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I emerge from my chamber to find the sanctuary transformed.
Overnight, the Keepers have prepared for us. A long table has been set up near the communal fire, its surface covered with parchment, ink pots, and candles. Chairs have been arranged in a semicircle facing it. And already, a line has formed — hybrids and sympathizers, young and old, their faces carrying the weight of stories they've been waiting ten years to tell.
Soren is already there, organizing papers, adjusting his spectacles, speaking in low, gentle tones to a woman with burn scars on her arms. He looks up when I approach, and his expression shifts — concern, warmth, something deeper he's still trying to hide.
"You didn't sleep," he says.
"Neither did you."
"I never sleep. Libraries don't require rest." He attempts
