The axe swung. No hesitation. No thought. Just fury made flesh.

  William's eyes widened—not in fear, but calculation—as the air between us fractured. A sigil flared to life midair, golden and sharp, forming a spinning ward made of glowing script in a language I didn't recognize, probably one that knew it was better than me. My axe hit it like thunder. The impact cracked the ward in half, sending a shockwave blasting down the aisle. Shelves groaned, books exploded into flame and ash, and the floor beneath us spiderwebbed with fractures. The ward held—but only just.

  William skidded back, tail lashing for balance, his tiny wings flaring instinctively and casting warped shadows in the shimmering light. He didn't shout or panic; instead, he adjusted his spectacles. "Violation of Contract Law, Class Twelve," he muttered, like he was filing a report. A second shield unfolded around him, a dome of cascading runes rotating like the rings of a planet. One flashed before my eyes as I lunged again: “Preservation over vengeance. Structure before slaughter.”

  I snarled and struck harder. The ward shuddered visibly. He saw it, I saw it – the power behind my blow wasn't skill or clean technique. It was a monster’s weight, a blunt-force horror crashing against order itself. He hissed something in draconic, and the floor beneath me lit up with a containment glyph. I rolled aside just in time to avoid being locked down.

  [Oh, now we were playing,] Malice crowed inside my skull. [Try not to die in the opening act. It’d really kill the pacing.]

  "You're making a mistake," William growled, his voice layered now, the kobold lilt distorted by something older, deeper. "This Library stands because of balance. You are breaking it."

  "Good," I spat, and charged again.

  He met me head-on this time, claws out, spells already forming midair. They were constructs of pure law and logic, ready to enforce the will of an ancient institution. I didn't care. The Boon howled behind my ribs; the hunger didn't want balance. It wanted blood, books, and firepower with no footnotes or rules. I was done pretending to be anything else.

  The first construct hit me, slamming into my shoulder and spinning me halfway before exploding into a burst of searing golden letters that smelled like burning ink and judgment. I snarled, shook it off, and kept moving. More descended from the air, their angular bodies made of glowing script, each carved from pure, radiant logic.

  William remained still, merely gesturing once. And they attacked. One slashed across my thigh, tearing through armor plating like paper. Another drove its arm straight for my chest; I caught it mid-swing and ripped it apart, golden letters unraveling like shredded parchment in a storm. They didn't bleed or scream.

  I did. The Boon roared up inside me, feeding on the pain, the adrenaline, the motion itself. Every strike that landed made me faster, stronger, hungrier. I leapt, grabbed one midair, and slammed it into the cracked marble beneath us. It burst into a flare of runes, briefly forming the word “MISTAKE” before vanishing entirely. Another lashed at my back; I twisted, dragged it close, and sank my axe straight through its spine. If a construct could have shrieked, it would’ve.

  [Beautiful,] Malice purred. [This was what literacy had always been meant to be.]

  "Stop resisting," William snapped from across the aisle. "You’re escalating an illegal conflict! This isn’t war, it’s vandalism!"

  "Then try and fine me," I growled, charging through another of his precious constructs. He flicked two claws together, unleashing a pulse of structured energy that rippled out, knocking me back hard against a shelf. It crashed sideways, books raining down like judgment, and something smashed against the side of my head. I blinked blood from my eye and managed a smile. "I thought Librarians were supposed to be quiet."

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  William’s eyes narrowed. "So did I." He slammed his hands together, fracturing the air again. More constructs appeared—bigger, meaner, perhaps Archivist-class, their joints humming with restraints, their spines bristling with tethered rules.

  I rose, battered but grinning. The ground glowed beneath my boots, but it was too late for him. Golden runes flared up around me, lines locking together like trap jaws. I tried to leap, but my legs seized mid-motion as my muscles answered someone else’s command. William’s voice cut through the haze: “Clause Twenty-Seven: Kinetic Restriction of Rampant Entities.” The spell tightened, etching itself into my armor, into my skin. I gritted my teeth as invisible shackles crawled up my spine. “Stand down,” he said. “You are not beyond redemption.”

