need to find a book.”

  That got Rodrick’s attention. The spoon in his hand clinked against his plate as he finally—finally—looked up, raising a thick brow. “A book?”

  I nodded. “The Archimedes Principle. It told me to look it up.”

  Rodrick stared for a long moment, then sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Moons’ glow, kid. First the math-induced aneurysm, now a prophetic book hunt? You don’t do anything half-measure, do you?”

  I ignored the jab, my mind still racing. “Do you know where it is?”

  Rodrick scoffed, shoveling a bite of food into his mouth before answering. “You’re asking me if I know where a book is? In a city with three grand libraries, twelve noble archives, and about five hundred private collections? Kid, you might as well ask me where to find a single grain of sand in the desert.”

  My stomach sank. Of course, it wouldn’t be that easy.

  Cordelia, however, was already moving. She stood, brushing off her uniform before folding her hands behind her back. “I’ll start looking.”

  Rodrick waved a hand dismissively. “Oh, sure, go sift through a thousand miles of parchment. Meanwhile, why don’t we ask someone who might actually know something?” His gaze flicked to me, sharp and expectant. “You have a connection to a certain… omniscient librarian, don’t you?”

  Vanitas.

  The thought sent a shiver down my spine.

  Rodrick wasn’t wrong. If anyone could tell me where the book was, it was him—the self-proclaimed librarian, gatekeeper, and warden of knowledge itself. But the idea of asking him for anything…

  I sighed. “Fine.”

  Cordelia arched a brow. “You sound thrilled.”

  “Oh, absolutely,” I deadpanned. “I can’t wait to owe him a favor.”

  Rodrick let out a low chuckle. “That’s the spirit. Now go on, kid. Go make a deal with the devil.”

  That night, I didn’t dream.

  I fell.

  Danatallion’s Halls welcomed me like an old friend, the scent of ancient parchment wrapping around me as I tumbled through endless corridors of books. I braced for the impact—but it never came.

  Instead, I landed in a chair. As if Vanitas was expecting me.

  A grand, velvet-lined armchair, positioned before an obscenely large desk piled high with books, maps, and curiosities from across time. The room itself hummed with color, the walls shifting in hues that defied logic, neither solid nor fluid.

  And at the desk, lounging with all the arrogance of a king on his throne, was Vanitas.

  He looked bored.

  And worse—deliberately fashionable.

  His outfit was a riot of color, silk and embroidery woven in patterns that made my eyes hurt if I stared too long. A high-collared crimson jacket, slashed with gold. Trousers of deep indigo, studded with jeweled filigree. His boots? Gold. Not gold-trimmed. Solid, shimmering, reflective gold.

  He was a peacock that had lost a bet.

  He sighed, tapping manicured fingers against the desk. “Alexander, dearest, you keep dropping in unannounced. It’s beginning to feel like you don’t respect my beauty sleep.”

  I didn’t have the patience for this. “I need a book.”

  His brows lifted. “Do you? My, how unexpected. A library full of books, and you—of all people—want to read one? I never would have guessed.”

  I gritted my teeth. “Don’t be difficult.”

  Vanitas leaned forward, resting his chin on the back of his hand, his golden eyes glittering with amusement. “Darling, difficulty is my second most charming trait.”

  I exhaled through my nose. “The Archimedes Principle.”

  That got his attention.

  The humor in his gaze flickered—just for an instant. A shift so subtle, so slight, that if I hadn’t been watching for it, I would have missed it.

  Then the mask slid back into place, his lips curving into a slow, knowing smile. “Ah.”

  That single syllable sent a prickle of unease down my spine.

  Vanitas leaned back, interlacing his fingers. “Tell me, Alexander… where did you hear that name?”

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to tell him, but withholding information from him was like trying to cup water in my hands—it would spill out one way or another.

  “A Hydra told me.”

  A beat of silence.

  Then, to my surprise, Vanitas laughed.

  Not his usual, languid chuckle, nor his playful, taunting snicker. This was something deeper, something richer—an honest, genuine laugh, like I had just told the funniest joke in existence.

  It set me on edge.

  He wiped at the corner of his eye, exhaling a breathy sigh. “Oh, you do bring me such delight.” He drummed his fingers against the desk, considering. “Very well, dearest. I’ll help you find this book.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “What’s the catch?”

  Vanitas smiled. “You assume there must always be a price.”

  I scoffed. “Because there is. You don’t do favors.”

  His grin widened. “True.” He reached forward, tapping a single finger against my forehead. “So here’s the deal, my little Paper Walker: I’ll tell you where to find The Archimedes Principle… and in return, you’ll owe me a favor.”

  I clenched my jaw. “What kind of favor?”

  His voice was silk and venom. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll collect when the time is right.”

  Every instinct screamed at me to say no. To walk away. To find another way. But I knew better. Vanitas knew exactly where the book was. And if I didn’t take the deal, he’d make sure I never found it.

  I exhaled, steadying myself.

  “Fine.”

  Vanitas’s smile was slow. Triumphant.

  “Good boy.”

  ***

  The next morning, I woke up in my bed, disoriented. The familiar warmth of the room was a stark contrast to the strange, cold emptiness that lingered in my mind. I didn’t remember how I got here—how I returned. All I knew was that in my hand, almost as if it had always been there, was a book.

  It was old. Old in a way that defied any reasonable explanation. Dusty, its cover cracked with age, and the pages—fragile, like parchment from another era—seemed ready to disintegrate at the slightest touch. Ancient. As though it had been buried beneath the sands of time for centuries, just waiting for me to discover it.

  On the cover was a language I’d never seen before. Strange symbols I couldn’t place, words I hadn’t spoken in my life. And yet, as I stared at it, I could read it.

  The Archimedes Principle.

  A shiver ran down my spine. It didn’t sit right with me. Something about it, something deep in my gut, told me I shouldn’t have been able to decipher those words. I wasn’t supposed to be here. I wasn’t supposed to have this book.

  I didn’t remember the events of last night. Not the journey through the labyrinth, not the hunt, not the horrors or riddles I was forced to endure. All I remembered were those two words, like a shadow that loomed over me. The Archimedes Principle.

  I clenched my teeth. I never wanted to hear those words again. And yet…

  He said he'd tell me where to find it. Not give it to me. Tell me.

  Vanitas. That man. The trickster, the manipulator. The one who’d played me like a pawn in whatever game he was orchestrating. He had shown me a path, yes, but at the cost of everything—no, something I corrected. How much had I truly lost? What had I done?

  The knowledge of where to find the book—the knowledge that had somehow slipped into my mind—meant I’d explored the library without ever remembering the act. What had I seen? What had I slain in the process? What horrors or entities had I faced, only to wake up with the smell of ink still on my fingertips?

  I wasn’t sure. I had no memories of it.

  All I knew was that I was told to read this book. This ancient tome.

  The moment my fingers brushed the cover, a surge of power hummed beneath my skin. A quiet, insistent pulse that seemed to vibrate with an energy I couldn’t ignore. The book called to me—not in words, but in feeling, in the very fibers of my being, pulling at me, demanding that I open it.

  It was as though the tome itself was alive, alive with purpose. Each fiber within it seemed to pulse with a quiet urgency, an undeniable pressure to understand, to know, to grasp the knowledge it contained. And I—despite every rational thought screaming at me to put it down—couldn’t help myself. I had to read it. I had to understand what it was saying.

  The power radiating from it felt like a weight, settling in my chest, pulling me forward. I felt compelled to obey, as though my very existence was intertwined with its words. There was no going back now.

  I opened the book demanding it for the answers I lacked.