library

Anthea followed the group of scholars keeping a calculated distance. She did not get too close. Not out of etiquette, but out of pure survival instinct.

If anyone saw her sticking close to them-if any servant commented on it, if any guard asked-perhaps they would notice the obvious: that Her Excellency was not walking as the absolute mistress of this palace, but as an interloper learning to fake it as she went along.

Besides, the palace had that kind of capricious acoustics that betrayed the nervous: sometimes the marble swallowed sound like water, and sometimes it gave it back amplified, as if each vault wanted to show off its own architectural perfection. Anthea preferred that, if the echo decided to give someone away, it should not be her.

And if they came to question her, she already had a small, humble, almost ridiculous sentence ready for someone with her title.

"That I was only going down the same path by chance."

The corridor opened into a processional gallery. The style changed subtly, as if he had crossed an invisible boundary within the same house.

The marble was still white, yes, but here it was not a cold mausoleum white, but a white that glowed under scented oil lamps and torches set in niches. On the walls were friezes reminiscent of ancient temples: relief figures with severe profiles, spears, laurels, scenes of victory, processions of oaths.

Some columns had Corinthian capitals so laden with leaves that it seemed as if the stone was about to sprout, and around their shafts were arranged purple and blue roses.

Between them rose semicircular arches connecting spans like triumphal bridges and, at the top of each arch, small inscriptions in a language Anthea did not remember knowing... and yet her gaze read it half-read it, like a dream, or like residual data from a corrupted file in her brain.

The perfume was thick. Sweet, yes, but with a bitter note in the background, like ancient ink.

The scholars crossed a first inner courtyard. Anthea saw it out of the corner of her eye: a perfect rectangle, with a central pond and, on either side, long planters overflowing with purple and blue roses.

There was only still water, cool shade and the faint murmur of a hidden fountain. For an instant, the place loosened his chest.

-Mental note: When all this stops spinning in my head, if I survive my own ignorance, I'll come back here.

At the edge of the pond, a phrase carved into the marble brushed his mind.

"Take a deep breath. Let the water carry away what you cannot carry."

Leaving the courtyard behind, the group resumed their passage through a narrower corridor, as if the palace, after offering them respite, was leading them back into its bowels.

The corridor they followed next was long, almost oppressive in its length. On either side were lined up dark wooden doors, all identical, all closed. Anthea counted them without meaning to: ten, fifteen, maybe more.

She had no idea what was behind them-administrative offices? Secret archives? Low-level NPC bedrooms? Or nothing. Just doors that existed because the palace was too big for them all to have any real purpose.

He didn't care to find out. He had enough to do with maintaining his "Your Excellency" facade.

At the end of the hallway, the space opened into a wide, ceremonious hall. The walls were a pale shade of cream, and the ceiling rose in a vault painted with clouds and stars that mimicked a perfect night sky.

In the center of the vault, suspended by wrought iron chains, a huge chandelier glowed with dozens of candles that cast dancing shadows on the paintings. It was a piece of craftsmanship that screamed wealth and ancient power.

At the far end of the hall, wide marble stairs ascended to a massive dark wood doorway flanked by tall, ornate columns. The columns were carved with leaf reliefs and decorated with flowers.

The door itself bore a carving of winged serpents entwined with flowers, so realistic that it almost seemed to move with the shadows of the candles.

The scholars stopped in front of the carved doors.

The doors opened on their own.

No creaking. Effortlessly. As if the building itself recognized the authority of those who approached.

Now with the door open, the scholars entered.

Anthea stood outside for a moment, a prudent distance from the threshold. Her heart pounded hard against her ribs, but there, with the corridor at her back and the hall breathing stillness, she had a perfect excuse to pause.

He moved closer then, just close enough, and let his gaze roam over the relief with feigned artistic appreciation. The winged serpents coiled with impossible grace, and between their bodies the flowers appeared carved with a patience that bordered on devotion. The dark wood seemed to drink the candlelight and return it in vivid shadows.

-The level of detail is absurd. If this were a game, the developers would have spent half the budget on this texture alone.

If anyone could see it still, that would be enough. Admiration. A simple whim of the owner of the place.

Then she took a breath, composed her expression into a mask of indifference and crossed the threshold.

And then she saw it.

The library stretched out before her not like a room, but like a cathedral dedicated to knowledge. The space was vast, impossibly high, with bookshelves ascending until they were lost in the gloom of the vaulted ceiling.

Between the shelves, wrought-iron walkways connected different levels, forming an aerial network of spiraling staircases and suspension bridges. Some stairs spun on themselves like snails; others branched off in unexpected directions, defying gravity and architectural logic.

