Throughout his life, Veyran had almost grown accustomed to being held in confinement. But he reckoned that his captivity under Rhiannon may be the strangest yet. No chains bound him physically. Instead, the tantalizing lure of her books became his shackles. He was trapped by his own curiosity.

He ran a finger gently down the cracked leather spine of an old explorer's journal, its pages yellowed and smelling of mold and ink. He'd spent countless hours in the overseer's library, but the burden of his knowledge had grown as weighty as the piles of tomes that surrounded him. At first, he had welcomed the distraction, a temporary refuge from Rhiannon's fickle demands. Yet the deeper he delved into her carefully curated collection, the more fascinated, and unsettled, he became.

The histories and archaeological accounts offered him a perspective previously inaccessible to the Shy—that of humans outside the caldera. The writers were often dismissive, labeling his people as mere legends, extravagant myths of little people now relegated to children's bedtime tales. But Veyran quickly saw through the arrogance, gleaning tidbits of truth from beneath their biases.

He flipped carefully through pages filled with muddled sketches and scattered observations, describing intricate artifacts discovered along the caldera's outer rim. Tiny, finely crafted tools, clearly neither human nor beastly in origin, hinted at the scale of the races who had once inhabited these lands. Fossilized bones and remains of small settlements suggested features similar to the Shy, but larger, the remains suggesting heights of one foot tall or more. The authors wavered between skepticism and wild notions, uncertain whether to believe these finds were genuine or elaborate hoaxes.

He was so intent on his reading he barely noticed the shadow moving over the desk until it darkened the page. Veyran stiffened, but didn't look up. He had grown used to Rhiannon's silent observations, the watchful way she lingered, like a predator scoping its prey. The Deepshy ignored the human, turning a page with deliberate slowness.

Rhiannon leaned closer, the weight of her movement sending a tremor through the desk beneath him. "You're awfully quiet today. That book must be quite absorbing," she teased.

Before he could think his words through and stop himself, he curtly replied. "Though a work of fanciful whimsy on the surface, it contains more enlightening truths than I've ever learned in the Deep." He regretted the admission the moment it left his lips.

Rhiannon's expression shifted from casual amusement into keen interest. Before he could react, her hand moved. With casual ease, she hooked two fingers around the spine of the open journal and lifted it. The sudden motion forced Veyran to stumble backward, landing awkwardly on a book just behind him. His patience grew thin as she casually flipped through the pages, scanning the text with an expression of idle curiosity.

"I was reading that." Veyran bristled. He stepped forward to snatch the volume back, but she lifted it higher, just out of reach. His hands curled into fists.

"I don't see what has you so troubled," Rhiannon mused, flipping another page between her fingers. "It's archaic and inaccurate, isn't it?"

Veyran forced himself to unclench his fists. "It's a completely different view of history from what I've been taught. Knowing more about how our shared past has shaped the present could help us. All of us."

"Intriguing..." Rhiannon purred thoughtfully. "Carry on with your big ideas then, my little man," she remarked, suddenly letting the volume drop. Veyran barely had time to dodge as it thudded onto the desk. He shot her another glare, but she was already walking out the door.

Veyran's fingers were still trembling as he opened the journal back to where he left off. He turned to another page that collected observations on the wall of light surrounding the caldera. The text described it as an unnatural obstacle, a curious anomaly that humans had neither fully understood nor seriously challenged. Yet to the Deepshy, this barrier was clearly the Sunveil, raised by his ancestors to repel the giants' relentless advance.

Other sources described scattered human encounters with the displaced miniature peoples who had made their last stands just outside the caldera's rim. These unfortunate tribes had missed their chance to seek refuge behind the Sunveil, eventually falling victim to either human aggression or their society's collapse upon being driven to the brink of survival. Traces of these doomed races remain buried beneath centuries of soil and detritus, their extinction speculated upon with either clinical detachment or exaggerated fantasy.

In between his magical training sessions with Rhiannon, Veyran's days were filled with clearer glimpses of history that the Shy themselves had deliberately turned their backs on. His heart sank lower with each revelation. These human chroniclers, for all their delusions and disbelief, painted a devastating picture of a past long obscured. Humanity had expanded rapidly, aggressively claiming territories and resources. The Shy and other races had initially resisted, then fled deeper into the Veilwoods or underground enclaves. Conversely, human accounts describe ancient kobolds as being slightly smaller and less unified compared to their current stature and society. Both species eventually retreated entirely into the safety of the imposing geological formation, scrambling for sanctuary, driven by mutual desperation. However, as he read further, he wondered why his ancestors eventually took the added precaution of raising the Sunveil. Weren't the natural barriers of the caldera's peaks enough protection from external threats?

Veyran probed into more accounts of discoveries near the caldera's borders, where humans had unearthed crude and hastily built Shy-scale fortifications and tunnels, their impending doom evident in the uneven toolmarks, haphazardly stacked stones, and last-ditch defensive positions. He found himself compelled not just by morbid fascination but by a sense of responsibility to fully understand the events that had sealed his people's fate.

Menna rubbed her eyes, setting aside her notes with reluctant care. She couldn't even recall her last proper meal. Hopefully, she wouldn't embarrass herself in front of the librarian with a growling stomach or seeming too eager to eat.

They were seated at a small, cozy café tucked into a cavern wall. Around them, Obsidara's lively central plaza bustled, well-to-do Deepshy snacking from stalls and food carts clustered around glowing fountains spurting heated, scented water.

Menna ordered Lichenbrew tea, strong and fragrant, to help wake her while Auren quietly sipped his own drink, observing her with polite curiosity.

