Without another word, Bartho led him down a dimly lit hallway. Azrael''s heart quickened with excitement as the blacksmith opened the second-to-last door on the right. A pleasant scent of aged paper and kerosene filled the air as Bartho lit an old kerosene lamp. The flickering light cast dancing shadows on the walls.


    In the faint glow, Azrael saw five rows of books neatly arranged on dusty shelves.


    "That’s a lot!" he exclaimed, his face lighting up. Even as a child, he had loved to read, though his parents couldn’t provide him with many books. The high cost was one reason, but mostly, they had wanted to shield him—from wars, violence, politics, and the other dangers of life.


    "I''m sorry, Mama, Papa. But I have to do this. I can’t wander the world ignorant," he thought, as his fingers traced the spines of the books, a deep urge welling up to absorb every title.


    He gave the blacksmith a brief word of thanks before Bartho disappeared, leaving him alone.


    "Here we go," Azrael said, excitement in his voice. Every book seemed to call out to him, like mysterious treasure chests brimming with knowledge, waiting to be uncovered.


    Azrael let his fingers glide across the dusty spines, murmuring the titles softly to himself. "Gods and Their Histories. Myths and Legends. The Eternal Stream. Gnomes and Their Deceptions. Beasts and Terrors. Runes for Beginners..." His gaze darted from one book to the next, overwhelmed by the sheer abundance of knowledge before him. Each book seemed to whisper, urging him to open it and uncover its secrets.


    "So many books," he whispered in awe, his eyes darting across the rows of shelves. The sheer amount of knowledge gathered here made his heart race. It was as if he could taste the dust of centuries-old wisdom lingering in the air.


    "Finally," he thought, a smile flickering across his face. "Finally, I can quench my thirst for knowledge."


    He stood there for a moment, unable to decide which book to pick first. Then his gaze fell on an unassuming, worn-out volume: Gifts and Their Significance.


    The plain embossing on the cover left no doubt that this book held a special meaning for him. After all, he would soon be twelve years old, and the topic of Gifts had occupied his thoughts for a long time. It felt as if this book had been placed here just for him.


    Azrael''s eyes wandered through the room and settled on an old, weathered leather armchair tucked into a cozy corner. A blanket made of soft fox fur lay draped over it, as if someone had prepared it just for him. Nearby stood a small desk with a few pens and sheets of paper, the perfect setting for retreating into the pages of a good book.


    With a deep breath, he sank into the armchair, which creaked softly under his weight, and pulled the blanket around his shoulders. A sense of warmth and comfort spread through him as he opened the book. The pages were yellowed and carried the faint scent of old ink.


    But as soon as he turned to the first page, a sentence leaped out at him, making him pause.


    BEWARE OF THE CHURCHES!!!


    The words were scrawled hastily in the margin, crude and out of place for an old book of this kind. It looked as if the sentence had been added in a rush—and something about the handwriting felt oddly familiar.


    Frowning in confusion, he whispered, "What is a sentence like this doing in a book like this?" His fingers brushed over the uneven letters, as if touch alone could reveal their origin.


    He turned the page, but everything beyond seemed normal again. Clean, orderly handwriting, just as one would expect from a book of this nature. A slight shiver ran down his spine. Something''s not right here, he thought uneasily.


    Azrael flipped back and ran his finger over the jagged writing once more. It felt strangely damp, as if the ink were still fresh. Startled, he examined his fingers—tiny smudges of black ink clung to them. "That... that’s impossible," he muttered softly, his heartbeat quickening.


    "Could it have been Bartho?" he wondered for a moment. But he dismissed the thought almost immediately. "No, he was standing right next to me the whole time. This sentence... it was written just a few minutes ago."


    An invisible weight settled on his shoulders, tension coiling tight in his chest. His eyes darted around the room. The books now seemed darker, the space more oppressive. He peered into the shadows, but nothing stirred. No one was there. Or was there? The fleeting thought flickered through his mind before he forced himself to shake off the unsettling feeling.The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.


    "Probably just my imagination," he whispered, though his voice sounded unconvincing, even to himself.


    He squinted, studying the strange handwriting once more. It was as if the crooked letters were trying to tell him something, their messy arrangement seeming almost deliberate. His head suddenly felt heavy, and he stood up, uncertain of what to do next.


    But his missing eye often betrayed him in moments like these—his balance was never quite perfect. Sometimes, when he was too focused, he failed to notice things around him, and that was exactly what happened now.


    "Ow!" A dull pain shot through his little toe as he clumsily bumped it against the edge of the table. A faint clinking sound broke the silence as a small object tumbled to the floor. Azrael flinched, glanced quickly at the fallen object, and froze.