The air smelled of old paper, leather, candle wax and something else: an herbal, almost medicinal fragrance that seemed to emanate from the pages themselves. Perhaps it was the herbal dust that still lingered trapped between the folds of old books, or maybe it was the faint smoke of incense wafting from small, strategically placed braziers.

The tables were long, of dark wood polished to gleam like black mirrors, and on them rested neat stacks of volumes, rolled scrolls, bronze astrolabes, armillary spheres representing constellations Anthea did not recognize, magnifying glasses with ivory handles, golden ink pens, flasks of ink in shades of violet and deep black.

Anthea stopped by a nearby table. On it was an open book, its pages covered with circular diagrams and annotations in multiple languages.

Ahead, on a secluded table, was a collection of what could only be high-level spell ingredients: vials labeled with names in a runic language, dried roots, powders that emitted a faint light, pressed petals, shards of crystal, vials of essential oils arranged in velvet-lined boxes.

The chandeliers hanging from the ceiling were made of aged brass, with smoky crystals that cast warm, soft light on the shelves.

Anthea looked up to the upper galleries. In one of them, a solitary figure was reading under a portable lamp, completely motionless. In another, someone was dragging a rolling ladder along an endless shelf.

Anthea swallowed, feeling small before the magnitude of the accumulated information.

-I don't know where to begin. Not even remotely. Does this have an index? A search engine? Or am I supposed to know where everything is by magical osmosis?

He looked to the right: shelves to infinity. To the left: more shelves. At the top: walkways that looked like they were designed by Escher. And in the center, tables full of books that probably contained secrets capable of destroying nations, but which to her were just expensive decoration.

Anthea stood in the same spot, trying to radiate an authority she didn't feel.

Before she could decide which direction to feign with conviction, a figure materialized beside her.

Literally. A short-range teleportation effect, clean and silent.

One second there was no one there, and the next, an old man dressed in a dark robe of ceremonious cut was in front of her, bowing with a reverence so deep that Anthea felt the absurd urge to ask him to get up before he broke his back.

The robe had embroidery around the edges: circular symbols, interlocking runes, something that definitely screamed "high level archmage" or "chief librarian with maximized stats."

The man looked up. He had clear, piercing eyes, and a white beard so well-groomed it appeared to have been combed with architectural intent.

"What is Your Excellency's wish?"

He asked in a soft, but firm voice, the voice of someone accustomed to the silence of books.

Anthea blinked, her brain struggling to process the sudden appearance.

"Ah..."

She blurted out without thinking, breaking character for a second.

"And you are...?"

The old man smiled with infinite patience, like that of a grandfather with a forgetful child, or that of an NPC programmed to be staunchly loyal.

"It is understandable that Your Excellency does not remember me at this time, with the burdens of the empire on your shoulders. I am Erasmus Thalion, former wandering wizard who wandered the world for decades in search of knowledge and purpose. It was through His Excellency's unparalleled generosity that I obtained this position as Head Librarian of the Palace."

He paused, as if the words themselves were a sacred tribute.

"It is an honor that someone as extraordinary as yourself has granted me a home among these books, a haven where I can serve with humility and dedication. I have sought to care for this collection with the same care with which a gardener tends his most prized flowers."

Anthea nodded slowly, keeping her face impassive as her mind screamed.

-Of course. Of course. I gave her the job. I, who until two days ago was worrying about paying the rent, am apparently the patron of errant wizards.-

Erasmus bowed his head slightly, awaiting orders.

"So, Your Excellency...what is your wish on this occasion...is there a specific topic you seek to explore, or perhaps a particular text you require to consult?"

Anthea took a deep breath, summoning her best performance.

"I just came to read some history books."

She said in the most neutral, regal voice she could muster.

"Sometimes it's... comforting to revisit past events from another perspective. Even when one lived them, memory can be... selective. Chroniclers often capture details that direct experience overlooks."

He paused dramatically, as if reflecting on the nature of time.

"Also, temporal distance allows one to see patterns that were invisible at the time. It's useful for...contextualizing present decisions."

-Good one. Almost sounds like something a wise ruler would say, and not someone who needs an instruction manual for his own life,-

Anthea thought.

Erasmus nodded enthusiastically, as if he had just heard the most profound statement of the age.

"Of course, Your Excellency. The wisdom to review history with renewed eyes is a virtue few possess. Allow me to personally escort you to the history section."

That said, he turned with surprising fluency for someone of his apparent age and began to walk among the tables.

Anthea followed him, but something in her mind clicked.

-Personally?

If she had been in her old world-being a nobody in a gray office-the most she would have received was a vague gesture toward an address. But here, the Head Librarian, a wizard who could probably incinerate armies, was guiding her as if it were his sacred duty.

Anthea felt a shiver run down her spine. The power this body wielded was terrifying.

Erasmus led her through a maze of shelves, up a spiral staircase that creaked slightly under her steps, across a suspension bridge, and finally down another, wider staircase that ended in a section distinctly different from the rest.

