Arcanus leaned against the cold stone wall, chest heaving, legs aching from the endless spiral stairs. The Hollow Spire looked imposing from the outside—but climbing it? Far worse.
The only way to access the tower was through the Memoriam Obscura, and he’d slipped in under cover of near-dark. He grimaced, imagining the conversation he’d narrowly avoided. If Tallius the Scholar had still been awake, Arcanus would’ve had to explain what he was doing sneaking around the forbidden stacks.
What was he doing, exactly?
That’s when he saw it.
Dust motes drifted in the moonlit air, and there, at the end of the corridor, an ancient door awaited, cracked with age.
Arcanus crept down the hall, hairs prickling at his nape as he passed darkened doorways on either side, half-expecting some gnarled old creature to leap out and drag him into the shadows.
At last, standing before the door, he saw them—four faint symbols carved into the oak, their edges worn but still distinct. Somehow…he knew.
The door would open, but only when he chose.