The sun-drenched streets of Castellaverde hummed with the peculiar rhythm that only small Vesperian towns could produce—a blend of ancient tradition and sleek modernity. Stone buildings weathered by centuries stood proudly alongside solar-powered streetlights that mimicked the warm glow of gas lamps. Vines draped across balconies fitted with compact hydroponic gardens, while elderly men played chess beneath the shade of a thousand-year-old oak tree, their moves tracked by a hovering transparent scoreboard.

  Nestled between a gelateria and a workshop for sustainable tech repairs stood the Esperia Library—a three-story structure of honey-colored limestone whose baroque fa?ade had withstood wars, earthquakes, and the relentless march of progress. Its ornate wooden doors, recently restored with carbon-fiber reinforcement, opened to reveal a space where time seemed to stand still.

  Within these walls, Adrian Esperia shelved books with practiced efficiency. At twenty-seven, he moved with the measured purpose of a man twice his age, his fingers caressing leather-bound spines with familiar reverence. The navy cardigan hung loosely from his shoulders, contrasting with the crisp white shirt beneath and the perfectly knotted black tie that seemed incongruous with the casual atmosphere of a small-town library. His dark hair, slightly too long and perpetually falling across his forehead, spoke of neglect rather than style. The shadows beneath his equally dark eyes suggested nights spent with books rather than sleep.

  "When the light is coming through, I know it's only a matter of time," he sang softly, slightly off-key to Aurora's haunting melody flowing through his earbuds. "You'll come back to your senses, you'll come back to your—"

  He paused, finger tapping against the spine of a first-edition Eco, then resumed both shelving and singing.

  "And the people, they love you, and the people, they hate you. The people, they broke you, but the people will save you."

  Unlike many private collections, the Esperia Library contained no dust, no neglected corners. Every surface gleamed under the soft light streaming through stained glass windows. This wasn't merely a repository of knowledge; it was a living memorial, maintained with obsessive care.

  Near the entrance, a small shrine drew the eye—twin photographs in antique silver frames. In one, a distinguished gentleman with Adrian's eyes smiled beside a woman whose laugh lines spoke of a life well-enjoyed. In the other, the same couple stood before this very library, younger and radiant on its opening day. A slender stick of incense burned between them, its fragrant trail ascending like prayers to heaven.

  The coffee machine in the corner issued a final hiss, signaling completion. Adrian slid the last volume of La Divina Commedia into place before crossing to the small kitchenette tucked behind the reference section. He filled an oversized mug emblazoned with "World's Okayest Professor" and sighed as the aroma enveloped him.

  "Another morning," he murmured to the photographs, raising his mug in salute. "Mama would be furious if she saw how I've organized the philosophy section. 'Nietzsche next to Kierkegaard? What were you thinking, tesoro?'" He mimicked his mother's expressive hands with a melancholy smile. "And Papa would say, 'Let the boy arrange them how he likes, Sofia. He's the one with the doctorate.'"

  He sipped his coffee, grimacing at its strength. "Still can't get your recipe right, Papa."

  The clock above the circulation desk showed 9:58. Adrian removed his earbuds, tucking them and his phone into his cardigan pocket before crossing to the entrance. The heavy key turned with a satisfying click, and he swung the door open to face the day.

  He barely avoided collision with the small human projectile that launched itself across the threshold.

  "DINO-SAURI!" announced eight-year-old Luccio, his voice echoing through the previously tranquil space. The boy's dark curls bounced with each enthusiastic step, his backpack—shaped like a Tyrannosaurus Rex—swinging dangerously close to a display of rare botanical prints.

  "Luccio! What have I told you about running in the library?" The admonishment came from both Adrian and the woman entering behind the boy, their voices overlapping in practiced harmony.

  Gherta Volkov paused at the entrance, the morning light catching in her auburn hair, which was wound into a practical bun at the nape of her neck. At thirty-two, she carried herself with the quiet confidence of someone who had rebuilt life after loss. Her features—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and expressive green eyes—hinted at her Russian ancestry, while her tailored linen dress in soft olive honored Vesperian sensibilities. A delicate silver chain disappeared beneath her collar, carrying what Adrian knew to be her late husband's wedding ring.

  "Sorry, Prof. Adrian!" Luccio chirped, not sounding sorry at all. "But I read that velociraptors could run at forty kilometers per hour, and I'm practicing."

