The Mage

Chpt 2: The Library

(Serenity’s POV)

This morning, I woke up with many questions swirling in my mind. So much so that my head pounded, and the images in the paintings lining our castle walls captivated me, making my world spin. The pain cut through my forehead, making me wish I could go back to sleep and stop trying to process these thoughts.

I made it a habit to walk these halls, admiring the art and contemplating what each piece represented. However, simply observing them didn’t bring me any closer to the truth. At first, I thought the clues would speak to me, just like the paint did on those canvases. Each brush stroke is filled with mystery and life. Their life whispers; You are home, dear Serenity. Nothing compares to what lies beyond these images. Even though I understood their story, felt their breath on my skin, and saw the beauty each one held, I still did not understand why. Why did our fairy foreseers create these images? What was so important about them that they were placed in our castle?

I couldn't just wrestle with these questions swirling in my mind; I needed to find the truth. So, with a deep sigh, I jumped out of bed onto the gold marbled flooring that covered my bedroom and the entire palace. It was cold against my bare feet, making me instinctively want to crawl back into bed. I pushed this feeling down deep and stood up firmly. Each step felt like walking on ice, but I didn’t care. I kept walking until I was out of my room and into the hallway.

At the doorway, I paused, thinking about what I should do next. Then I thought of my sister, how she would read for hours to discover new things, "Look, Seren! This book shows one of our greatest alchemists of the past, Jerus. It says he used to craft powerful elixirs, even healing Queen Liana, our grandmother." Nanari would always look for books with answers. Unlocking the past just by flipping a page. Her eyes would constantly move across the page with such grace, taking in every word with a smile dancing in those ocean pearls.

I could try my sister's research method. So, I made a sharp right turn from my doorway. My mind focused on my destination, determined to learn. Each step I took was vigorous, with my arms swinging forcefully at my sides. I wasn’t trying to understand our past, but our future. To do that, I needed to read our current foreseer volumes. Those books kept piling up, constantly changing with each new vision.

I continued my journey toward the library, winding through many twists and turns. I thought of one of my favorite seers, Magdalene Fareway. Many say she’s just crazy, believing she can see the future. But Magdalene was the fairy who worked on one of my favorite paintings — the strange person with auburn hair. Magdalene claims the portrait is of a princess, a future one who will hold the power of the sun. This means she can control light — a rare ability that only the greatest fairies have ever known how to wield. Our current light wielder is Peter Hethen (heh-thin), a boy around my age, six hundred years old. Still a young fairy, looking about nineteen, he’s a living study in light and motion. I’ve watched him train more times than I can count, my sketchbook resting on my knee while he moved like a blade of sun. He is kind in a way that makes me clumsy with words. I’ve never told him how I feel. I have a crush on him — a small, private thing that makes my cheeks warm whenever I think of his name, and I’ve never even managed to say hello without my voice shrinking. My stomach does a small, traitorous flip. Instead, I keep my sketches and my secrets tucked away, watching him from the safe distance of a page.

Upon entering the library, I looked around at how vast it was. It felt like a kingdom of its own, with tall shelves lining the walls all the way up to the ceiling. Shimmering magic flickered throughout the environment and around each book. I couldn't help but appreciate how truly magical this place was. As I strolled up to the shelves, I ran my fingers between the books, feeling their rough texture against my fingertips. Soon, a small pixie darted over to me as quickly as I could blink. Library pixies are small, but you can see their facial expressions. The one that greeted me, I have met before. Sadie was her name.

She bowed with a flourish that blurred her wings. “Good morning, Princess Serenity. Do you need help finding anything?” Her voice was sweet and delicate, but I understood her all the same. She was a gentle pixie compared to the many rowdy pixies zooming around in the library.

I smiled, grateful for her help. "Yes, I'm trying to find the foreseer volumes. Just the section of books; I plan to study several." Sadie darted ahead like a comet of curiosity.

She led me through the aisles until we reached a shelf that seemed to glow with a different kind of light. "Here you are, princess, don't get too caught up in what the future holds." The foreseer section is a place of careful dusting and whispered reverence. Books are treated like sleeping things.

I scanned rows of spines until one caught my eye — a golden seam that shimmered like a promise. I pulled it out. Morgan Magic by Magdalene Fareway. Her signature curled across the bottom of the cover like a vine. My fingers trembled as I opened it. The first pages weren’t a straightforward history but a jumble of visions, sketches, and notes. Magdalene wrote in riddles, in phrases that felt like half-spoken spells. I read until the words blurred and then read again. There were images of light and shadow, of a woman holding the sun in her hands, of a child bound in ink. Some dates didn’t mean anything to me, and the names sounded like echoes.

A sound made me lift my eyes — footsteps, steady and sure. Peter stood at the end of the aisle, a ray of lamplight highlighting the edges of his hair. He wore a training cloak over one shoulder and had a faint smear of dust on his knuckles from practice. He looked exactly like the sketches in my pad, and for a moment, I forgot how to breathe.

“Princess,” he said, his voice warm enough to make the library feel cozier. He moved closer, his eyes briefly checking the book in my hands. “Magdalene’s work. Not the kind of thing to skim before breakfast.”

“It’s not dangerous,” I said, though my voice came out thin. “It’s... interesting.”

He smiled naturally and disarmingly, and for a moment, the library felt less like a place of warnings and more like a room with a window. “Magdalene sees more than most. She paints what she must, not what she wants.”

