Before I could admire my new spell for more than a few seconds, the door on the far side of the room slammed open so hard it bounced off the wall.

  In stomped a dwarf.

  A short, broad, ink-stained, wild-bearded dwarf. His beard was a tangled mess of white and gray streaks tied in uneven braids, each with tiny metal rings shaped like quills. His eyebrows were so long they nearly touched his cheeks, and his round spectacles magnified his eyes to cartoonish proportions.

  He froze in the doorway.

  His pupils shrank.

  He took in the shattered tables, the burning lamp, the scattered ash, the spear holes, the ripped book-pages everywhere, and one Bookling still smoldering in a corner. Then he let out a horrified gasp.

  “WHAT IN THE GRAND HALL OF AUTHORS HAPPENED HERE?”

  His voice boomed like a tiny, furious thunderclap. He pointed a thick, trembling finger at me, his braided beard quivering with rage.

  “BOY! Are YOU responsible for THIS?”

  I blinked at him, looked around at the room, then back at him. “…Define ‘responsible.’”

  The dwarf’s jaw dropped. “Ohhh no ye don’t! No dodgin’ the question! Look at this carnage! Look at this devastation! LOOK at that lamp hangin’ by a single screw like it’s prayin’ to its ancestors!”

  I glanced at the lamp. It was indeed swinging, clinging to life by pure willpower.

  “…Okay, that one might have been me.”

  “MIGHT?” He clutched his heart. “Fifty years I’ve cared for this room—FIFTY! Not a single torn page! Not a single bent spine! And you—you WALTZ IN and turn it into a BLOODY WARZONE!”

  “In my defense,” I said, “it was five-on-one. And they threw the first spear.”

  He froze. “…The books attacked ye?”

  “Yes. One literally shot a fireball at my face. There’s the scorch mark if you want proof.”

  He stared at the burn, then at the pile of ashes, then back at me. He leaned in so close I could smell ink and old parchment in his beard.

  “Hmph.”

  He stepped back and stroked his beard. “Well then… if the books attacked first, that puts ye at…” He tapped his forehead. “…ehh, call it fifty percent fault.”

  “Fifty?” I repeated.

  “Aye. Because ye escalated. Look at this mess! Look at that shelf! Look at—BY THE ANVILS, IS THAT ONE OF MY TABLES WITH A BOOKLING IMPRINTED INTO IT?!”

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  I glanced at the table. “…Yes?”

  He groaned into his beard. “Young man… what’s yer name?”

  “Mike.”

  “Mike what?”

  “…Just Mike.”

  He rolled his eyes so hard his spectacles nearly fell off. “Humans. Never a clan name, never a lineage. Just ‘Mike.’ Just ‘John.’ Just ‘blew up half my damn reading room.’”

  He muttered angrily to himself as he trudged deeper into the room, boots crunching over torn paper. But as he looked around, his anger softened under something heavier.

  “Still… it isn’t yer fault alone.” His eyes shifted from furious to tired. “There’s been disturbances. Whispers in the stacks. Pages movin’ when they shouldn’t. Lights flickerin’. Somethin’ rotten’s seeped into my library.”

  A chill crawled up my spine. “Disturbances?”

  He nodded. “Somethin’ wrong in the stacks. Somethin’ hidin’ where nothin’ should be.”

  He jerked his head toward the doorway. “Come on, Just-Mike. Walk with me. Before the shelves shift again.”

  He stomped out of the room, and I followed.

  The shelves shifted subtly as we walked, groaning softly like they were waking up after a long nap. Now and then, a book spine twitched as I passed, and I tried not to think too hard about it.

  We rounded a corner—and the dwarf suddenly stopped. I almost ran into him.

  He turned around, squinting up at me. His gaze dropped to my side and narrowed. “Yer limpin’.”

  “No, I’m good,” I said instantly. “I always walk like someone used a battering ram on my ribcage. Very normal gait.”

  He didn’t laugh. He crossed his arms. “Lift yer shirt.”

  “I—sorry, what?”

  “I’m a healer, boy. Shirt up.”

  “I usually lift my shirts after the second date,” I muttered.

  He stomped. “I’m not askin’ twice.”

  I sighed dramatically and lifted the fabric. His expression shifted from annoyed to deadly serious.

  A huge dark-purple bruise stretched nearly from my spine to my stomach. Ugly black and violet blotches spread outward like ink bleeding through parchment.

  “Oh,” I muttered. “…yeah, that’s new.”

  He swore in a gravelly language. “Ye call that nothing?”

  “It’s fine. Just a bruise.”

  “Aye. From a creature that hits like a battering ram.” He shook his head. “Yer breathin’s shallow. Yer steps uneven. Yer whole right side’s seizin’ up.”

  “It’ll go away,” I insisted. “I’ve had worse.”

  He looked up at me, and his voice softened. “Listen to me, lad. It’s alright to ask for help. A wound’s a wound. No shame in admitin’ it hurts.”

  My throat tightened. I almost told him I was fine. That it wasn’t a big deal. That’s what Dad always said.

  Before I could answer, he placed his broad, ink-stained hand against the bruise.

  Warmth spread beneath his palm, golden light blooming through my ribs. The pain vanished almost instantly—first easing, then washing away completely. The bruise melted back into my skin within seconds.

  “…Thanks,” I said quietly.

  He grunted and resumed walking. “Don’t mention it. But do try not to explode any more rooms before we reach my study.”

  I followed, this time without limping.

  We continued down another long aisle. The shelves whispered—not literally, but close enough to make my skin crawl. Some books seemed to turn slightly as if watching us pass.

  The dwarf stopped again.

  I slowed too.

  He stared straight ahead for several long seconds.

  “Uh… you good?” I asked.

  He flinched, like snapping out of a trance, then turned to me with confusion twisting his face.

  “…Who are ye?”

  My stomach dropped. “Mike. We’ve been walking for… two minutes.”

  He blinked several times, jaw working like he was searching for the memory. Recognition returned slowly, like ink filling back into carved lines.

  “Aye. Aye, that’s right. Mike.” He rubbed his forehead. “Forgive me, lad. I… lost the thread for a moment. That doesn’t normally happen.”

  “What doesn’t?”

  “Forgettin’ someone I just met!” he barked, then winced at his own volume.

  He turned quickly, beard whipping around. “Come on, lad. My study’s just ahead. Best we talk there.”

  I followed him, but the unease settled deep under my ribs and didn’t leave.