Feeling my connection to the book slip like sand through my fingers, I gasped softly and opened my eyes.

  I was back.

  The dim glow of my bedside lamp illuminated the familiar surroundings of my room. Fractal slept soundly in her cage, her iridescent feathers shifting slightly with each rhythmic rise and fall of her tiny chest. The air was still, save for the distant hum of the city beyond the manor’s walls.

  I turned my head to glance at the clock.

  Two hours before dawn.

  Perfect. Just enough time to not sleep.

  With a sigh, I sat up, rubbing the bridge of my nose as I swung my legs over the bed. There was no use trying to rest now. My mind was still thrumming, pulsing with the weight of what had just happened. The conversation. The revelations. The sheer immensity of it all.

  Instead, I reached for my journal.

  Cordelia had suggested that every time I found myself in those blasted halls, I should write down what happened. At first, I’d dismissed it as another one of her overly pragmatic solutions, but now? I wasn’t so sure. Diving into a book—a book I was studying, no less—surely that counted as the same thing.

  It was for my mental health, after all.

  I pulled my chair closer to the desk, adjusting the lamp’s light as I flipped to an empty page. The pen in my hand felt heavier than usual. As I pressed it against the parchment, the ink flowed effortlessly, the words spilling forth as I recorded every moment, every interaction.

  A quiet flutter of wings disrupted the silence.

  I didn’t need to turn to know Fractal had woken. She was already nestled against my shoulder, her small head tilting as she peered curiously at my writing.

  "Did I wake you, girl? I’m sorry."

  I reached up with my free hand, gently running my fingers through her shimmering plumage. She nuzzled into my touch, accepting the apology as she always did.

  Her thoughts brushed against mine, a cascade of fleeting images and single-word inquiries.

  Why? Problem? Scary? Meanie?

  Her mental ‘voice’ was as fragmented as ever, her words carrying echoes of feelings, of images too fleeting to properly grasp. She could understand me inherently, but the communication was, as always, more difficult for me.

  "No," I murmured, shaking my head slightly. "Nothing to do with Vanitas or the Halls. Just… revelations."

  She blinked at me with her strange, masked gaze, but didn’t press further.

  I returned to my journal, my pen gliding across the page, but a single, intrusive thought gnawed at me.

  What would happen if I had someone else write my journal?

  Wouldn’t that mean I could… dive into my own words?

  The very idea made my breath hitch.

  I paused, my fingers gripping the pen a little tighter as the possibilities spiraled in my mind. It was something to test later. A note worth recording.

  Finishing my entry, I set the journal aside and pulled out my Gloss-Crystal, its interface flickering to life in my palm.

  "Search: Bibliokinesis."

  A moment later, twelve results appeared.

  I frowned.

  Just twelve?

  That was absurdly low. Even Dust Manipulation—which only four people in the city were rumored to have—had thousands of recorded entries. Paper Manipulation? Sixty-three million hits.

  And yet, Bibliokinesis? Still twelve.

  I scrolled through the entries, scanning for anything useful.

  Bibliokinesis

  Class SS Arte. Owners of this Arte are considered perpetually armed and lethal, provided they have at least one book on their person. Many Bibliokinetics fall into the Magus archetype, as their ability allows them to inherently gain abilities from ‘conquered’ books.

  A captured Bibliokinetic from The Lost Republic provided limited information under duress.

  To conquer a book, a Bibliokinetic must enter the book’s realm uninvited and alter its events in a dramatic way. This may involve solving an unsolvable riddle, breaking an established rule of the world, or slaying the tale’s central beast. This only applies to works of fiction.

  When entering a historical tome, the rules change drastically. History is not to be rewritten. A Bibliokinetic must ensure that history remains unaltered—a far more dangerous task than disrupting a myth.

  I swallowed hard, my grip tightening on the crystal.

  Entering fiction required me to change the story. Entering history required me to preserve it.

  I exhaled slowly.

  That sounded insanely difficult.

  I continued reading.

  In the Free Cities, Bibliokinesis is considered unlawful without a registered license. Any individual who awakens to this Arte must apply for one immediately.

  If an individual possesses or is in the process of obtaining a Walker’s License, this permit will be automatically added to their registration.

  I leaned back in my chair, staring at the dim glow of the crystal’s screen.

  So, if I went through with the Walker exam, I wouldn’t need to deal with the bureaucratic nonsense. That was a small relief, at least.

