I step through the doors into a place of stilled preservation. The Great Library of Candlekeep unfolds before these bones, a place of knowledge that corruption has touched differently than the world outside.

  Movement flickers behind windows.

  Shapes drift through shadowed halls.

  The shield settles against my back as borrowed hands grip sword hilt.

  The new bone-plate armor creaks as I advance.

  Inside, paper carpets stone floors.

  Books lie scattered, their spines cracked from violent handling. Shelves stand toppled, their contents spilled across flagstones.

  These fragments sense old violence here, but not battle. Something else happened in these halls.

  These is not the same as the mists outside the walls.

  A desperate search, perhaps. The remnants of panic and purpose linger.

  Dust lies undisturbed in layers too thick for recent passage.

  Yet motion continues despite centuries of emptiness.

  In this place I am not alone.

  Robed figures drift between fallen shelves, heads bowed over books they no longer comprehend.

  They turn at my approach, hollow sockets fixed on yellowed pages.

  Not at me, but through me at other shelves.

  The dead walk these halls, but unlike corruption's mindless servants. These were scholars once. Now they are creatures of routine, trapped in endless cycles of purposeless action. They do not attack. They do not notice. They simply continue.

  A tome falls from skeletal fingers. The sound echoes through empty halls. The undead reaches down, picks it up, opens to a random page. Begins again. It does not remember why it moves its fingers across words it cannot understand.

  More of them shuffle through the stacks. A robed skeleton sorts books that crumble at its touch, placing ruined fragments on ruined shelves. Another walks the same ten paces between reference desks, turns, walks back. A third writes with a long-dry pen on dust-covered parchment, filling pages with nothing.

  I look closer, finding worn groves from the pen.

  These are not enemies to fight, merely echoes to pass.

  The sword stays sheathed. The shield remains silent against my back.

  Deeper in the monastery, the air grows thicker. Preservation wards pulse from symbols carved into archways and lintels. They maintain the structure while ignoring the dead that walk its halls.

  In lecture rooms, skeletal learners sit in perfect rows, empty eye sockets fixed on podiums where dead scholars gesture at blank walls. Their jaws work soundlessly, explaining theories no living mind remembers.

  Against one wall, a skeletal archivist repeatedly stamps blank pages with a date centuries past.

  The motion never varies. The purpose never returns.

  I move through them unseen or ignored. They part around these borrowed bones like water around stone.

  The routine doesn't break.

  "Outsider," it mutters, "You found passage."

  This must be another Loremaster. The ghost gestures at the undead scholars continuing their endless routines.

  "They cannot see me," the apparition explains. "The preservation wards judged them necessary, but not their awareness. Dead things. Function without comprehension. Duty without purpose."

  The ghost's form wavers, struggling to maintain coherence in this place of magical preservation. It points down a corridor where more undead scholars shuffle between fallen shelves.

  "I was Loremaster Monbleu," it manages through fading lips. "When corruption reached our gates, we enacted the Final Guard. We meant to seal ourselves in, preserve both knowledge and scholars within the wards. The wards, interpreted much differently than intended. Judging the living as a threat and prone to corruption."

  The apparition drifts toward a grand staircase descending into darkness. Its form strengthens slightly as it approaches symbols carved into the stone banister.

  "Only the Loremasters retained awareness," it explains.

  "Our rank carried ritual significance to the wards. Cherin guards the outer approach because he cast the mist barriers. I maintain the inner archives because I sealed these halls. The others," Monbleu gestures at the shambling scholarly dead. "The wards judged them unnecessary as conscious entities, only as functional components."

  I follow as the ghost descends worn steps. Dragon-bone plates scrape against narrow walls. Archive chambers branch off the main passage, each filled with more scholarly dead.

  "They were our colleagues," it continues. "Our friends. Now they are automatons, performing tasks they no longer understand."

  A larger chamber opens ahead. Unlike the disarray above, order reigns here. Books stand in perfect rows on untoppled shelves. The floor remains clear of scattered pages. Undead archivists move with more purpose, shelving tomes and sorting scrolls with precision their upper counterparts lack.

