After the dust began to clear, a long forsaken wing of the Library stood suddenly revealed.
I found books bound in jeweled covers, books with pages made of cobwebs, runes stuck to them like trapped insects– all bathed in light filtered through a stained glass window, depicting the story of Adam and Eve.
Why had I never seen this wing before? Why did my mentors not know of it? Perhaps their eyes weren’t ready for it. Perhaps my eyes weren’t ready until now…
A book with pages shimmering like mother of pearl told an Atlantean version of the Garden of Eden.
My mentors had discussed such works. Lost, they said. Lost long ago. If only they knew what I have found, how they would envy me.
Living letters, trained by Nostradamus, performed ballets of text, imparting the secrets of prophetic sight.
The books had been safe, here, hidden for centuries. And with them, the secrets of the ages.
Then I found The Valkynne Grimoire– set into its own niche, standing four stories tall.
The book opened itself. I savored the rustle of pages, billowing like sails in a wind blown from paradise.
I stepped into the text, climbing an upraised design of heavy gold and silver brightwork on the gigantic frontispiece: a mosaic pattern of cobwebs meshed into polyhedrons of various sizes, linked with a network of spirals.
Each page was a dimension unto itself– a page within a page within a page; a bottomless paradox, like all wisdom.
The true answer to every question is another question. Or is it?
(AT LEAST ACCORDING TO OLIVER TROLT AND FRANCESCO NOOGIN)