  But the lack of information…

  My fingers drummed against the desk.

  This had to be rare. Even if it was Class SS, there should be more records, more case studies, more… anything. Was this Arte feared? Suppressed? Or was it simply that most Bibliokinetics never survived long enough to record their knowledge?

  The thought sent a chill through me. I sighed, rubbing my temple as I shut off the Gloss-Crystal.

  This changed everything.

  I glanced back at my journal, at the fresh ink drying on the pages.A Shaper, not a Creator. A collector of myths. A trespasser in history. My Arte was not just rare.It was dangerous. And if the records were right…

  It meant I had only begun to scratch the surface.

  ***

  Daybreak.

  The first light of dawn cast its golden hues across the city, spilling through the ornate windows of my room. The air carried the scent of the morning sea breeze, mixing with the lingering fragrance of incense from the night before.

  I went through the motions, washing away the remnants of sleep, my fingers lingering on the sensitive ridge of my horn as I adjusted to its presence once more. I dressed in my uncle’s colors—deep blue, rich gold, and verdant green—markings of his house, of his legacy. Good colors. Regal, without being ostentatious.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Apparently, they were the Duarte family colors, according to a history book I had skimmed through in my uncle’s library. The book spoke of my lineage with the same detached reverence one might afford a crumbling monument—grand in name, but distant, as if the people within it were no more than echoes of a past too heavy to carry forward.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.

  Descending into the manor’s dining hall, I wasn’t surprised to find my uncle already seated, dining on his ever-present strawberry salad. A bowl of exotic fruits sat beside him, an untouched glass of what I assumed was wine catching the morning light.

  But something was off.

  Fractal chirped in affirmation, her feathers ruffling slightly in discomfort.

  Where my seat was normally placed at the table, there was nothing.

  Rodrick, without pausing in his meal, casually pointed his fork in my direction. "You have an appointment today."

  I frowned. “What?”

  "I bribed an official to move your Walker examination up. You're taking it at noon."

  I stared at him.

  He continued as if he were commenting on the weather. "You're still a 1-1, but at the rate you're going, you'll fill up your inner core within the week. There's no time to wait."

  My hands twitched at my sides. Still a 1-1. It was true—I was at the lowest recognized level of power. But I had only just begun to grasp the depths of what I could do. To be thrust into this now—

  I exhaled slowly. "And when, exactly, were you planning on telling me this?"

  Rodrick smirked, popping a strawberry into his mouth. "When it was relevant."

  I scowled, rubbing my temples. "And you decided that was now?"

  "You're dressed, aren't you?" He gestured vaguely at me with his fork. "Means you're ready for the day. Perfect timing, I’d say."

  I had to physically restrain myself from slamming my forehead against the nearest table.

  Before I could continue my objections—not that they’d change anything—Rodrick added, almost as an afterthought, "Cordelia will be taking you via carriage and registering as your first Adjutant. You need one before they even consider your application."

  Cordelia.

  I turned my gaze to the porcelain-skinned woman sitting at the far end of the table, her expression as unreadable as ever. She was picking at a light breakfast, unfazed by the conversation unfolding. Upon feeling my eyes on her, she gave me a simple nod, as if this was the most natural thing in the world.

  I swallowed back the mixture of exasperation and disbelief bubbling in my chest.

  So, let’s summarize.

  First, I learn my Arte isn’t just Paper Manipulation, but something entirely different. A skill so rare and dangerous that it only had twelve documented cases.

  Then, before I even had time to process that, I’m informed that my Walker examination—the exam that determines whether I get sanctioned to travel through Otherrealms, that usually takes weeks of preparation—is happening today.

  What’s next? Prince Marrllyn personally comes to congratulate me?

  No. That would never happen.

  …Right?

  “Uncle,” I began, my tone carefully measured, though irritation simmered beneath the surface. “I truly believe now is not a good time. There have been developments with—”

  “Yes, yes.” Rodrick waved his fork in a dismissive arc, as if I were merely reading out the daily market prices and not trying to explain the fundamental upheaval of my entire existence. “You either read The Archimedes Principle or got dragged into Danatallion’s Halls again. I know.”

  I clenched my jaw, fingers tightening around the chair I had yet to sit in. Of course he knows. Why wouldn’t he?