Here, the bookshelves were older, the wood darker, almost black, emanating a palpable aura of antiquity. The books were arranged with obsessive precision.

The lamps were dimmer, and the air smelled different: drier, with a hint of cedar and centuries-old dust.

"Here it is, Your Excellency."

Erasmus said with a bow.

"The imperial history section. If you need anything-anything-do not hesitate to call on me. I'll be close by."

Anthea nodded, trying not to look as overwhelmed as she felt.

"Thank you, Erasmus."

The old man smiled with genuine warmth and quietly withdrew, disappearing among the bookshelves as discreetly as he had arrived.

Anthea was left alone, surrounded by thousands of years of bound history.

-Well, time for the truth. Time for the truth. Who the hell is Anthea Rosengard?

She reached out to the nearest shelf and picked up the first volume that caught her eye with its luxurious binding: dark leather with gold lettering that read Chronicles of the Zerathrax Empire: The Early Years.

He opened it carefully, turning the vellum pages until he found a chapter entitled "The Birth of the Empire."

He read silently, absorbing every word like water in a desert, trying to connect the dots of this new reality.

Apparently, he was inside an empire that had conquered an entire continent. The Zerathrax Empire. And she ruled a key principality within this superpower.

The empire had been founded by Ušumgarza Ba'alu Rymokjaféts, the Founder. The first dragon. King of kings.

And, according to the chronicles, close friend of the body she now occupied.

Anthea felt a knot in her stomach.

-Great. Perfect. Not only am I a high-ranking noblewoman, but I'm the 'best friend' of the equivalent of a dragon god. No pressure.

She read on, her eyes skimming the lines greedily.

Ušumgarza had not sprung from nothing. He had been born from the blood and flesh of Zerathrax, the primeval god of chaos. Legends said that Zerathrax had come into the world out of curiosity, fascinated by the life forms that had spontaneously arisen in his absence.

There he met a human man grazing sheep in the hills to the east. Zerathrax, adopting a humanoid form, struck up a conversation with the human. Against all logic, they became friends.

Time passed. The human had a daughter: Anthea.

Envious - or perhaps inspired - Zerathrax created his own child from himself: Ušumgarza.

More time passed, and Zerathrax saw that his human friend was dying of old age. He offered him immortality. But the human refused, claiming that he was born a mortal and would die as such.

However, he added that his daughter might have a different opinion.

So Zerathrax asked little Anthea if she wanted to be immortal.

She, with a childish smile, answered yes.

Thus, Anthea received blood and a dragon core from Zerathrax, making her the world's first half-dragon.

Anthea dropped the book on the table with a thud that echoed in the silence of the library.

-Semi-dragon? Immortal?

She looked down at her pale hands. They looked normal, human. But under the skin, according to this book, ran the power of a chaos god.

-I'm not just trapped in another body. I'm piloting a biological war tank in the shape of a woman, blessed by a primordial deity.

He took a deep breath, trying to calm the trembling in his fingers, and opened the book again.

Some time passed, and the human died. Zerathrax, in his mourning, turned the human into the Constellation of the Shepherd, so that he could always see his friend in the night sky. He then departed, but left Ušumgarza a wife, created in the same way, so that a new race could be born: the dragons.

Thus, Ušumgarza, his descendants and Anthea, began the conquest.

First the empire of the humans fell. Then the elves. Then the giants, the lamias. Nothing could stop them.

Thus was born the Great Zerathrax Empire.

Anthea turned several more pages, looking for the current state of affairs.

She found something curious. The Rymokjaféts dynasty-the bloodline of Ušumgarza-had withdrawn from direct rule.

They claimed that, as representatives of chaos, their direct rule would impede the natural evolution of the empire. Their absolute power would stagnate change.

So the Rymokjaféts convened a council in Dandain, which would eventually become the administrative capital. The throne would no longer be inherited directly from the dragons: the new emperor would be chosen by the prince electors and the nobility.

The old capital, Fawdaa, was left behind. A huge island floating on a colossal lake, visible from the domains of Anthea.

From there, the dragons watched. They advised. And intervened if necessary. But they let "mortals" (and immortal half-dragons like her) play politics.

Anthea closed the book slowly.

-So... Anthea is not only immortal and powerful. She is a living relic. The first of her kind. The honorary aunt of the entire race of Imperial dragons.

She stared at the book's cover, as if the golden letters could offer her some more comforting answer, like those systems she saw in novels.

-What about me? I can barely remember if I turned off the stove in my previous life.

He sighed, a sound that was lost in the vastness of the library.

—Well. At least now I know who I'm supposed to be. Now I just have to figure out how to play the role of my life without anyone realizing I'm not Anthea—