Wraith didn’t have a reflection, he thinks to himself.

He tries desperately to shake the thought from his mind, not wanting to dwell any further on if the dungeon haunt was real or not. It didn’t have a damn reflection, he thinks again, if he’s real, then why didn’t he have a reflection? Each of them received a glimpse into their future, instilling a tiny bit of hope in them that they would make it out of here alive and see their lives until they were laid to rest under the old oak tree. So why wasn’t Wraith afforded the same? First it was spared from seeing its end, now it has no end? Archimedes glances back over his shoulder at the spirit, who is already staring back at him. It makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

They work their way through the labyrinth, fatigue beginning to settle into their bones. The brief moment of respite they had as Basil battered his way into the scrying chamber wasn’t enough to sate them and it shows; Frankie is lagging behind more than usual, relying on the puck’s steady shoulder to keep him up on his feet. Archimedes himself finds that he’s dragging his hooves, too tired to pick them up properly. The only one of them that doesn’t seem affected… is Wraith. Though it shambles through, hindered by the infection coursing through his veins and the lancets piercing through his dilapidated body, it marches on without complaint. It has a job to do: get these naïve dungeoneers home, one way or another.

Their wandering leads them to a library, eerily reminiscent of the one imbued with magicks and aggressive tomes. Unlike the last library, this one looks to be untouched by time; there hasn’t been time for dust to gather, the books are all neatly organized on their shelves, and there’s an open tome on a desk situated against the far wall that someone had been inscribing before they had to leave in a hurry. It almost looked as if whoever worked here would be back at any moment. Archimedes almost doesn’t want to touch anything. Almost, anyway.

He scans through the shelves for anything he might recognize, but everything is written in an arcane language he’s not familiar with. Maybe the high mage in Thornwood would know what to do with these, he thinks as he grabs a thick tome from the shelves and pockets it in his supply satchel.

The rattling roar of Basil’s drake sounds the alarm before dozens of books fall from the shelves and take to the skies, yelling at them in foreign languages and incantations. It serves as a warning, and when they don’t head it, one of them swoops in and smacks him hard upside the head—so hard he feels his teeth rattle inside his skull. He rears back, trying to avoid another strike, and collides with the shelves behind him, knocking even more angry books from the shelves.

“What is with these fucking books!” Basil roars before grabbing a book from the air and tossing it to the ground.

“You’ve been here before?” Archimedes yells back, scrambling away from a group of tomes currently thwacking him upside the head.

The imbued tome that Francisco pocketed from the sister library squeaks from inside his supply satchel and he hurriedly unclasps it to free the book, which leaps into the air and chatters a few choice words at its attacking brethren.

“I hate this fucking place,” Basil grumbles.