SML Ch 88

Chapter 88

Reynald had expected shelves and books, like a library or archive. Instead—inside was a theater.

Not a grand, jeweled opera house of the capital, but something else entirely. Almost like a children’s playhouse. The chairs fit full-grown adults, yet their sky-blue and pink upholstery bore stars and moons, clearly styled to please children’s eyes.

Most chairs were empty—but one was occupied.

There sat Volant, holding a book in both hands, the clockwork doll perched on his shoulder. He had not even noticed their arrival until the doll thumped his head and pointed at the entry. Startled, Volant leapt upright.

“My lord! Alex too…! How did you get here?”

“A fae guided us. You seem safe—I’m relieved.”

“…A fae?”

“This is the fae world. Did the doll not explain? Ah—that’s right. No mouth.”

“I was just… brought here by it. But… you’re right. So those faces staring earlier—they were fae?”

Faces? Reynald frowned, looking where Volant pointed.

Beyond each window near the entrance, dozens of fae pressed in, staring inside.

So that’s why the hall was dim—they were crowding the glass.

Reynald scowled, skin crawling. They hadn’t surrounded the hut when he approached. When had they gathered?

They bore expressions only of curiosity, not malice. But packed so tight, blotting out the light, they were unsettling. Like night-moths swarming to flame, bodies layered across a pane of glass. They were watching humans as spectacle.

“…And here? What sort of place is this? I’ve never seen so many chairs… What’s behind that red curtain?” Volant muttered.

He didn’t even know what a theater was. Alex, at least, understood, though he kept his face calm. Reynald answered simply:

“A place for plays. Have you seen one?”

“Like puppet shows? Peddlers sometimes showed them.”

“Similar—but with people. The fae outside said: a century ago, people left their records here.”

“So… a play, to explain history?”

Yes—so even illiterate folk could understand.

Reynald squinted at the curtain. Volant, though, was staring at Reynald’s and Alex’s joined hands. Alex flushed red, sputtering when Volant teased him.

“Why are you holding his hand, Alex?”

“It’s—it’s not weird! In case I got drawn in, I’d close my eyes—so I had to hold on!”

“Drawn in—to what? His face?”

“Shut it!” Alex snapped, almost kicking him—except the curtain stirred.

The drapes drew back, slowly. Reynald hushed Alex and sat him down. He tucked his book safely under his coat, and with his free hand seized Volant’s.

“My lord?!” Volant squeaked.

“I already told Alex. If you feel drawn to stay, or your vision clouds—drop the book. Hold to me. Even if the fae king’s illusions take you again, I’ll pull you free.”

Volant swallowed, nodded, grasped tight. Reynald now sat, both hands anchored by his two young companions—a chain of grip against enchantment.

The curtain fell aside fully. Lights in their seats went dark, while the stage lamps flared.

The scene revealed on stage was no painted set—

—but the library they had searched the night before.

Only, seated inside were other figures.

…Those must be the chosen, from a century past.

Front row sat two young women, no older than twenty by looks, yet their eyes were weary as if eighty. Beside them leaned an older woman, perhaps mother to them. Eyes open—but unfocused, sight gone.

Next sat a scholarly sort of youth. His right sleeve hung empty, arm gone. In his lone hand he held a pen with metal nib. Perhaps—Reynald thought—he had been the one copying all those records.

Last, a man with a staff tipped by seven gems. His face half-masked. His age and appearance hidden.

“…Impossible.”

“Volant?”

“That man—the mask—that’s him. He killed my family.”

Reynald clenched Volant’s hand tighter. Surely this was only an echo—a show, a projection. The performers might be real once—but now? It was no truth, not here.

Fortunately, Volant steadied, resting against Reynald’s shoulder. On stage, the figures began to speak.

[So—we’re to leave our record, for descendants in a hundred years? But how? I can’t read—or write, not with these eyes.]

The blind woman muttered. The armless youth replied:

[No worry. Merely speak. They will watch, just as we once did. The heart of it is—recall the feelings. Let them flow.]

[Feelings, not facts? Not which monsters we fought, or what horrors we faced?]

[By then, things will differ. Details become dangerous, even irrelevant. At most, footnotes.]

[Hmph.]

[What matters: that descendants not repeat mistakes. We grew accustomed. We accepted costs. But losing sight, losing an arm—no joy in that.]

Mistakes? Was that how they lost their limbs?

And the masked man at last spoke. His voice, muffled yet heavy.

[Too much detail tempts curiosity. Then they too will be lured—by what lives below. Even to name, to write it, is peril. Better they not.]

“…He’s right,” added the armless scribe. “This doll we crafted—could only answer ‘yes’ or ‘no.’ That too was deliberate. So curiosity would not drive destruction. Descendants—listen. Misplaced hunger for knowledge will cost you everything.”

The doll nodded smugly, patting Volant’s knee. As though preening itself—though to Reynald, it felt like arrogance, as if excusing all its evasions.

Conversations wound down. The scribe pat a girl’s knee; she nodded at last. Perhaps their hearing fractured, or sense dulled.

But then—then all five slowly turned. Their blank faces lifted, and their eyes fixed straight on Reynald, Alex, Volant.

Suddenly—Reynald gasped. A flood of sensation pierced his mind.

This is why. This is why they left records with fae. This is why humans alone cannot keep them.

Records tainted. Not facts—but feelings so strong they seared.

Two incompatible powers seized him at once.

A terror black enough to wretch—

and a fascination bright enough to scorch that terror away.

He trembled under both. Wholly consumed.