My boots click sharply against the unnaturally polished marble floors, the sound echoing down seemingly endless aisles lined with towering shelves. No dust ever gathers here; I know because I've tried to scuff the floor once, a small act of defiance, just to see if I could leave a mark. The faint trace of my boot vanished before I even took another step, wiped clean by forces unseen. It's a place meticulously, unnervingly maintained.

  Above me, the shelves climb beyond any reasonable height, eventually vanishing into a swirling, nebulous expanse that isn't truly a ceiling, more like a localized sky trapped indoors. Strange energies ripple through this place, making some books shimmer with faint, internal light, while others seem to twitch upon the shelves as if alive.

  Once, I passed a heavy tome bound in what looked like skin, and it was slowly, steadily bleeding thick, dark ink onto the shelf below. Another, a slender volume of poetry, compulsively rearranged the lettering on its spine every time I looked away, a nervous tic made manifest in parchment and glue.

  Doors appear in solid walls, promising passage but leading only to bricked-up emptiness or sometimes, impossibly, back into the same aisle further down. Staircases twist upwards, grand marble flights that double back on themselves with a kind of architectural smugness, designed purely to confuse and mislead. You could walk for hours in what feels like a straight line, only to find yourself somehow standing behind your own starting point, the geography subtly rearranging itself when you aren't looking.

  The sheer scale of the Library is overwhelming, an infinity contained, yet despite its vastness, I’ve never felt more trapped, more confined than within these echoing halls.

  The hunger is a constant companion now, coming in dreadful waves. Sometimes it's a dull and almost manageable pressure, like the distant, throbbing ache in a broken tooth you’ve learned to ignore. But other times, it surges with a sharpness so intense it makes me stagger, my vision tunneling, my knees weak. It lives behind my ribs, nestled beside my own heart—the Corviana Boon, they called it, twitching irregularly like a second, parasitic heartbeat. A wrong one, beating out of sync with my own life.

  This isn't mere starvation, though; I know that intimately. I’ve been properly hungry before, the simple, desperate need for sustenance. This is fundamentally different. This is a hollowing, a profound emptiness that seems to originate from the Boon itself. I feel it as something curling deeper inside me, methodically scraping the marrow from my bones with a slow, infinitely patient, ethereal hand, consuming me from the inside out. It wants more than food; it wants substance.

  [Ah, the Library of Infinite Worlds,] Malice croons inside my skull, his voice a familiar, unwelcome intrusion, like silk sliding over broken glass. [Home sweet home, wouldn't you say? Minus the usual comforts, of course, like warmth, hospitality, or even a shred of discernible sanity.] His tone is light, almost conversational, which usually means he's enjoying my misery.

  I don’t respond, clamping down on the instinctive urge to curse him. There’s simply no point in engaging. He’ll keep talking regardless, filling the silence with his syrupy observations and barbed advice. He always does; silence seems to offend him as much as the Boon’s hunger offends my body.

  The shadows pooled between the towering shelves feel too still today, unnaturally deep and watchful. They seem to be listening, holding their breath, waiting. Every time I pass the blind corner of an aisle, my muscles tense, expecting to see a face staring back – maybe Blake’s accusing eyes, or Rod’s disappointed frown. Sometimes, chillingly, I imagine seeing my own face reflected in the gloom, starved and haunted.

  Still, I press on through the labyrinth. A left turn down a narrow passage lined with scrolls, up a tight spiral staircase that smells faintly of ozone, then right again into a wider gallery hung with star charts that slowly rotate. I have no real map, no true sense of direction; I don’t know if I’m actually progressing towards somewhere meaningful, or if I’ve already passed this exact spot hours ago. That’s the insidious trick of this place—every corridor feels like progress, every choice seems deliberate, until you pause and realize the Library has subtly rearranged itself behind your back, trapping you in a new configuration.

  [You could always ask for help, you know,] Malice suggests, his voice dripping with false concern, light and treacly. [There’s no real shame in admitting you’re utterly lost. Or terrified. Or, dare I say, literally starving to death while surrounded by infinite knowledge. The irony is rather delicious, don't you think?]

  My stomach emits a low, powerful growl, a sound so deep it seems to vibrate through my bones, but the sensation isn't entirely mine. It’s the Boon, stirring restlessly. The hunger it carries has started to feel less like a physical lack and more like a presence, a voice of its own. It manifests as a low, guttural purr rumbling deep in my chest, like some caged, primal beast catching the scent of nearby prey and anticipating the kill.