  [He's trying to put you in time-out,] Malice said, tone dripping with mock sympathy. [Aren’t you gonna scream about it?]

  I did more than scream. I ignited. The power lashed outward, distorting the air around me. Symbols flickered and folded wrong, the glyphs bending as something deeper cracked through the surface. The rune circle fractured under my feet, cracks spidering outward. I moved, faster than I should have. The spell still tried to pull me down, but my power chewed through it, dragging me forward with raw, relentless force.

  William tried to reposition, snapping his claws, spinning up another layered spell circle above his head. I didn't give him the chance. I swung wide, cleaving through a shelf between us. Hundreds of books flew like broken birds, pages burning, bindings unraveling midair as runes spilled from the paper like bleeding veins. I kept charging. William barked another command—layered in old draconic, words laced with the weight of absolute command—and the runes responded instantly, locking into a three-tiered lattice that slammed down around me like a cage of glass and gold.

  Too slow. I twisted, slammed the Golden Axe into the left pillar. The Boon pulsed, the weapon screamed, and the entire lattice detonated, sending shards of glowing logic cutting through the air. William stumbled back, robes singed, his breath tight now, calculated and controlled. I saw the shift in his eyes: this wasn't just a reprimand anymore. It was survival.

  And I wasn't done. The Boon didn’t just lend strength; it actively despised the order William represented. It felt like the Library's meticulous rules were sandpaper against my soul, and the Boon was trying to claw free, to tear down the shelves and burn the catalogues. A low growl tore from my throat, less human than beast, echoing strangely in the vast, damaged space.

  “Clause this,” I snarled, and instead of charging directly, I hurled a half-melted bookshelf his way like a javelin. It caught fire midair, trailing smoke and embers. He dodged with a flicker of teleportation, appearing just past the rising smoke, but he was breathing harder now, the collar of his robes smudged with soot. The ground we stood on was cracked, smoldering, falling apart beneath the assault. He didn't counter with a simple shield this time. He drew upon the Library itself, his claws tracing complex patterns in the air. The very atmosphere thickened, condensing into spectral chains forged from glowing legal precedent and shimmering archival dust. They whipped towards me, not aiming to bind, but to erase, to unwrite my presence from this sacred space. I met them with the axe, shearing through incorporeal links like rotten rope. Each severed chain dissolved with a sound like tearing paper, releasing faint whispers – names, dates, forgotten rulings fading into oblivion.

  [Getting desperate, isn't he? Throwing the dusty old rulebooks at us now,] Malice chuckled, the sound sharp as broken glass in my skull.

  William staggered slightly, not from a blow, but from the sheer effort of will. Sweat beaded on his scaled brow, catching the flickering light of burning books. His control was fraying; the precise gestures became sharper, almost frantic. I advanced through the dissipating whispers and the settling dust, the axe leaving trails of warped light, the floor groaning under my weight. Runes fractured faster than William could reinforce them. His eyes, ancient and sharp, fixed on me with a terrible finality. He knew intermediate measures were failing. It was time for something absolute.

  My axe became a blur, a smear of gold and black flame. I carved through two of William’s remaining script-constructs in one sweep, their forms dissolving into charred letters before they could react. William's voice boomed again, resonating not just in the air but through the stone itself: "Clause Forty-Two: Librarian's Last Word." A circle expanded from his chest—wide, perfect, unchallenged law made manifest. The floating parchments near me flickered violently, their script glitching for the first time as the wave of power hit. My feet went numb, my breath hitched. The Boon bucked within me like a cornered animal. A wall of pure hunger rose behind my eyes, hot and blinding.

  And I snapped again. I screamed, raw and tearing, the sound echoing through burning shelves and cracked stone, a denial of everything this place stood for. Wings of shadow—not mine—flared behind me, vast and ephemeral, curling smoke made from sin and instinct. I crossed the circle. I broke his spell. The Boon roared in triumph, a sound that cracked the very air.