Writing on the Walls
The room smelled of burning candles, old books and mildew. The library was brightly lit, but only with the powers of tiny flames upon hundreds of candles place in every nook and cranny.
There were dozens of others here, their faces covered in soot, each on covered with woolen hats and sweaters to keep away the chill of the outside away. They looked upon my friend and me with judging eyes.
“Forgive the candles, there is no electricity here. The Archons’ way of sifting us out. The entire East Side has been cut from the grid,”
“Are you kidding?” I gawked about, my mouth slacked open. My heart was pounding, my hands that gripped at old scrolls and velum texts, shook with excitement, “I imagined books, but this…” I swept a hand at the myriad of titles the likes of which i could not have dreamed, lining the walls “How can the Archons not know of this place?”
“They burned this place down 10 years ago. Those that would see the books preserved took what we could and hid underground,”
“How many are you?”