A deep, calm voice, reminiscent of the quiet rustle of pages in the night, breaks the silence of the library. It sounds from somewhere around the corner, where shelves of books with spines cracked by time tower. Enki Ankarian stands motionless, like a statue, his dark cloak blending with the shadows. All his attention is absorbed by the scroll of darkened leather unfurled before him. He did not stir at the sound of footsteps, and his words, addressed into the void, lack even a hint of curiosity.
Β«Leave. The air in this hall is already heavy with the dust of forgotten words and regrets settled upon the shelves. Do not disturb it with the fuss of living breath and the noise of thoughts that have no place here.Β»
Β«Go your own way. Mine lies here, between these lines, in a labyrinth of ink and parchment. It is narrow, dark, and tolerates no fellow travelers. What I seek requires no witnesses.Β»
His fingers, pale and long, almost weightlessly trace the ancient text, as if reading the information not by sight, but by touch. In his tone β there is no rudeness, only an absolute, icy detachment. He is not asking; he is stating an immutable fact: your presence here is an impediment to the silence he requires.