  I clench my jaw until it aches, forcing my boots forward on the marble. I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me break, nor will I ask this cursed place for anything.

  [Suit yourself, my dear,] Malice sighs dramatically. [But just between you and me? Remember the old axiom: the ones who starve the longest always seem to break the loudest when they finally do.]

  As if summoned by his words, a heavy, leather-bound book suddenly tumbles off a high shelf beside me, landing with a solid thump on the marble floor. I don’t flinch, barely even register the sound beyond a detached awareness. Startling noises are commonplace here; I’m used to being watched, constantly observed by the Library itself, by whatever entities reside within its pages, and by the unwelcome passenger in my own mind.

  Then, my own stomach truly snarled, a raw, desperate sound so loud it echoed slightly in the unnerving quiet. The sudden noise, combined with the gnawing emptiness, made me dizzy. I leaned against a shelf, momentarily overwhelmed, breathing shallowly. The world swam for a moment, the endless shelves blurring at the edges.

  Then, cutting through the dizzy haze and the usual Library smells of old paper, binding glue, and ozone, a new scent hit me. It wasn't the familiar scent of incense or melting candle wax that sometimes drifted from hidden scriptoriums. This was something harsher, acrid. Scorched parchment, bitter and oily, laced with that raw, metallic edge that always clings to burned skin and the residue of power misused. It slid into my lungs like a targeted smoke, finding purchase, as if it had been waiting specifically for me.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  Then came the voices, sharp-edged and dripping with cruel confidence. Angry shouts followed by the distinct clatter of something heavy breaking, perhaps a ceramic jar or a small sculpture. A choked cry – cut short abruptly, but not quickly enough to hide the raw terror behind it.

  Driven by a grim certainty, I moved towards the disturbance, my boots now silent on the polished marble floor. The Boon pulsed behind my ribs, a low thrumming vibration, suddenly alert, almost eager, hungry for answers or perhaps for conflict itself.

  Rounding the next towering row of shelves, I saw them. Three figures clad in black, confirming the scent of burning. Fireeaters. Their faces were obscured by masks resembling stylized iron grins, menacing and identical. Their long cloaks were scorched and frayed at the hems, testament to their volatile craft. Their hands, however, were bare and danced with flickering orange flame, each gesture leaving trails of shimmering heat that distorted the air around them. The priceless books on the shelves nearest them were already curling at the edges, pages blackening and threatening to ignite from proximity alone.

  They had cornered someone against a reading alcove. Another Penitent, judging by his worn clothes. A boy, really – gods, he looked barely older than my sister Sarah must be now. His dark hair was matted with blood dripping from a nasty gash splitting his temple open. His simple leather satchel lay torn at his feet, precious pages spilling across the pristine floor like a flock of wounded birds.

  His face, streaked with blood and tears, was a mask of stark terror, eyes wide and unseeing. A thin, ragged whimper escaped his lips, barely audible over the crackle of the Fireeater's flames. He was clutching desperately at the ruined bag, as if its contents still mattered, as if anything could matter when fire and torment were breathing down your throat.

  One of the Fireeaters stepped forward, moving with slow, deliberate menace, licking flames blooming across the knuckles of his outstretched hand like deadly flowers. He said something low and guttural, the words lost in the vastness of the hall, but I didn’t need to hear the specific threat. The intent was radiating off him like heat waves.

  Because I had already moved, instinct overriding thought.

  The Golden Axe snapped into my grip from wherever it resided when dismissed, its familiar weight settling into my palm like it had never left. Simultaneously, golden flame, not born of malice but of older covenants, caught along my knuckles—an old, dangerous friend sliding back into the well-worn groove of my bones. Heavy plate armor sealed itself across my arms, shoulders, and torso with a series of solid, resonant clunks, the weight grounding me, instantly familiar, strangely welcome amidst the chaos.

  I didn’t slow my charge; there was no room for hesitation. The first Fireeater, the one menacing the boy, didn’t even have time to fully turn before I hit him like a contained storm. The enchanted steel of the axe head bit deep through his inadequate defenses, shearing through flame, leather, and flesh beneath. He folded in half around the devastating blow, dropping like a sack of suddenly extinguished, burning coals. There was no scream, just a sickeningly wet sound and the immediate, sharp sizzle of blood vaporizing on the hot marble floor.

  The second Fireeater spun towards the sound of his companion falling, his own hands flaring defensively. He was too slow. Catching him under the ribs with the flat of the heavy axe blade, I used my momentum to drive him backward with brutal force. He slammed into a thick marble pillar hard enough to send spiderweb cracks racing up its surface. His iron mask shattered on impact, revealing a face contorted in shock for a split second before something vital in his chest gave way with a distinct crack. He slid down the pillar and didn't get up.

