The library was quiet. The kind of quiet that only existed when the world above forgot the world below. Down here, in the underbelly of the New York Public Library, silence was not an absence of sound—it was its own presence.
Only the hum of a flickering lightbulb and the static of an old radio dared to interrupt it.
crackle… crackle…
"—in today's news, authorities are reporting another string of disappearances across the city. That makes three this month alo—"
crackle… hiss…
The sound warped and fell into a low buzz as a hand reached forward and turned the dial. The radio clicked off.
Magnus Gates exhaled through his nose, shoulders loosening beneath his neat brown-and-navy vest. His white shirt, though crisp at the start of his shift, had creased hours ago. He brushed a hand through his dark hair and scanned the rows of books around him.
"Shankar's Principles…" he muttered, tapping the spine. "Read it. Twice. What looks more compelling tonight?"
The shelves, tall and old as the city itself, gave no answer.
He wandered between the aisles, fingers tracing the edges of forgotten tomes. Dust whispered off his skin, catching faintly in the fluorescent light. The smell of paper—old, brittle, and alive in its own strange way—filled the air.
Something caught his eye.
On a small table between two shelves sat a single book, face-down, as if waiting.
The leather was dark and weathered, its spine cracked and repaired with uneven stitching. Gold filigree traced faint patterns along the edges, the sort that looked more like a sigil than decoration.
Magnus frowned. "Don't remember shelving that one."
He turned it over. The title was embossed in curling script, the gold still catching the light even through layers of age.
Traveler's Guide to the Wider Worlds
He smiled faintly. "Sounds like something I'd make up after too much caffeine."
Cradling the book, he walked back toward the old librarian's desk in the center of the basement. The shelves gave way to a circular open space where a single desk sat, surrounded by the faint glow of old reading lamps and a radio perched off to one side.
Magnus dropped into his patched chair—the one he'd fixed himself with duct tape and pride.
"Ah, Magnus," he said, patting the worn fabric. "You outdid yourself this time. Another night of glorious solitude and caffeine."
His voice echoed softly through the stacks.
He sighed. "And talking to myself again. Great."
He set the mysterious book before him. The leather was warm to the touch, which was odd, considering the chill in the basement. He ran a finger down its spine—an old habit from cataloging days—and flipped it open.
The first page wasn't filled with text, but with symbols—etched in precise lines that seemed to shimmer faintly under the light. They weren't any language he recognized: not Greek, Latin, or anything in the database.
He frowned and turned another page.
More symbols. The same strange script.
"What the shi—"
Pain knifed through his abdomen. His vision shattered into black.
The chair fell backward as he collapsed, the sound of the radio warping into an echo. For a heartbeat, he thought he heard the whisper of pages turning on their own.
Then—nothing.
⸻
He woke with a gasp.
Cold air burned his lungs as his eyes snapped open. Grass brushed his fingertips. Above him stretched a night sky that wasn't New York's. It was too clear, too vast, and dominated by two moons—one bright and silver, the other smaller, tinted in faint violet.
Magnus sat upright, clutching his chest. "What the—where—?"
The forest around him swayed in silence. His breath came ragged as his mind raced.
'Two moons. Trees. No traffic. No light pollution. Either I'm dead, dreaming, or the caffeine finally won.'
Then the sound came.
A low, distant howl that rolled through the trees like thunder.
Magnus froze. His pulse quickened as his gaze darted across the shadows. Something glinted faintly in the moonlight beside him—an old brown book.
The same one.
He picked it up slowly. The Traveler's Guide.
Its leather still felt warm.
"Okay," he whispered, "so this is one of those situations."
The pages fluttered on their own as if responding to his touch. The air around him shifted—cool, but alive. Words began to form faintly on the open page, glowing in soft silver light.
When one world calls, another must answer.
Magnus blinked. "That's not ominous at all."
He pushed himself to his feet, still clutching the book. Through the trees ahead, he saw the faint outline of a clearing. A few flickering lights—torches, maybe—glowed in the distance. Civilization.
Or something pretending to be.
He started walking, keeping low. Each step made the grass whisper underfoot. The forest's air smelled different—fresher, sharper, like rain on stone.
As he neared the clearing, the distant shapes of buildings came into focus—wooden structures clustered around a dimly lit path. A village.
Relief welled in his chest. "Finally, something normal—"
"Get down!" a voice shouted.
Magnus dropped just as two arrows sliced through the air above him, thudding into a tree.
A blinding flash followed.
BOOM!
The ground shook. Magnus shielded his eyes. When the light faded, a shape emerged from the trees to his right.
A wolf—no, something worse.
It stood two meters tall on four powerful limbs, its fur black as oil and streaked with glowing violet lines that pulsed like veins of liquid light. Its eyes burned hollow, and where its heart should've been, two gaping holes leaked shadow.
The air shimmered around it—Essence, he realized instinctively, though he couldn't explain why.
The creature growled, a sound that vibrated in his ribs.
'Nope. Nope. Nope.'
Before he could run, figures emerged from the treeline—five of them in worn leather armor, carrying bows and blades that looked straight out of a Renaissance fair. Two raised their bows again, releasing in perfect unison.
Arrows of glowing silver light pierced the beast's flank. It stumbled, snarling—then collapsed with a guttural cry.
Magnus blinked at the group, half-convinced he'd passed out at his desk and was now starring in his own fever dream.
A tall man stepped forward, sword strapped across his back, streaks of white running through his dark hair. His face bore an old scar across one cheek, his eyes sharp but kind.
"Young man," the man said, "that was a brave stunt—standing right in the wolf's path to draw its attention. Clever, if reckless."
Magnus stared. "I—I wasn't trying to—wait, what wolf? What's happening?"
The man laughed, a deep sound that carried warmth even in the cold night. "An Outsider, then. You're in good hands. Name's Dean, and this is my hunting party. You're lucky you landed near Glimmerreach. Few who fall through the Gate arrive this close to safety."
Magnus rubbed his temples. "Gate? Landed? I'm sorry, I think there's been—wait, you said Outsider?"
Dean nodded, helping him to his feet with a solid pat on the back that nearly knocked the wind from him. "You've the look of one. Confused, lost, and holding something you don't understand." His gaze flicked toward the Traveler's Guide in Magnus's hand.
The book pulsed faintly, almost as if aware of being noticed.
Dean's expression changed—a mix of recognition and caution. "You should show that to Granny when we return to town. She knows more of such relics than any of us."
"Relic?" Magnus echoed. "It's just a book."
Dean smiled. "In this world, young man, books can be far more dangerous than swords."
He turned toward his group, who were already dismantling the slain wolf with practiced ease. Its Essence leaked into the air like mist, fading into the night.
Magnus looked down at the strange tome in his hands. The gold filigree shimmered faintly in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Awaken.
The word formed across the open page—bright, insistent, alive.
Magnus's breath caught.
The air around him vibrated, a pulse deep inside his chest responding to the book's call. A faint warmth spread from his sternum, like embers stirring awake.
Then the world tilted—light, wind, sound—everything collapsing into white.