  Adrian crouched to eye level with the boy, his severe expression melting into one of conspiratorial interest. "Actually, recent evidence suggests they were even faster. But do you know what makes them truly remarkable?" He reached out to ruffle Luccio's already chaotic curls. "They hunted in packs, and they respected their territory. No running in the library, piccolo paleontologo."

  Luccio's eyes widened. "Does that mean I get to be a velociraptor if I walk?"

  "With all the stealth and dignity such a formidable predator deserves," Adrian confirmed solemnly.

  The boy immediately adopted an exaggerated stalking posture, tiptoeing dramatically toward the children's section.

  "Stay where I can see you," Gherta called after him before turning to Adrian with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "He's been unbearable since you lent him that dinosaur encyclopedia. I've had to confiscate his flashlight twice this week for reading under the covers past midnight."

  Adrian's lip quirked upward. "A heinous crime. Clearly the boy must be punished with more books."

  "You're impossible," she said, but her tone was warm. "Coffee ready? You look like you haven't slept in days."

  "A stunning assessment from the woman who once stayed awake for seventy-two hours to finish her thesis." He gestured toward the kitchenette. "Just brewed. Still terrible."

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  They moved through the library with the comfortable familiarity of old friends. Adrian pulled down a second mug—this one featuring Schopenhauer's scowling face—and filled it with the steaming brew.

  "No sugar. Splash of milk," he recited, preparing her coffee from memory.

  "You remember," she said, accepting the mug.

  "I also remember how you nearly poisoned half the faculty with your attempt at tiramisu in second year." He leaned against the counter, blowing gently across his own coffee.

  "One culinary disaster fifteen years ago, and you never let me forget." Gherta settled into one of the leather armchairs, her gaze drifting to the photographs by the entrance. "It's been almost a year, hasn't it?"

  The light mood evaporated. Adrian's shoulders tensed imperceptibly.

  "Eleven months, two weeks, four days," he confirmed, voice carefully neutral. "But who's counting?"

  "Adrian." Her voice softened. "They would be proud of what you've done with the place. But they'd also worry. Sofia always said you lived too much in your head."

  He traced a finger along the rim of his mug. "And Giovanni always said my head was the most interesting neighborhood in Castellaverde. So I suppose they'd be at an impasse."

  Gherta watched him over the rim of her cup, the silence stretching between them. "The university called again," she said finally. "They want to know if you're planning to return next semester."

  "Did they send you as their emissary?" His tone was light, but his gaze had hardened. "Professor Volkov, dispatched to recruit the wayward philosopher back to the hallowed halls of academia?"

  "I'm here as your friend, idiota." She set her cup down with more force than necessary. "And as someone who knows what it's like to feel stuck after loss."

  Adrian's sardonic smile faltered. "I'm not stuck. I've simply... reassessed my priorities."

  "Hiding in a library isn't reassessing. It's retreating."

  From across the room came the sound of Luccio's delighted gasp followed by the heavy thud of what was undoubtedly the largest dinosaur encyclopedia being pulled from its shelf.

  "That boy is going to dislocate something," Adrian muttered, grateful for the distraction.

  "Like father, like son. Anton once pulled a muscle trying to move our entire bookshelf by himself." Her expression softened at the memory. "Luccio has his determination."

  "And his mother's stubbornness," Adrian added. "How is the shop doing?"

  Gherta owned Volkov Vintages, a wine boutique specializing in sustainable local producers. "Better than expected. The new eco-tourism initiative has brought in customers who actually appreciate quality over quantity. And the online classes are gaining traction."

  "I saw your feature in Vesperia Vinicola. 'The Russian Who Revolutionized Vesperian Wine Appreciation.'" He quoted the headline with a hint of pride. "Your father would have spontaneously combusted from joy."

  She laughed, a warm sound that echoed through the high ceilings. "He would have criticized my pronunciation of every Vesperian grape variety while secretly framing the article."

  Adrian's smile became genuine. "And how is our little paleontologist doing in school?"

  "Top marks in science, struggling with handwriting. His teacher says he has 'boundless curiosity but finite attention.'" She glanced toward her son, who was now carefully arranging dinosaur figurines in what appeared to be a complex hunting formation. "He asked about Anton again last week. Wanted to know if his papa had liked dinosaurs too."

