The image of the eight-branched circle symbol in my notebook seemed to keep staring at me coldly. As the midday sun climbed higher and began burning away Niskala’s thin mist, I decided I couldn’t sit around anymore. My curiosity and courage—which I usually put at the front of the line alongside my mischievous jokes—were now the only fuel left to guide me toward the answers.
“Mom, I’m heading out for a bit! I want to walk around and see another part of town!” I shouted, grabbing a faded denim jacket to wear over my black T-shirt.
Mom stuck her head out from the kitchen doorway, wiping her hands with a dish towel. “Don’t come home too late, Nirwana. If the fog starts getting thick, come straight back, okay?”
“Aye, Captain!” I called back with a wide grin, flashing my teeth to hide the anxiety congealing in my chest.
I walked along the slippery cobblestone streets. After passing through narrow alleys lined with colonial architecture, my footsteps came to a stop at the northern edge of the city. There, isolated from the residential neighborhoods, stood the Old Niskala Library. The three-story building looked like an abandoned Gothic cathedral. Moss and lichen clung to its black marble pillars, while the dark-blue stained-glass windows on the upper floors had been dulled by years of dust.
I pushed open the heavy carved teak door at the front. Its shrill creak echoed through the vast room, answered by the distinctive scents of decaying paper, ancient teak, and pungent melted beeswax.
The library was utterly silent—so quiet that the ticking of an old wall clock sounded like hammer blows. Massive wooden shelves stretched all the way to the ceiling, packed with thousands of thickly dust-covered books. There were almost no visitors here.
“What book are you looking for, young lady?”
A hoarse voice suddenly called out from behind a tall checkout desk. I jumped slightly and turned toward the sound. A thin, middle-aged librarian sat there. The man wore thick silver-framed glasses perched on the end of his sharp nose, paired with a faded pinstriped suit that looked like it had come from the previous decade. The eyes behind those thick lenses were ice-cold, filled with undisguised suspicion.
I gave him a friendly smile as I stepped closer. “Good afternoon, sir. I just want to look through the local history collection on Niskala. Is there a special section about the city’s history?”
The man adjusted his glasses, studying me from my sneakers to my shoulder-length wavy hair. “General history is in aisle three. But remember, this library closes at four. Don’t touch the shelves in the restricted area.”
“Restricted area? You mean there’s a secret shelf here?” I asked impishly, raising one eyebrow.
“None of your business,” he replied stiffly and coldly before lowering his head to the old newspaper on his desk.
I nodded as if I understood, hiding a faint smirk. It was that one word—restricted—that made my blood hum with excitement.
I made my way through the dim aisles of wooden shelves. After pretending to read several general-history books in aisle three—which contained nothing but records of trade and the names of ancient mayors, with no mention of anything mystical—I peeked toward the checkout desk. The librarian appeared to be fast asleep, his face covered by the newspaper.
Without wasting a moment, I quietly crept toward the back of the library. At the end of the darkest aisle stood a thick wooden door accented with wrought iron, secured by a dull chain. Carved into the stone above it was a symbol that made my heart pound: the eight-branched circle.
I rubbed my right palm through the fabric of my jacket. The warm pulse from the symbol on my skin suddenly reacted, sending a faint vibration up my arm.
When I touched the old iron chain with my fingers, the lock mechanism suddenly clacked! The chain magically came loose on its own, as if welcoming my arrival. I slowly pushed open the wooden door and slipped inside.
The secret archive was much colder and reeked of old paper. In the center of the room stood a long wooden table surrounded by thick, dusty, leather-bound documents.
My fingers quickly moved along the rows of ancient books on the table. At last, my attention caught on a massive black leather-bound tome decorated with peeling gold thread. Its cover bore a title in Ancient Kawi, followed by a faded Latin translation: Records of Niskala’s Guardian & the Eternal Seal.
My heart pounded as I opened the thick, yellowed pages.
The book contained detailed records about the boundaries of Niskala’s dimension. It explained that hundreds of years ago, Niskala had been the thinnest point of contact between the human world and the supernatural world. To prevent dark monsters from preying on humans, a special order had been formed under the leadership of a Guardian—an individual blessed with the earth’s pure energy, tasked with binding the seal on the main gate.
“So... the Guardian isn’t just some mystical title. It was a real position?” I whispered in amazement as I turned page after page filled with diagrams of energy lines.
“I told you this place was off-limits to outsiders!”
The librarian’s sharp shout made me jump. The thick-glasses-wearing man was already standing in the archive doorway, his face flushed red with anger. He brandished a large iron key at me.
“Get out of here, now!” he barked, striding toward me. “The documents in this room are strictly forbidden to the public! You’ve violated this city’s rules, young lady!”
I hurriedly held the large black book against my chest, flashing him a mischievous grin to buy time as I backed away several steps. “Jeez, sir! The chain lock opened by itself! I just thought this was the visitors’ restroom!”
“Don’t try to fool me with your ridiculous jokes!” he shouted angrily, reaching for the book in my arms. “Give it back and get out before I call the city hall guards!”
My stubborn streak kicked in. Instead of handing over the book, I spun around the side of the long wooden table, dodging his grab.
“Wait a second, sir! I just need one answer!” I said quickly, frantically flipping through the last pages of the ancient book.
“There are no answers for outsiders! Hand it over!” the man screamed, running around the table to corner me.
But my fingers suddenly froze over the thickest page at the very end of the book. Late-afternoon sunlight filtering faintly through the blue stained-glass window high on the wall shone directly onto the page.
Spread across it was an incredibly detailed hand-painted oil portrait. It depicted a woman in ornate white-and-gold protective armor, standing gracefully with a glowing sword before Niskala’s colossal stone gate. Beneath the painting, a name was etched in faded gold ink: Evara—Niskala’s First Guardian.
I stood stunned. My eyes flew wide, and it felt as though all the air had been forcibly sucked from my lungs.
The painting was astonishingly clear. The Guardian’s facial features, the shape of her eyebrows, her sharp nose, even the light-brown eyes beneath her wavy hair...
The face of Evara in that centuries-old painting was no longer merely vaguely familiar. The face of Niskala’s First Guardian was a perfect reflection of my own.