He got to Camarth first, despite the distance between the druid community and the Manarithian capital city. This fact made him annoyed.

  Grant shortened his trip by half upon using one of Clydeth’s portals, which took him from the northern parts of the nation into the southern parts in just minutes, as opposed to two days by foot. From there, he rented a Clydethian coach, which was horseless and powered by magick, a recent scientific breakthrough even he was surprised for it existing.

  Using these two advanced methods, Grant reached Camarth in just two days, something even he was amazed himself. That amazement turned to annoyance when he realized that Bartlett had not arrived yet. He wondered if he was traveling too fast, though ultimately he blamed Bartlett for emphasizing the urgency of the situation.

  He couldn’t be mad, though. Bartlett might’ve estimated the travel time and decided to travel at a moderate pace, in which he would reach Camarth either first or just in time for Grant, so part of it was Grant’s fault. He chose not to let it sour his mood and decided to continue his research without Bartlett’s input.

  He was already made aware of the attack on Aldimar from some of the travelers who claimed to move out of Aldimar after not being able to trust their neighbors. Using his status as a known person, Grant asked them for details, to which he heard the details that Bartlett wrote in the letters in person, albeit exaggerated.

  “I’m telling you! Those reptiles ripped off their skins and started hissing at us!” said a man who seemed to be half-drunk. “It was scary as hell!”

  “I didn’t see them, but I heard about the reptile people,” said another, a more level-headed elf. “The chaos they brought with them ruined the town.”

  “I heard they caught one. I’m sure they’ll parade him through the city.”

  And so on, and so on. Grant listened to these rambling stories, hearing at least a couple dozen before noting the more coherent ones that correlated to Bartlett’s letter. From these pieces of information, he managed to come up with a story like a journalist would.

  More than a month ago, Aldimar was invaded by reptilian people he came to know as Sybarians. Unlike with the druid community, these Sybarians resorted to a more violent plan. A direct attack came from the crashing of a ship bound for the Aldimar ports, carrying Rogarian refugees. Details of why they were there was vague, so Grant concluded that the Jubari Nation, on behalf of their partnership with Manarithia after the Rogarian war, decided to help these displaced gnolls finding new life. The Sybarians used the ship, loaded it with dangerous substance, and crashed it at the bay, polluting the water.

  The invasion was successfully repelled, with many of the Sybarian infiltrators killed. A dragon burned many of them, while some were killed by others. The status of the Sybarian bodies were unknown, as the constables and the soldiers immediately responded. There was a Sybarian who surrendered, but nothing substantial came out from that piece of information.

  He also heard about the changing situation in their skirmish against Wyrith. The dragon riders fell victim to foul magick that killed the dragons after they were struck by harpoons. The wounds were superficial, but it was enough to cripple the dragons, some would not recover. As a result, Manarithia’s air superiority was gone, and they went into the defensive. With the Sybarian situation, the kingdom was in disarray.

  But he couldn’t do anything until Bartlett and Eliani arrived, so all he could do was go to the library to at least find something around Vyrnian magick. He might not know enough about it to tell his old friends about it.

  He walked out of his inn towards Camarth’s central library. A capital city’s library should have archives that had a long history, perhaps even beyond the time when Manarithia was part of Wyrith. He maintained his skepticism on this, however. Not much information beyond the founding of the Kingdom of Manarithia were found. There were many reasons for this, ranging from information suppression for political reasons to a darker truth the kingdom was trying to bury.

  Grant did not care about politics. Time moved ever forward, and what he once believed might be vilified in the future. That, and his bad experience early in life, where liars spouting half-truths and friends who only care for their own benefits, made him wary of becoming indebted to any nation, even if their intentions seemed good on the surface. His last adventuring party, all estranged, was the only friends he had before the druids.

  Now, though, that manipulation and ego-driven decisions might as well be the death of everyone unless something could be done against the danger hiding in the shadows. He was not a charismatic leader, but he was a scholar, and he should just stick to what he did best: gather knowledge.

  The library was impressive at first glance, with the interior seemingly bigger than the exterior. Grant could sense a powerful spatial spell that created this discrepancy, an advanced dimensional transcendence spell that put anything beyond the heavy, ornate front doors in a pocket space that stretched beyond a room that would only be enough for ten shelves at best. It was an effective space-saving measure, and something that Grant could appreciate.

  And in front of the colossal collection of manuscripts was an oak desk, and the librarian who maintained it. She was very unassuming and unremarkable except for the full-moon pince-nez that seemed to be hanging precariously over her nose. She busily cataloged the books that flew away on their own after she was done.

  Grant could spend some time admiring the colossal library, or he could just go straight into researching Vyrnian magick, hopefully finding materials that were accessible enough, which he felt was impossible.

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  No harm in asking. He thought to himself. If she calls the constables, I’ll just tell who I am.

  He approached the librarian, who glanced towards him long before he approached her desk. His footsteps were loud enough in the library, even though there were no echoes.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, once Grant reached the front desk.

  No point sugarcoating it. Grant then smiles to greet the librarian. “Hi. I’d like to ask you about something when you have time.”

  “Sure.” She set aside her work and adjusted her pince-nez. “What are you looking for?”

  “Books about Vyrnian magick. Anything you can find. I’ll be fine with scrolls or the grimoire. I can handle it.”

  She looked at him quizzically, either suspecting that he was studying black magick or utterly confused by his request.

  “May I ask your reason why? Vyrnian magick is one of the black arts.”