  "The Inner Sanctum's wards are stronger," Monbleu explains. "The preservation magic maintains function better here. These ones remember how to perform their duties, even if they don't remember why."

  The preservation magic judged the living too vulnerable to infection. It removed the risk while maintaining the functions.

  Monbleu's ghost floats toward a sealed archway. Symbols pulse along its frame—preservation magic so dense it distorts the air.

  "The Central Archive lies beyond," he says. "What you seek may still be there."

  I tilt my skull, questioning.

  "You come for knowledge of the corruption," Monbleu states. "All who breach our wards seek something. The living fear what lurks outside. The dead follow orders they no longer understand."

  He's not wrong. These bones need information on what stalks the lands beyond Haven.

  An undead archivist shuffles past, arms laden with scrolls. It passes by without noticing I exist, bone passing bone.

  "You're different," Monbleu observes. "Not preserved by our wards, yet not corrupt. Purpose without decay."

  My fingers trace Haven's symbol on the shield. The ghost nods in recognition.

  "Haven still stands, then. Good." His form wavers. "Our failure did not doom everything."

  I follow as he passes through the sealed archway. The preservation wards resist momentarily, then yield. They recognize something in these borrowed bones, perhaps echoes of purpose similar to their own.

  The Central Archive sprawls before us, a vast circular chamber rising three stories. Balconies line the walls, connected by narrow bridges. Undead scholars move with between shelves, retrieving and replacing tomes without hesitation or error.

  "This way," Monbleu points. "I cannot follow further."

  The true library waits ahead. Double doors bound in silver stand sealed, their surfaces etched with wards these fragments half-remember. Beyond them lies the knowledge these bones seek.

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  A final guardian blocks the path. Taller than the others, it wears robes embroidered with symbols of authority now meaningless. A crown of silver sits askew on its skull. The Grand Archivist, forever standing watch before knowledge too dangerous for the living.

  It does not attack. Does not speak. Simply holds out a hand, waiting for credentials that turned to dust centuries ago.

  I step forward. Unlike the others, this one's skull turns to track my movement. Some fragment of awareness remains in these ancient bones, some purpose stronger than mindless repetition.

  It does not attack. Does not speak. Simply holds out a hand, waiting for papers that turned to dust centuries ago.

  These dead know nothing of the present. Their bones hold no answers about corruption or fallen wards.

  I leave them to their endless tasks.

  I step past the Grand Archivist's outstretched hand. His sockets follow my movement, but his arm remains extended, trapped in a ritual.

  The silver-bound doors beyond him bear markings these fragments recognize, not through knowledge, but through the echoes of memory in bone.

  The wards on these doors are protection against demonic influence.

  Mage-knights carved similar symbols on shield rims when facing corrupted foes.

  My fingers trace the ancient patterns. The doors recognize something in this touch, not life, not death, but purpose aligned with their own.

  Silver light flares. The wards pulse once, then yield.

  The doors part.

  Inside waits the true heart of Candlekeep. Not books but something older. Knowledge preserved from floor to ceiling, pulsing with stored memory.

  Ancient runework spirals across its surface, dormant until activated. This was the heart of Candlekeep's purpose, not just to collect knowledge, but to organize and access it.

  I step onto it. Dragon bones creak as I lower this borrowed form to one knee. I place hand against the central rune.

  The chamber responds. Light flare.

  Ancient machinery activate beneath stone.

  Images flicker into existence above my head, maps, fortifications, battle plans. The memories of war preserved by those who knew its cost.

  Then other images form, dark creatures swarming across lands once green, corruption spreading from central points. The fall of elven spires. The retreat of dwarven clans. The first demons breaking through weakened barriers.

  The lore stored here shows what I seek and I must know more.

  This is what I seek. The knowledge of how corruption spread.

  A map materializes before these empty sockets—the realms as they once stood. Elfheim's spires still proud, tall trees, forests, untainted by darkness.