I wanted to tell him about the painting, about the memory that pressed against my mind in the gallery. Instead, I slightly closed the book and asked, “Do you ever wonder if the foreseers are right?”

Peter’s gaze softened. “Sometimes, foreseers are like untamed darkness. They tell you what they wish, not what is. You still have to decide whether the future can change.”

His answer made me smile, and the feeling caught me off guard. He leaned against the shelf, close enough for me to see the tiny scar above his eyebrow from a sparring match gone wrong. “Are you studying prophecy or practicing your skills?”

“Both,” I admitted. I enjoy understanding those who portray worlds beyond ours.

He looked at my hands, then at the book. “Be careful. Prophecy tends to make people obsess over the one thing they can't control: time.”

“I know.” I did not know. The words felt like a lie even as I said them.

Peter straightened. “I should go. Training calls.” He hesitated, then added, “If you find anything troubling, just remember the future is not set in stone. The world's secrets weigh heavily on many hearts.” He spoke like a friend, as if he had carried a secret and learned to fold it small. When he turned to leave, he paused, fingers brushing the spine of a nearby book as if recalling something, then smiled back at me with a warmth that eased my chest. I watched him go and felt, oddly, that he had left a small, private light behind.

After he left, the library felt bigger and emptier. I picked up Morgan Magic again and read until my eyes blurred. Magdalene’s handwriting shifted from prophecy to story, and then to listing names. One name was circled in a shaky hand: Magdalene’s Warning: Remember The Black Book. A marginal note in a different ink read: Do not let this fall into the wrong hands — H.

H, my father’s initial. My stomach dropped. I flipped through the pages faster, searching for context. There were notes, more of Magdalene's riddles that spread across the page, and then a passage that drained the light from my soul out of my chest.

Some books consume souls, with darkness hidden deep inside. Some books are better left untouched, as evil can leak into the outside world, corrupting minds until they forget who they once were. Watch those who seem to fade from memory — remember their names.

The words felt like a mirror held up to the castle. I thought of my father’s laugh, of how he dismissed Nanari’s name as if it were a joke. I thought of the portrait and the whisper of the memory. The library hummed around me, and the foreseer’s ink seemed to pulse.

A soft cough made me look up. Lysa, the garden keeper and healer, stood at the end of the aisle with a basket of dried herbs, freshly picked from our magical garden. Her face is a map of small kindnesses. She inclined her head. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost, Serenity.”

“Not a ghost,” I said. “A prophecy.”

She smiled, but her eyes revealed no warmth. “Prophecies are weighty things. They rest on your shoulders, heavy and risky too. Be cautious about what you let them teach you.”

“I will,” I said, though I didn't know how to be careful with something that felt like a seed planted under my ribs.

I closed the book and took it to a reading table. The pages felt warm from my hands. I followed Magdalene’s words as if they were history in the making, her small illustrations of what was to come as if they might disappear from the text. The more I read, the more the words became tangled.

When I left the library, the atmosphere in the hallways had changed. Servants carried trays, warriors practiced sword forms in the courtyard, and somewhere a mystical bell rang for midday. I walked slowly; the book was tucked under my arm like contraband.

At the practice yard, I paused. Peter was there, training with a partner. Light arced from his hands like a ribbon, soon taking shape into a trident. He moved with a grace that made the world seem orderly. He and his partner appeared to dance as they dueled. I watched until Peter swung his opponent down with a single strike, targeting the leg. I observed him closely, studying his motions a little too eagerly as he dueled, mesmerized and craving more. Quickly, I pulled out my journal. My pencil hovered over the page; the sketch that followed was honest but straightforward — a line for the curve of his jaw, a smudge for the laugh I kept hearing in my head.

He caught my eye and waved me over. “You read Magdalene,” he said without preamble.

“What did she say about The Black Book?”

My heart was pounding. How did he know that phrase? I hadn’t spoken it aloud. I opened my mouth then closed it again. “She warned about books that eat souls,” I finally said. “She said it’s best left alone, to remember those who forget.”

Peter’s expression shifted. The casual warmth hardened into something sharper. “That is old magic,” he said. “Dangerous and rare. If your father marked that book, it means he knows more than he’s letting on.”

“He marked it,” I said. “H. He wrote a note.”

Peter’s jaw tightened. “Keep it hidden. If the wrong people know, they will come for it.”

“Who are the wrong people?” I asked, though the question felt foolish.

He didn't respond right away. Instead, he reached out and gently touched my shoulder like a friend, a small, casual gesture that made my skin prickle. “People who want power,” he said.

“People who would trade their souls for power.”

His words hit hard. I thought about the portrait, the memory in the gallery, and Magdalene’s mysterious words. The castle suddenly felt smaller and more fragile, as if it could crumble into dust in the darkness.

That night, I thought of Morgan Magic and lay awake listening to the castle breathe. The words from the book spun through my mind, making me wonder about the many mysteries surrounding the castle. Who was Morgan Magic? Who was the woman Magdalene had painted? I tried to picture the woman Magdalene depicted, the portrait she had painted in the gallery. It felt like she was trying to speak to me, to warn me about the future. I felt deep in my bones that this memory, this vision, was her way of communicating. Even if her spirit had not truly visited, in that moment, the castle felt fragile, as if a single wrong breath could bring everything crashing down.

In the darkness, I made a promise to myself: I would uncover what Magdalene was trying to hide. I would find out why my father marked a foreseer’s volume with just a single letter. I would keep the book safe, even if it meant carrying a secret that might turn dangerous.