  “Let’s just say it’s a matter of kingdom security,” said Grant. “I could say the whole world, but I’m just exaggerating. Everyone loves some spice in their drama, right?”

  It wasn’t funny in the slightest, but the librarian chuckled. Grant was glad it was amusing enough for her.

  “Hold on. Let me pull it out for you.” The librarian, however, did not move from her desk, other than pulling out a register book that seemed too thin for a library this size. The size was just a fa?ade, however, as when she touched the book, she murmured an incantation under her breath, followed by a flow of magick. The book glowed momentarily before the light faded. The librarian proceeded to open the book right in the middle.

  She silently read what’s on the page before touching the pages. Nothing happened as she closed the book, other than the books materializing itself in front of her.

  Three books and two scrolls, thought Grant. Not much, but what am I expecting?

  “There is a desk there,” she said, pointing at a semi-private room. “When you’re done, just return it here. I’ll sort it out for you.”

  “Thanks.”

  Grant took the books and scrolls towards the room with him, hoping to find anything substantial for a discussion with his friends, who he hoped was arriving that day. He checked the meeting point beforehand, so he would know where it was.

  As a precaution, he cast a binding spell to stop any surprises before he opened the first book he chose: the journal of a mad wizard named Penteghast. Like many journals, it opened normally, detailing his knowledge of the magick, its risks, and the steps he took as a precaution.

  It didn’t go well. The journal slowly but surely devolved into ramblings of a madman where he praised Vyrnia in all its glory, how it opened his mind to a new and unknown frontier that was equally beautiful and terrifying, and how his ‘council’ told him to go and abandon materialistic gains. One of the passages in the middle of the journal was the last time Penteghast was lucid and coherent enough to be neutral in his observations, an entry in the year 1444.

  “I discovered a horrific truth of this black magick, though I don’t necessarily think of it differently. Black magick is black magick. Abusing it risks certain doom. That Tarinian came after I reached out to him regarding this research, taking care not to offend him by staying neutral on my stance for black magick. This researcher knew more about Vyrnian magick that I did, and it unnerved me. He gave me a formula, a ritual contained within a magick sigil, to aid my research.

  “It was a complicated sigil that I foolishly cast, not realizing that it’s a portal. There were colors. Beautiful, intoxicating colors. It danced in my eyes, burning it into my mind. My instincts told me to stop the portal, and I did. But I could not remove the color. Those beautiful colors, unlike anything I have ever seen. This magick bypassed my security measures. I’m afraid I’m lost.”

  “I don’t know how long I can maintain my sanity with those colors filling my bloody eyes and my dreams. Let this journal tell you of my folly, and a warning. Do not pursue Vyrnian magick, and don’t trust the Tarinians.”

  From there, his journals were filled with absurd descriptions of his dreams, influenced by the colors. His mind hallucinated a ‘council’ that took away all of his common senses before finally succumbing to the ‘beautiful color’. It was a disturbing read.

  It started to make Grant ponder that maybe it wasn’t a good idea trying to learn more about the magick beyond knowing its name. Penteghast was long before the time of Ordini, the wizard enslaving the Rogarian gnolls, so they couldn’t be related.

  But a Tarinian? He thought. What does Tarin have to do with Rogaria and the Sybarians?

  Tarin was a small dukedom north of Wyrith that stayed neutral in their existence ever since their defeat by the Wyrithians. The details of that battle were lost, with either the Wyrithians suppressing the information or they removed it from history. They kept their nation a mystery, not bother establishing embassies, reasoning that they had no money to do so. It was not a very popular destination, either, so no one ever written anything substantial about it.

  Yet, that made a lot of sense. A small, unassuming nation could hide dangerous secrets without anyone suspecting them except their old enemies, which had certainly lost that suspicion after 600 years had passed. The nation could be the shadow, influencing the world behind the scenes, taking great care to stay out of attention.

  And when the nations were considerably weakened, they began their offense.

  Grant could dismiss this as a conspiracy theory, but he couldn’t dismiss the danger of Vyrnian magick. Perhaps it would be best if he could develop more countermeasures with the materials he had, form a plan with Bartlett and Eliani.

  But he soon found that the plan was formed long before his involvement.

  Grant prepared to read another book when he felt the ever-familiar sensation of cold steel pressed on his throat. He immediately raised his hands, intending to surprise the assailant with his brand of magick, when….

  “I can slit your throat faster than you cast your spell, wizard,” said the voice, who Grant instantly recognize as the librarian. “I am giving you the benefit of the doubt if you answer my question.”

  “Shoot,” said Grant, keeping calm.

  “(Are you one of them?)”

  This question surprised Grant to the point of indecision. The language she said was not Common.

  “Huh?” he said.

  “(Are you one of them?)”

  “Ma’am, I’d appreciate if you ask me the question in a language I know,” he said.

  There was a tense minute where neither one of them was moving. Then, the librarian removed the dagger, prompting Grant to turn around to retaliate. She kept the dagger pointed at him.

  “I can explain,” said Grant. “I know Vyrnian magick is dangerous. I am not going to try anything. I learned my lessons from Penteghast.”

  “I know. Hence that question earlier,” she said. “In case you’re wondering, it was Sybarian.”

  The mention of that name caused Grant to be surprised. His wide-eyed expression silently told the librarian everything.

  “I’m not one of the Sybarians who attacked Aldimar,” she declared. “In fact, I’m wishing to prevent something like that to happen again. And I need your help.”