The narrow pathways of the Memoriam Obscura always smelled of old ink and beeswax—the best combination, in Arcanus’ humble opinion. Books towered in precarious spires, leaning like they were liable to collapse under the weight of forgotten knowledge.
Tallius the Scholar was already halfway up a rolling ladder when Arcanus arrived.
“About time,” Tallius called down, adjusting his spectacles. He gestured to a teetering pile of books, atop which a very satisfied-looking cat had made its throne.
“Sort these by moonrise, and you can choose one to study further. Fair trade, no?”