  Great ports still above water, bustling with ships from a hundred nations. Forges burning clean fire, hammers ringing out songs of creation instead of war. The world before pride shattered it, before ambition turned to rot.

  Text appears beside the images, ancient letters shimmering in the chamber's light. It speaks of the World Tree's corruption. The roots grew dark first, feeding on ambition instead of soil.

  By the time they recognized their error, the Rot had already spread through soil and stone, through flesh and spirit.

  The Briar Queen.

  Her name appears often, etched in gold that now seems tarnished.

  She who led them down that path, promising ascension but delivering only ruin.

  Records display her first experiments with the tree's power.

  She believed she could merge with it, guide its growth through will alone. Notes in her own hand grow increasingly erratic, speaking of "necessary sacrifices" and "glorious transformation."

  The elegant script becomes jagged, words carved deep as if by claw instead of quill.

  The corruption spread from roots upward.

  Trees grew wrong, branches twisting into screaming faces. Animals changed, fur giving way to thorns, eyes multiplying across misshapen bodies. The elves themselves began to turn, becoming neither plant nor flesh but monstrous versions of both.

  Still the Queen continued, believing transformation meant ascension, even as her subjects begged for death.

  The texts end abruptly.

  Final pages torn away, perhaps by those who saw too late what their pride had wrought. Nothing remains of what she became, save words in nightmares and the endless thorns that choke the land.

  Beyond the World Tree records, these fragments find maps showing questions, not answers. Paths that may not exist in any realm touched by light. Routes living flesh could never traverse, but these bones might follow. Tunnels that burrow deep into darker depths.

  They show enough. The Ward's location pulses deep in corruption's heart, where the World Tree's roots first turned dark. W

  here the Briar Queen began her work. Where I must go.

  I reach for the nearest tome to learn more, but something shifts in the chamber's energy.

  The runes beneath my knees flash, warning, detection.

  Wards flare to life around me.

  The ancient defenses recognize something wrong in these borrowed bones. The central platform beneath me shifts, with hostile magic.

  I rise quickly, stepping back as runic patterns crawl across the floor. They form chains that reach for my limbs, preservation magic seeking to bind what it cannot understand.

  The sword comes first, the blade intercepts the first magical chain before it can grasp this skeletal arm.

  Where steel meets ward-light, sparks erupt. The chain shatters.

  More containment wards activate. The chamber's walls glow with awakened sigils. This is no simple defense, the library seeks to preserve my form as it did the scholars.

  To add these bones to its collection of mindless minders.

  I slash through another ward-chain as it lashes toward ribs. The magic splinters but reforms, learning from each contact.

  The shield comes off my back, Haven's emblem facing outward.

  The preservation wards recoil momentarily, recognizing symbol.

  Not enough to stop them, but enough to create space.

  Above, the knowledge projections continue uninterrupted, indifferent to the battle below. The ward-chains move with purpose now, surrounding rather than attacking directly. They mean to entrap, not destroy.

  I vault over a glowing barrier as it forms to box me in. These dragon-bone legs provide new strength, driving me higher than before. The wards adjust, reaching upward.

  Magical chains grasp for ankle bones. One connects.. The ward begins its work, trying to empty these fragments of will while preserving function.

  My sword arcs down, severing the connection. The magic scars the bone where it touched, leaving a glowing sigil that burns.

  More wards converge. The entire chamber becomes a trap, designed to add these bones to Candlekeep's mindless guardians. The preservation magic recognizes what I am, not living, not corrupt, but something outside its understanding.

  I kick off a bookshelf, propelling myself toward the silver doors. Wards snake across my path, forming barriers of ancient magic more potent than demon-spawn or corrupted beasts.

  Knowledge is the true power here, and it defends itself.

  I slash through another barrier, ward-symbols fragmenting under steel. The preservation magic persists, reforming behind me as I drive toward the exit. These ancient spells were built to last.

