Once Betrayed Never Forgotten

hapter 12: A Labyrinth of Literature

The scream echoes through the cavernous library, filling my heart with dread and making the hairs on the back of my arms stand up. It’s followed by a howl of fear, or defiance – it’s hard to tell

which.

Whatever it is, it sounded close – maybe a few hundred feet away, down the passage.

It’s also unmistakably the scream of a man, deep and guttural. If there was any chance it could have been my mom, I would have already run out the door towards the sound, but now I stand frozen to the spot.

Aleksandr motions for me to stay put, murmuring “Wait here, small one.”

In a morgent, he’s vanished into thin air. He’s there one moment, and gone the next. Text © owned by NôvelDrama.Org.

Gah, hate when he does that disappearing trick.

Against my better judgement, I creep across the library’s threadbare persian carpet, up to the open door. I peek down into the passageway, hoping to see who or what is screaming, but the corridor is empty. The screaming has stopped, and I have no idea which direction it was coming from. So rather than venturing out and trying to find the source of the sound, I decide it would be

wiser to explore the library.

There might be something useful here.

The silence lingers in the air like a spider’s silk, delicate yet suffocating. The room stretches out before me, a vast expanse of knowledge, secrets, and stories waiting to be unravelled. The ultimate library, the kind I’ve only ever seen in movies or read about in epic fantasies. This place

is the real deal.

“Well, isn’t this just the perfect backdrop for my own personal horror story?” I mutter under my breath, the sarcasm a thin veil over the shiver that dances down my spine.

The sheer scale of it all is mind–boggling. Books upon books upon books. I bet there are thousands in here, maybe more. Each one a portal to another world, a chance to escape the creeping shadows that tug at the edges of my mind. But escaping isn’t my goal. Understanding, unravelling – that’s what I need.

Where to start though? My eyes sweep across the towering shelves, the gold–lettered spines gleaming with an almost mocking allure.

I head towards the wrought–iron spiral staircase at the library’s centre, climbing up it until I reach

Chacter To A Laitytinth of Literature

the third level, which is only half way up this ridiculously vast space. My decision to stop at the third level was partly due to my legs getting tired, and partly because three is my favourite number.

walk over to the booklined wall, already feeling overwhelmed by the sheer number of books.

Fiction, science, philosophy, art, biology, history, and more – they’re all here. My gaze settles on a particularly omate section filled with what look like ancient leather–bound tomes. Maybe the answers are tucked away in one of these antiques. Or, you know, it could be a trap, and I’ll end up reading a cursed story that’ll make me a character in a gothic novel.

“Guess there’s only one way to find out. I mutter to myself, the bravery in my voice doing its best to mask the uncertainty that’s threatening to claw its way out of my chest.

My boots make a soft sound on the stone floor as I step further into the library, the blue torchlight casting eerie shadows that dance across the walls like spectres. I can’t help but marvel at the atmosphere – like a fairy tale gone wrong, twisted into something dark and enchanting. It’s as if each book holds a piece of a puzzle, and I’m here to gather them all and form the big picture. Or something equally cryptic.

I scan the rows, eyes flickering over the titles. Latin, French, German, and then – ah. English. The language of my people. I make my way to the section, running my fingers over the spines. Some of them are wom, their edges frayed with the touch of countless readers. Others stand tall and proud, their gold letters gleaming with an almost regal arrogance.

“Alright, my bookish comrades, who’s got the dirt on the Vasiliev family and their charming but decidedly creepy castle?” I murmur, my voice conspiratorial, as if the books might whisper their secrets to me if I ask just right.

My fingers graze over one title, a particularly aged leather cover that seems to exude an aura of mystery. The leather is smooth yet slightly rough, like the calluses on a guitarist’s fingers. It’s heavy, and when I open it, the scent that wafts from the pages is intoxicating – old paper, ink, and a hint of something else, something I can’t quite put my finger on.

I sit down at one of the nearby tables, the torchlight casting my own silhouette on the aged wood. The book lies before me, its pages ready to divulge their secrets. I turn the first page, and my heart skips a beat at the sheer beauty of it. Intricate illustrations, carefully hand–drawn, dance across the parchment. It’s like stepping back in time, into a world where books were not just vessels for stories, but works of art in themselves.

As I flip through the pages, I realise the book is a collection of illuminated manuscripts. They range from tales of knights and chivalry to the works of ancient philosophers. Each page holds a piece of history, a fragment of the human experience. I’m enthralled, lost in this otherworldly

Chapter 12: A Labyrinth of Literature

place where time seems to stand still. The book tells a multitude of stories, but there are no depictions of bats or demons or murderous bloodsucking vampires, nothing to suggest a connection to my current situation.

With a reluctant sigh, I close the book, setting it aside. My search for information about the Vasiliev family seems fruitless in this volume, but that doesn’t mean I’m giving up. I cast my gaze across the shelves again, noticing the variety – leather, faded jewel–toned fabric, even scrolls across the shelves again, noticing the

rolled up like secret messages. Some of these books must be centuries old, their pages steeped in the wisdom and stories of generations.

My eyes settle on an old tome that stands out from the rest, bound in faded ruby red fabric. It’s slightly larger than the others, its cover adorned with intricate patterns of vines and flowers, gilded in gold. Looking closer, I realise that the vines and flowers are actually climbing roses, a tangle of cruel sharp thorns, with the tiny figures of knights impaled on their tips, the skeletal features visible beneath the open visors.

Just like the carvings on the wardrobe in my chambers. Finally, I’m getting somewhere.

The title is faint and only half–visible, but it seems to beckon me, promising the answers I so desperately need. I can vaguely make out the letters “A BL—D SO–KED HIST—Y“, while the rest of the lettering has faded beyond recognition.

“Well, well, what have we here?” I murmur, my fingers dancing over the worn edges of the cover. The leather feels cool against my skin, like a whispered promise.

Just as I’m about to open the book and look inside, a cold voice speaks behind

1. me.

“What, pray tell, do you think you’re doing?”

Chapter Comments

EJ

POST

uhh.. reading a book, hmph. no one told me I couldn’t! That’s what I’d said. lol. oh who am I kidding, if probably still be fighting with Seraphina about going to my chambers.. VIEW 1