The Morning After

Morning came.

 

Grey light slipped through the shutters, thin and cold, settling across the room.

 

Mikhail did not linger in bed.

The chest waited.

 

He knelt before it and opened the lid once more. The false base yielded easily now, as if it no longer bothered to pretend. He reached beneath it and drew out the blade.

 

Pale.
Clean.
Too light.

 

The sword caught the morning light without reflecting it, its surface dull in a way that felt deliberate.

It did not gleam. It did not boast. It simply existed—unmoved by time.

Mikhail wrapped it carefully and secured it at his side.

 

Then he paused.

 

The map lay where he had left it.

 

Orrin’s.

 

He reached for it and folded it with care, more careful than necessary.

From the table he took the book as well.

 

Warden of the First Dawn.

 

Its spine was worn, its pages soft from use.

He had meant to return it sooner.

Had told himself tomorrow too many times.

Now he placed it under his arm.

 

Then he left.

 

The market was already stirring.

 

Voices rose and fell in uneven rhythm, merchants calling out prices that shifted from week to week, carts creaking over familiar stone. Mikhail passed through without slowing, the smell of bread and smoke trailing after him.

 

Behind the market stood the Library.

 

Old stone.

Narrow windows.

A place that had never needed to announce itself.

 

He pushed the door open.

 

“Orrin?” he called.

 

No answer.

 

The room beyond was still.

 

Too still.

 

Mikhail’s steps quickened.

 

“Orrin—”

 

He stopped.

 

Orrin sat slumped in his chair by the window, head tilted back slightly,

hands resting too neatly in his lap.

 

For a moment, Mikhail’s chest seized.

 

“Orrin!” He dropped the book and the map,

crossing the room in two strides. “Orrin, are you—”

 

Orrin groaned.

 

“Mikhail…” he murmured. “I am dying.”

 

Mikhail froze. “What?

What do you mean dying?

Tell me what to do.”

 

“You can’t,” Orrin said weakly.

“It’s finished.

I counted.

I counted again.”

 

“Counted what?”

 

“The books,” Orrin whispered.

“One hundred and twenty-six… and then—

nothing.”

 

Mikhail stared at him. “Nothing?”

 

“One is missing,” Orrin breathed.

“Gone.

As if swallowed by the earth itself.”

 

A pause.

 

Mikhail glanced down.

At the book on the floor.

 

“…Orrin,” he said carefully. “You mean… this one?”

 

He picked it up and held it out.

 

Orrin’s eye cracked open.

 

Then widened.

 

“You,” he said faintly.

 

“You little—”

 

He sat up with sudden strength.

 

“You,” Orrin snapped.

“I should have known.”

 

“I was bringing it back,” Mikhail said quickly. “I swear.”

 

“Oh, bringing it back,” Orrin scoffed. “How generous.”

 

He pointed a trembling finger at him.

 

“What do you think I should do then, hmm?” Orrin said.
“March into Embervale and steal all your oranges?”

 

Mikhail blinked.

 

“Oranges?”

 

“How would you like that?” Orrin demanded.

“You come home, and all the oranges are gone.

Every one.”

 

He leaned back, satisfied.

 

“See how it feels.”

 

Mikhail exhaled slowly.

 

“You’re not dying,” he said.

 

“Of course I’m not dying,” Orrin snapped.

“But I could have.”

 

He eyed the book.

 

“Put it back where it belongs,” he muttered.

“And don’t ever—ever—borrow from a librarian and pretend time doesn’t matter.”

 

Mikhail bent, retrieved the map, and slid the book into Orrin’s waiting hands.

 

“I’m sorry,” he said.

 

Orrin sniffed.

“Hmph.”

 

Then, softer:

“…You’re forgiven.”

 

Orrin slid the book back into its place and straightened slowly.

 

For a moment, he said nothing.

 

Instead, he reached for a scroll that wasn’t there, frowned, and replaced it with another.

 

“You look tired,” he said finally.

 

Mikhail frowned. “I slept.”

 

“Yes,” Orrin replied. “That’s usually when it begins.”

 

He waved the thought away at once, as if annoyed with himself.

 

“Forget it.

Old habits.

Old instincts.

They don’t know when to stay quiet.”

 

Mikhail watched him closely. “You’ve felt this before.”

 

Orrin’s movements slowed.

 

“Once,” he said.

 

Nothing more.

 

He straightened a stack of parchment, aligning the edges precisely.

 

“I didn’t understand it then,” he added, almost to the room.
“And I’m not certain I would now.”

 

Silence settled between them.

Mikhail opened his mouth.

 

Orrin raised a finger—
just enough to stop the question before it formed.

 

“That’s enough,” he said.

 

He stepped forward and took the map from Mikhail’s hands.

 

“And this,” Orrin added. “You almost forgot it too.”

 

Mikhail started to speak.

 

“No,” Orrin cut in. “I don’t need an explanation. I need my map.”

 

He folded it once, precisely, and set it on the table beside the book.

 

“Now go on,” he said, already turning away.
“Before you borrow something else and forget to return that as well.”

 

Mikhail exhaled quietly.

 

“I’ll see you,” he said.

 

Orrin waved him off without looking.

 

“Yes, yes. Try not to misplace the city on your way out.”

 

Mikhail left.

 

The door closed behind him.

 

Morning went on.