  A shimmering chain wraps around my shield arm, sigils burning into bone. The sensation isn't pain, these fragments know no suffering, but the magic pulls at something deeper than marrow.

  I twist, bringing sword down. The blade severs the magical binding, but leaves trace symbols etched bone. The mark pulses once, then fades to a dull glow. These bones refuse to be claimed.

  Three more steps to the silver doors.

  Two.

  Then one more.

  The wards surge in final defense, walls of pure preservation magic forming between these fragments and freedom.

  I drive the shield forward. Haven's symbol flares against ancient magic. Not enough to break through, but enough to create an opening.

  The sword follows, edge first into the gap. I answer with a word, channeling Aeternus.

  I push forward, channeling energy through the sword.

  Aeternus.

  The word resonates through sword and shield. Blue fire erupts along the blade's edge.

  Where it touches the preservation wards, they break.

  Magic that survived dissolves before ancient purpose.

  The barrier splinters.

  I lunge through the fracture just as the knowledge archive delivers one last revelation.

  A map flashes across the chamber,.

  The Kingdom of the Demon Lord.

  South. Far south,, farther than the map allows and farther still beyond it.

  It is not my time to go, but somebody I will make the trek.

  The silver doors slam shut behind me as I escape into the outer chamber,

  I step through the gap, sword trailing blue afterimages that sever any remaining ward-chains. The preservation spells reach for these fragments one final time, then fall away, unable to grasp.

  Beyond the silver doors, the undead archivists continue their endless tasks, oblivious to the battle against their wards. Their hollow eye sockets track nothing as I pass.

  The knowledge burns inside these bones, the World Tree's corruption, the Briar Queen's fall, the paths that lead to darkness. It's enough to set direction, to point these fragments toward what must be done.

  The Grand Archivist still stands guard, hand extended.

  I ignore it and keep moving.

  No need to battle what cannot learn.

  Monbleu's ghost waits on the stairs, his form fainter than before.

  "You found it," he says, not a question.

  I nod once, shifting dragon-bone shoulder plates.

  "Then go," Monbleu's ghost gestures upward. "What sleeps here cannot help you further. The answers you seek lie where corruption first took root."

  I climb the library steps, leaving behind the preservation magic and its mindless guardians. My sword slides into its sheath as I absorb what the archives revealed.

  The World Tree. The beginning of all this darkness.

  The corruption didn't start with demons. They came later, exploiting what the Briar Queen began. Her ambition planted the first seeds of rot before demon lords claimed territories as their own.

  Undead scholars shuffle between shelves, trapped in their endless rituals of knowledge without understanding. Their bones hold no answers I need now.

  I emerge from Candlekeep's depths into the central courtyard.

  The archives showed the truth. The World Tree stands where corruption first took root.

  That's where this path begins.

  The Demon Lord's kingdom lies far south, beyond the maps' edges. That battle waits in distant shadow, the final confrontation these fragments will someday face.

  But not yet.

  First, the source. The root. The World Tree.

  Each demon lord and corrupted beast I've faced is merely symptom, not cause. To truly protect Haven, I must trace this corruption to its origin. Only then will these bones understand what they fight against.

  But knowledge brings clarity I did not want. The archives revealed truth, I am not enough. Not yet.

  The Demon Lord waits far to the south, a being that devours gods. These bones, this sword, this borrowed strength, insufficient.

  It would scatter these fragments to dust, leaving nothing to reassemble.

  I need more power. Each victory has granted fragments of strength, but facing the true corruption requires transformation beyond what these bones currently possess.

  The Demon Lord broke the world itself.

  First, the World Tree. Its corrupted heart holds answers and perhaps power to claim.

  Each demon lord I fell must become a stepping stone, each corruption I cleanse must add to this form I wear.

  Then the long path south.

  If these fragments hope to confront the architect of corruption, they must become something greate.

  I pass through Candlekeep's outer gates, then the mists.

  I pass easily enough but of the Loremaster I see nothing.

  The road stretches before me, no longer pointing toward knowledge but toward answers buried in corruption's heart.