  "And?"

  "I told him the truth. That his father preferred stars to fossils, but would have loved learning about dinosaurs with him." She sighed. "Five years, and the questions still catch me off guard."

  Adrian nodded, understanding all too well how grief could ambush from unexpected corners. "Children have an uncanny way of finding the exact pressure point, don't they? Without even trying."

  "It's their superpower," she agreed, then fixed him with a penetrating gaze. "Speaking of pressure points, you're deflecting. The university, Adrian. What are you going to tell them?"

  He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. "That the brilliant Dr. Esperia has taken an indefinite sabbatical to contemplate the existential implications of reorganizing the local library's taxonomy system."

  "Be serious."

  "I am being serious. Deadly serious. The philosophical ramifications of whether 'Twilight' belongs in young adult fiction or horror are keeping me awake at night."

  "Adrian." Her voice held a warning.

  He exhaled slowly, his facade cracking just enough to reveal the weariness beneath. "I don't know, Gherta. I don't know if I can stand in front of a lecture hall and talk about the meaning of life when I'm still trying to figure out how to live without them."

  The honesty hung between them, raw and uncomfortable. Adrian rarely allowed himself such vulnerability, even with Gherta, who had known him since they were teenagers discovering Sartre together.

  She reached across the small table between them, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. "You don't have to know yet. But you can't hide in this mausoleum forever, my friend. Sofia and Giovanni built this place to spread knowledge, not to entomb their son."

  "Poetic," he murmured, but there was no bite to it. "Have you considered a career switch to motivational speaking?"

  "I'm serious, Adrian. Just—"

  She froze mid-sentence, her eyes widening slightly. Adrian felt it too—a wave of... something... passing through his body. Not unpleasant, but distinctly foreign, like electricity without the shock or water without the wetness.

  "Did you feel that?" she whispered.

  Before he could answer, a voice spoke directly into his mind—melodious, ancient, and utterly impossible.

  "From the ashes of the thirty-second world, I offer unto thee the gift of defiance."

  The voice resonated like a perfectly struck bell, each syllable carrying the weight of millennia.

  "I am but an echo of Solomon, the last whisper of a fool who dared to challenge divinity. Hear my warning, children of dust: the veil between worlds grows thin. Even now, the Demi-Planes form, and their masters seek to harvest what you would call your souls."

  Adrian stood abruptly, coffee forgotten. Across the room, he saw Luccio freeze in his dinosaur play, head tilted as if listening.

  "To survive what comes, you must choose a Path. Two Paths may you walk at first dawn, from the four I offer: Ki, the way of flesh made transcendent; Dao, the mastery of concept and meaning; Mana, the weaving of metaphysical chaos; or Pneuma, the echo of divine power within mortal form."

  The voice paused, as if gathering strength.

  "Choose wisely, for while all Paths may eventually be learned, your initial choice will shape your gifts and the unique synergies born of your spirit. The gods have fed upon humanity for thirty-one cycles of creation. I have broken their dominion, but in doing so, I have broken the world. Forgive me. Prepare yourselves. The Unraveling begins."

  The presence withdrew, leaving a strange hollowness in its wake. Adrian found himself staring at Gherta, whose face had drained of color.

  "Tell me you heard that too," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

  "I heard it." Adrian's mind raced through possibilities—hallucination, gas leak, elaborate prank—each more implausible than the last.

  "Mama!" Luccio called, running toward them with none of his previous velociraptor stealth. "There's a weird message in my head about choosing powers! Like in my games!"

  Adrian and Gherta exchanged alarmed glances.

  "What kind of sick joke—" Gherta began, but her words died as a distant rumble shook the building, causing books to rattle on their shelves.

  Outside, car alarms began to wail in chorus. A woman screamed somewhere down the street.

  "The Unraveling begins," Adrian repeated softly, a chill spreading through his chest despite the warm spring morning. "I think... I think we might need to take this very seriously."

  The library's lights flickered once, twice, then died completely, plunging them into a darkness illuminated only by the stained glass windows, which now cast strange, shifting shadows that seemed to move of their own accord.

  "Choose a Path," Gherta whispered, pulling Luccio close against her side.

  Adrian stared at the photographs of his parents, the incense now extinguished. "I think we may not have much choice at all."