  “The Principle would have awoken some kind of meditation in you,” he continued, entirely unfazed by my barely contained exasperation. “Something unique. Personal. A process that allows you to understand the depths of your own Arte.”

  Then, without a hint of irony, he added, “For me, it was painting.”

  I blinked.

  Painting.

  Yes. Quite.

  That would explain the overwhelming presence of his so-called art across every conceivable surface of the estate. The sheer obsession woven into every sculpture, every fresco, every painstakingly carved relief.

  I had once assumed it was simply a matter of pride—a nobleman fixated on his family’s heraldry, using his wealth to immortalize his ancestors’ chosen sigil.

  I had been wrong.

  Because it wasn’t just the occasional depiction. It wasn’t just a banner here, a statue there. No. Every single piece—the murals, the friezes, the grotesques that loomed from every balcony, the gilded carvings in the very furniture—they all shared the same subject.

  Not war. Not conquest. Not even the illustrious history of House Duarte.

  Dragon Turtles.

  Majestic, monstrous, lumbering things, frozen in various states of motion. Some wading through endless, churning seas, their shells forming islands that bore entire civilizations. Others twisted into bizarre, near-mythic forms, their limbs coiled through ancient ruins, their beady reptilian eyes gleaming with something just shy of malevolence.

  I had never seen my uncle paint, but the sheer volume of his work suggested something manic. This wasn’t admiration. It wasn’t reverence. It was compulsion.

  I finally sat down, staring at him with what I knew was barely concealed incredulity.

  “…Painting,” I echoed, my voice flat.

  Rodrick met my gaze with a placid smile, golden eyes gleaming with a brightness that should not exist in a man so utterly unbothered.

  “Not the answer you were expecting?”

  “Not remotely.”

  He chuckled, as if I had said something particularly amusing. “Good! Art should never be predictable.”

  I exhaled sharply through my nose, gripping the edge of the table. “You’re telling me that The Archimedes Principle—a mathematical theory that defines the malleability of reality itself—awakened in you the desire to paint dragon turtles? Most importantly, you read it?!”

  Rodrick tilted his head, expression betraying not an ounce of self-awareness. “Once, a long time ago. My copy was destroyed sometime during the previous century. Regarding how I decided to meditate on it, would you prefer I started screaming formulae into the void? Would that seem more reasonable to you?”

  I opened my mouth, then shut it.

  Because—damn it—I had no counter to that.

  Rodrick leaned forward, placing his fork down with a deliberate clink. “Understanding reality, Alexander, is not an act of mere logic. It is an act of creation. A shaping of perception.” He gestured broadly to the murals, the statues, the madness of his obsession. “I saw the threads of possibility, the way time folds upon itself, the way every decision branches into infinite outcomes. I saw all of it. And I decided that the best way to reconcile it was to paint.”

  His gaze sharpened, bright and feverish. “The difference between a great mind and a lost one, my dear nephew, is how one chooses to express the revelations granted to them.”

  I frowned, tapping my fingers against the table. I hated that, in some bizarre, incomprehensible way, he was making sense.

  “And you’re saying that I now have to find my own… ‘meditation’?”

  Rodrick leaned back, crossing one leg over the other, looking entirely too pleased with himself. “Oh, you will. Or it will find you.”

  I did not like the way he said that.

  Rodrick picked up his fork again and resumed eating as though he hadn’t just casually shattered my understanding of his already-questionable sanity.

  I sighed, rubbing my temples. “And this somehow relates to you bribing an official to shove me into an early Walker’s exam?”

  Rodrick grinned, all teeth. “Of course.”

  I stared at him. “Explain.”

  He took another bite of his salad, chewing thoughtfully before answering. “I have no idea what your meditation will be, and I certainly don’t intend to wait around and watch you figure it out at an agonizingly slow pace.” He gestured at me with his fork. “The best way to learn what you are is to be tested. Your Walker’s exam will provide that.”

  I could feel my patience disintegrating. “That’s not how this works—”

  “That’s exactly how this works,” he corrected smoothly, setting his fork down again. “You are at the cusp of something greater, Alexander. Just as how I refuse to watch you become a Walker who only burdens the responsibility alone, I refuse to let you stagnate in safety. ”

  I dragged a hand down my face, biting back the urge to argue. Because at the end of the day, Rodrick wasn’t just my insufferable uncle. He was also right.

  And I hated that more than anything.