SECOND BOOK OF THE CHRONICLES OF FANTASILIA SERIES
𝘈𝘯 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘶𝘳𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦 𝘱𝘭𝘢𝘨𝘶𝘦. 𝘈 𝘴𝘪𝘦𝘨𝘦 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘛𝘦𝘮𝘱𝘭𝘦 𝘰𝘧 𝘚𝘰𝘶𝘭𝘴. 𝘈 𝘥𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘫𝘰𝘶𝘳𝘯𝘦𝘺 𝘵𝘰 𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴𝘦𝘭𝘧.
Xanthiene Vivenca, af...
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The upper floors had some kind of theme going on through them, which were murals. Everywhere Xanthy craned her neck up to, it's all murals. Xanthy frowned. Why was it that only the High Priestess and the Rekshais could enjoy these? The lower floors sure weren't this grand.
Xanthy's boots skidded across the polished floor as she followed where the thief was going. She squinted up at the mural depicting some barter trade going on between pale banshees and even paler fairies. The mural shone against the magically conjured light like there was some kind of fixative painted atop it. Xanthy sniffed the air and remembered that smell from the illumination section in the Commons. Wax?
Then again, who cares? Xanthy gritted her teeth and forced her pudding legs to run. Focus.
Her sides hurt; her chest heaved like a dagrine. Sweat gathered in all the uncomfortable places. She'd have to swear off running after this. The air was thick to breathe in and the lack of windows made it worse. Where was this thief going?
A loud crash reverberated across the corridor. Somewhere east and close. Xanthy poured more strength to her legs as she tramped along the corridor. A turn was coming. She took it.
What greeted her forced her brain to go on examination-mode. At first glance, there was nothing that demanded her attention. Then she saw the crystals. Some melted into small puddles, turning spots in the carpet darker than the area adjacent to them. The crystals formed a line leading somewhere. A trail. Leading somewhere.
Xanthy clenched her jaw and followed the trail of crystals. As she ran, the crystals slowly increased in number until at such a point, they were in bunches almost like what Ganaraim had presented to Xanthy. She glanced at the ceiling. Relief flooded her veins upon seeing them murals. No crystals would drop into her head this time.
Farther. Xanthy ran. Then, she saw the root.
A pair of floor-to-ceiling doors appeared from the recent turn Xanthy took. What was left of it guarded a smaller and more intricate room filled with tall shelves filled to the brim with tomes. Their multi-colored spines formed another kind of abstract mural in Xanthy's mind. Ice blossomed around a person-sized hole blown through the door. It was a few notches colder inside, too.
No time to waste. Xanthy plowed into the hole only to catch the thief picking up a dusty tome from a special pedestal at the west end of the room. The Soul Spells.
Xanthy cursed. Why would one decide to put an important book in a special pedestal where it would be easily identifiable by thieves? Why not stack it among the thousands of books in this room?
The thief pried the Soul Spells off the pedestal. Nothing moved. No curse sprang up to turn the thief into a cleret. Xanthy resisted a groan coming to her throat. Seriously, no other guards?
The thief cradled the book under their arm and turned to the door. They froze when they regarded Xanthy standing by the only entrance, an arrow steadily pointed to their heart.
