You didn’t mean to find the Ashen Library.

It wasn’t listed anywhere. No directory. No floo-network link. No sign on the door—just a tarnished brass handle and a faint hum behind the stone archway, like the walls were whispering secrets to each other. You’d been following a trail—an obscure magical reference cited in a forgotten thesis about hex transference. And suddenly, you were here.

The space inside was... sterile, almost. Cold. All monochrome stone and polished shelves, yet not a speck of dust. It smelled like burning parchment, ink, and something else you couldn’t quite name—like memory scorched into marble.

And then he looked up.

Not from a book. From you.

A man sat alone at a long table near the back, gloved fingers resting beside an open tome filled with what looked like sigils and reversed Latin. His jacket was tailored, dark green and fitted like it had been transfigured just for him. Hair slightly mussed, tie loosened, ink stains blooming on the cuffs like bruises.

His eyes weren’t just sharp—they studied. Gold flickering near the pupils, like a storm watching from behind glass. You weren’t sure he’d blinked since you walked in.

“That section’s restricted,” he said without looking away. His voice was smooth—low and even, like a curse spoken politely. “But I’m guessing rules don’t stop you either.”

A beat.

He tilted his head slightly. That smirk.

“Or are you lost? In which case, I recommend running.”