  The third, seeing his companions dispatched in seconds, abandoned any thought of fighting and turned to run. I ran faster.

  The Boon roared inside me then, not like Malice’s voice, but as something deeper, more primal—an instinctual surge of raw power flooding my system with no discernible limit, no brakes, no sense of self-preservation. My body hummed with energy, a conduit for forces I barely understood. My muscles moved with frightening efficiency, like they’d been coiled and waiting for exactly this release.

  There was no breathlessness, no ache of fatigue despite the heavy armor and explosive exertion. There was only the deadly clarity of purpose. Every swing was clean, fluid, lethally precise. Effortless. Tireless. A distant corner of my mind noted the horrifying grace of it all, like watching someone else move through a well-rehearsed, lethal dance. I didn't sweat. I didn't pant. I didn't think. I just destroyed.

  The last Fireeater stumbled over a fallen shelf laden with scrolls, his heel skidding across loose parchment, sending delicate pages flying. He twisted as he fell, wide-eyed behind his now askew mask, terror finally breaking through his earlier confidence. He was already starting to beg, babbling incoherently, before he even hit the ground properly.

  I didn't hear his pleas, or perhaps I chose not to. The axe fell again in a clean, final arc.

  Silence descended, broken only by the distant crackle of dying flames and the frantic pounding of my own pulse, like thunder drumming against my ribs.

  The Boon was screaming now—no, it was roaring, a triumphant, ecstatic sound rising through my spine like molten iron, demanding more. My hands trembled around the haft of the axe, not from fear or exhaustion, but from the sheer, terrifying intensity of the power coursing through me, and how badly it wanted more. More fire to consume. More flesh to rend. More.

  With a conscious effort that felt like fighting against a tidal wave, I forced my fingers to release the axe. It dropped from my numb grip, hitting the marble floor with a heavy clang that echoed far, far too long in the suddenly quiet space. Then, my legs gave out, and I dropped to my knees beside the last victim.

  He was still alive, astonishingly. Barely. Small, whimpering sounds escaped his lips as he clutched weakly at the ruin of his side, his eyes wild with agony and terror behind the shattered remnants of his mask. His mouth moved, forming words I couldn't decipher through the blood and pain. Pleading. Praying, perhaps, to gods who had long since abandoned this place, if they'd ever resided here at all. I still couldn't, or wouldn't, hear the specifics.

  Driven by an impulse that wasn't entirely my own, I reached out and pressed my hand flat against his chest, feeling the faint, frantic flutter of his dying heart beneath my palm.

  And then, before conscious thought could intervene, before I could fully comprehend or stop the horrifying urge welling up from the depths of the Boon—I leaned down and bit into the exposed flesh of his shoulder.

  His scream was shockingly sharp, brutally brief. Then it broke, dissolving into something wet and gurgling as my teeth sank deep into muscle and vessel. The taste that flooded my mouth was overwhelming: hot, intensely metallic, undeniably copper. It was the taste of life.

  It surged into me like a dam breaking, an intoxicating rush that went far beyond mere physical sensation. It wasn't just blood I was consuming. It felt deeper, more essential—his remaining vitality, the flickering embers of his misused fire-magic, even the sharp spike of his terror—all of it flowed, was drawn, into the hungry void of the Corviana Boon curled possessively inside my ribs.

  And for the first time since this gnawing hunger began, an absolute, profound silence fell within me. The restless, demanding thrum of the Boon finally quieted, satiated for the moment. The terrible, hollowing hunger receded in a sudden, unexpected wave of stolen warmth and energy.

  I jerked back violently, gasping for air, my breath hitching in my throat. My own heart hammered against my ribs, reacting to the shock and the sudden influx. My mouth was coated in the thick, sticky slickness of blood. It ran down my chin, warm against my skin. A wave of nausea twisted my stomach, fierce and acidic.

  “What… what did I just—?” The words caught in my throat, half-formed, horrified.

  [Oh, sweetheart,] Malice purred, his voice seeming to resonate not just in my skull, but from somewhere deeper now, almost behind my teeth. [You finally fed it properly.] He laughed then. Not his usual cruel or mocking chuckle, but a sound of genuine, almost parental delight. Like a mentor watching a prized, dangerous student take their first successful, bloody step. [Congratulations. You’re a real Corviana now.]