    Ink. Azrael’s gaze fell on the tiny bottle lying before him, and he instinctively turned away. But a thought began to take root in his mind. Wait... ink? He picked up the small vial, turning it over in his fingers. The liquid inside was the exact same deep black as the writing in the book. His eyes widened as the realization began to sink in. But... that doesn’t make any sense.


    He reached for one of the blank sheets of paper on the desk, hesitating only briefly before dipping a quill into the ink and scrawling the words:


    BEWARE OF THE CHURCHES.


    When he held up the paper, his throat tightened. The handwriting—it was identical. Unmistakably his own. A cold shiver ran down his spine.


    "This... this means I wrote that message," he whispered, his voice barely audible. "But I didn’t write anything..."


    He sank back into the chair, his thoughts churning chaotically. “Only my parents know my handwriting,” he thought, his fingers nervously brushing over the parchment. “There’s no one who could have imitated it…” But what did that mean? Could it be possible he had written those words without realizing it?


    His hands trembled slightly as he stared at the sheet, as though it might offer him some explanation. “Was I truly in my right mind the whole time?” The more he thought about it, the less certain he became. No matter how hard he tried to recall, his mind hit the same blank wall. “Nothing. No clue, no lead.”


    Suddenly, a dark realization struck him like lightning. He still didn’t know how he had even arrived in this city. His memories of the past few days were hazy, as though someone had erased them.


    “What if…” Azrael’s heartbeat quickened. “What if I really did write that message and simply forgot?” A cold, unrelenting wave of fear coursed through him. If that were true, then he might be affected by an anomaly himself—just like the villagers whose strange behavior had unsettled him so deeply.


    He exhaled slowly, the breath heavy in his chest. “In the end, there’s nothing I can do to change the situation.” Those words were meant to reassure him, but the uncertainty gnawed at him like a shadow that refused to lift.


    With a deep sense of unease, he turned his attention back to the warning. “I’m supposed to beware of the churches. Does that mean the followers of Solaren, or all of them?” Thoughts raced through his mind, doubt creeping in. The churches had always cast a shadow over his life. “So why the explicit warning?”


    Once again, no answer came, and frustration welled up inside him. “So pointless,” he cursed under his breath. “For a warning, it’s completely useless. My compliments to the author.”


    His thoughts continued to spin, chaotic and unrestrained. With no further clues to uncover, he finally decided to read the book. Perhaps somewhere within its pages lay something hidden that could help him piece together the puzzle. The idea of expanding his knowledge offered him a faint glimmer of hope.


    At the same time, a strong urge pushed him to visit the stone tablet in the village square as soon as possible. The tablet had become a symbol of knowledge to him—a potential key to shedding light on the darkness clouding his thoughts. If only he could discover what was inscribed there, it might help him untangle his fading memories and get closer to answering the questions tormenting him.


    Gifts and Their Meaning


    "Do you wish to learn more about Gifts? Are you curious about the differences between Gifts and Blessings? Then you’re in the right place. Here, you’ll uncover everything you need to know about Gifts and Blessings. Immerse yourself in humanity’s source of power."


    A subtle thrill of anticipation coursed through Azrael as he turned the page and found a small table of contents. The book’s slim nature made the list brief, but he didn’t mind. In fact, he preferred it—he had no intention of spending time on unnecessary details. Who could say when the situation outside would worsen? The thought made his heart race.


    A faint smile crossed his face as he dove into the text with growing excitement.


    Seconds flew by like a blur, minutes seemed to stretch, and eventually, hours passed as he remained in the small, cozy room. His eyes skimmed across the pages, soaking in the words while his hand moved swiftly over paper. With a quill in hand, he eagerly jotted down thoughts and key points that resonated with him, capturing each piece of knowledge like it was a treasure.


    It wasn’t just reading—it was studying, immersing himself in the explanations the book offered. Every sentence seemed to call out to him, every insight whispered that it should not be forgotten. He wanted to engrain it all in his mind with precision. Knowledge was power, after all, and power was what he needed.


    Just before the first rays of sunlight touched the horizon, Azrael lifted his head and exhaled with satisfaction. A warm sense of understanding flowed through him. Finally, he could make sense of many things that had once seemed like enigmatic riddles.


    His thoughts still swirled around the revelations from the book as he stood to get himself something to drink. “Gifts and Blessings aren’t as omnipotent as I thought,” he murmured thoughtfully, letting his gaze wander around the room. “But, in a way, that makes sense.”


    After a brief pause, he began pacing the room, his steps quiet on the worn wooden floor. A self-dialogue helped him organize his thoughts and gain clarity. “Alright, let’s break it down step by step,” he began, gesturing with his hands as if sketching out ideas on an invisible board.