The market was stirring from its slumber, a patchwork of early light and color. The air smelled of dew and freshly baked bread, mingled with the sharp tang of salt from the nearby sea. Merchants yawned and set up their stalls, the clatter of crates and rustle of canvas canopies rising into the soft dawn like a quiet symphony.
Zorya walked slowly, the hem of her dress whispering against the cobblestones. A woman with henna-stained hands arranged bunches of golden marigolds in woven baskets, their petals bright against the grey morning. A young boy chased after a chicken, his laughter ringing out like a bell. A baker was setting out warm loaves on a wooden cart, their crusts crackling in the morning air.
Zorya passed by them all, her gaze soft, her thoughts elsewhere.
Her steps led her down a narrow lane, the market slowly giving way to quieter streets. Stone buildings leaned close together, their walls etched with age, vines curling lazily along their facades. At the end of the lane, nestled between an old clockmaker's shop and a tea merchant's house, stood the Velthram Library.
It was an ancient building, its stones dark with time, smoothed by countless hands and centuries of wind and rain. The tall, arched windows were framed by intricate carvings of ivy and stars, and the heavy wooden doors bore the emblem of an open book, its pages inscribed with symbols from a forgotten language.
The library had stood in this town for over three hundred years, its foundation laid by the first scholars of the old kingdom. They said the stones used to build it were quarried from the cliffs near the sea, the very same cliffs where legends claimed the stars had fallen long ago.
Inside, the air smelled of parchment and dust, of ink and old leather. The shelves, some towering all the way to the ceiling, held books bound in every color—emerald green, deep sapphire, warm russet, and soft cream. They lined the walls like silent guardians, their spines worn, their titles in gilded script or faded by time.
A spiral staircase wound its way to the upper levels, where glass windows let in shafts of light that caught the dust motes swirling like tiny stars. In the far corner, an old globe rested beside a fireplace, its surface marked with ancient maps of lands long vanished.
The library had always felt like a sacred place to Zorya—like stepping into another world, a quiet refuge where the weight of her worries seemed to lift. It was here she often came to read, to dream, to wonder about what lay beyond the sea, or what secrets the books whispered when no one was listening.
Today, though, as she stepped inside, she felt the ache of something missing.
She brushed her fingers along the spines of the books absently, her thoughts a distant hum, her heart still heavy from the morning at the sea.
Her gaze drifted to the central table where a thick, leather-bound volume lay open, its pages filled with careful, curling script. The librarian's cat, an old, drowsy thing named Myrrh, curled lazily nearby, her tail flicking as if in tune with the slow rhythm of the library.
Zorya exhaled softly, the sound barely more than a breath.
She had come here to think, to forget for a moment the ache of her own powerlessness, the quiet fears that stirred beneath her skin.
And so, she sat—folding herself into a quiet corner, letting the library's stillness wrap around her like a warm shawl.
The books would keep her company. The stories, at least, did not care whether or not she had powers.
Zorya wandered deeper into the library's hush, her fingers trailing over spines worn smooth by time. Her heart felt heavy, a dull weight she couldn't quite shake. She found herself drifting toward the front desk, where the librarian sat—Mara Hollomere, her dark hair swept into a loose knot, a pair of glasses sliding down her nose as she hunched over a ledger.
Mara looked up as the soft creak of Zorya's boots on the wooden floor caught her attention. Her brown eyes, warm like a well-loved book, softened as she saw the girl.
"Ah, little Zory," Mara greeted with a tired smile, her voice a gentle rasp, like the soft turning of pages. "What brings you here so early? Couldn't sleep?"
Zorya hesitated, then shook her head slightly. "Just… needed some air. And the books, I suppose."
Mara's gaze lingered on her for a beat, as if reading something between the lines that Zorya wasn't saying. She closed the ledger with a quiet thump and folded her hands on the desk.
"You always come here when something's on your mind," Mara said softly. "I've watched you since you were barely tall enough to peek over the shelves. You sit in the same corner, staring at the same books… but I wonder if you're really reading them, or if you're listening for something else."
Zorya felt a lump in her throat. She lowered her gaze, brushing a stray lock of midnight-blue hair behind her ear.
Mara's voice softened further. "You're looking for answers, aren't you?"
Zorya nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly.
"I just…" Her voice caught. She tried again. "I thought… by now… I'd know what I'm meant to be. Everyone else seems to have their place. Thalassa… even Vair."
Mara leaned back, her expression thoughtful, eyes distant as if she were peering into a place far beyond the library walls.
"Power doesn't make a person, Zorya," she said quietly, almost as if confessing a secret. "It's what you do when there's no power in your hands that defines who you are."
Zorya's gaze lifted, searching Mara's face.
The librarian's smile was tinged with sadness, a smile that had seen too many goodbyes. "You've already been carrying a power, in a way. Taking care of your family. Staying strong when no one asked you to. That's no small thing."
Zorya swallowed, her scarlet eyes shimmering under the dim light.
For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the soft rustle of pages and the ticking of the old clock on the far wall.
Then Zorya asked, almost in a whisper, "Do you think I'll ever find my place?"
Mara's smile grew, warm and quiet, like the glow of an ember.
"You're not a story that's finished yet, little Zory. You're still writing your pages."
Zorya looked down at her hands, pale and delicate against the dark wood of the desk. A small, reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her lips.
"Thank you, Mara," she said softly.
Mara simply nodded, turning back to her ledger as if nothing had been said at all, though the kindness lingered between them like the fading scent of old parchment.
She went looking for a book to kill some time,
Zorya's fingers brushed along the spines, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she paused on a familiar title, the golden letters dulled by age:
"Alice's Adventures in Wonderland."
Or… was it Alice's Adventures in the Underworld?
She blinked, frowning slightly, as if the letters had shifted under her gaze. But no, it was just her imagination—surely it was. She tilted her head and let her dark blue hair cascade over her shoulder, its sheen catching the faint glow of the library lamps.
With a soft rustle, she drew the book from the shelf, the weight of it familiar, almost comforting. The leather was cracked, the corners worn smooth by countless hands, as if the story itself had been waiting for her to turn its pages.
She drifted to her usual spot, an old armchair by the high window where the morning light slanted through the dust. Sitting there, she opened the book, and the scent of aged paper rose like a whisper of memory.
"Alice was beginning to get very tired of sitting by her sister on the bank…"
The words curled in her mind, the story unfolding like a dream. She followed Alice through the rabbit hole, down and down into a world that wasn't quite right—where logic twisted, and time looped, and nothing was as it seemed.
Zorya's scarlet eyes lingered on the illustrations—whimsical, yet unsettling. The Mad Hatter pouring endless tea. The Queen of Hearts crying for heads. The Cheshire Cat grinning as if it knew secrets no one else could see.
She felt a strange kinship with Alice, a girl caught in a world that didn't make sense, where rules seemed to change just when you thought you understood them.
With a sigh, Zorya closed the book, resting it on her lap.
"Perhaps I'm in my own Wonderland," she thought, gazing out the tall window where the petals of the strange, blue-purple tree danced in the breeze.
The world outside looked almost too perfect—too still, like a stage set frozen between acts.