"Glad to see you taking a break," the librarian encouraged Menna. "Even surface-born scholars occasionally deserve fancy food and drink," he teased.

She hesitated, turning back towards her waiting pile of papers. "I really shouldn't—"

"Don't even start," Auren interrupted. "Besides, the books won't go anywhere. Trust me—I've checked."

Menna laughed and relented, finally allowing herself to take in the festive hum of the entertainment district. She gratefully accepted the steaming bowl of hearty Deeproot soup that Auren ordered for her.

"You're a lifesaver," she sighed, savoring the warmth and sharp flavors.

Auren leaned back, grinning. "Consider it part of my librarian duties. Can't have readers passing out among our precious scrolls. Terrible for the establishment's reputation."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

She chuckled, feeling lighter than she had in weeks. "Fair point."

He patted her hand. "So, is all the hard work and stress getting you anywhere at least?" he asked candidly.

"Maybe," she admitted. "Honestly, most of the challenge is figuring out what's been deliberately hidden and what's just forgotten."

Auren nodded sympathetically. "That's the problem with history. It's never as tidy as the masters want it to be."

He leaned forward, his voice going from playful to conspiratorial. "Just between us, I'm glad you're digging into all this stuff, whatever it is. High time someone rattled the shelves. Watching you run circles around the academy's stuffiest masters has honestly been the highlight of my year."

Menna shook her head. "Careful, you might get in trouble for encouraging me."

She sipped on the soup pensively, a comfortable silence stretching between them, Menna lost briefly in thought before Auren broke it with a gentle nudge.

"You're troubled," he observed. "More than before."

Menna sighed, cupping the warm bowl between her hands. "Well, the deeper I dig, the more unsettling the truths become…" she trailed off.

"Perhaps we Deepshy need to be more unsettled…" Auren mused. "That these truths were buried in the first place?"

Menna blinked, surprised by his directness. "You think so?"

He set his mug down carefully and leaned closer. "I've spent my life cataloging the past, rearranging texts, managing archives. The masters see the library as just a tool for them to control knowledge. But to me, those shelves are filled with voices, stories that deserve to be heard—even those we'd prefer to ignore."

He smiled wryly, adding, "Of course, I merely organize the truths others have discovered or recorded."

Menna grinned back. "Well, for a mere organizer you've guided me more clearly than anyone else in that academy."

"I just point you to the right shelves," he countered modestly. "The work of understanding, making connections—that burden remains yours."

Menna felt some of the weight ease from her shoulders. She took a slow, thoughtful sip of tea. "What else is there, though? I've gathered fragments of truth, but the puzzle pieces don't all fit."

"Just keep putting them together," he encouraged. "Eventually, something should emerge, even from the most fragmented records."

She studied him thoughtfully. The librarian didn't presume to grasp her conclusions, yet his support felt sincere.

"I'm really glad I got to know you, Auren," she affirmed. "Almost everyone at Umbryss has either belittled or blocked my work. You're one of my few friends here who's simply… been there to help. Well, besides Commander Vazko…"

Auren rolled his eyes at the sentiment. "Well, you did come across as somewhat oblivious and overwhelmed when you were fresh off the waypod, But I'm sure you've won a few more of us over," he joked with a wink.

The tea, soup, and amiable company had done wonders in renewing Menna's spirit. When they stood to leave, she paused. "Thank you for everything."

Auren huffed. "Think nothing of it… and of the bill. It's a librarian's pleasure to guide eager scholars. And to prevent them from being overcharged… and undertipping." He waved over a waiter, already brandishing the shards before Menna could protest.

"I trust my collection has exceeded your expectations?" Rhiannon's voice rolled into the room like thunder, reverberating across the plush space.

Veyran glanced back, momentarily startled. From his vantage point on the desk, she loomed across the doorway. He forced himself not to react to the sheer magnitude of her presence.

"It's extensive," he conceded, shutting his latest borrowed book. He had to use both hands to press it closed, the leather binding heavier than he liked to admit. "But your people have an irritating habit of dismissing anything they don't immediately understand."

Rhiannon stepped forward and Veyran instinctively shifted back, easing behind a brass inkwell nearly his size. Her gaze followed him, amused but patient. She leaned down to peer over his shoulder at the cover, a lock of her dark hair unraveling downward, the strands pooling beside him like a silken rope.

"Perhaps it was just difficult to believe in creatures your size accomplishing everything the evidence implies," she mused.

Veyran straightened himself, leaning a hand against the inkwell to keep his balance. "Easy enough to reclassify history as mere folktales, the stuff of children's stories, conveniently washing your hands off genocide."

She reached forward, brushing aside a stack of loose papers. Veyran tensed as the parchment fluttered and a quill rolled dangerously close to the edge. He took another step back, watching the sweep of her hand clear the space.

"I didn't expect you to notice, but Greyhold is a backwater, almost as far from the center of human civilization as you can get. Your ancestors withdrew long before my kind claimed this region," she countered, unbothered. "But you're right, humanity rarely contemplates what we can easily push aside. We expand, consume, move on."

"You don't deny that your people drove us to the edge, first underground, then into the caldera?" he pressed.

She shook her head. "History rarely has simple villains. My ancestors were settlers, crafters, unlikely to be conscious aggressors. Can they still be blamed for building on what appeared to be idle lands?"

His eyes flashed with muted anger. "Your ancestors' indifference doesn't absolve their descendants' slew of recent and current sins against us Shy. And they still encountered the stragglers among our ancient kin, those too late to escape into the safety of the caldera. They were written off as mere curiosities, footnotes in their stories."

Rhiannon pushed backtone. "And yet I feel that you equally blame your own ancestors and masters too, don't you? Why?"

Veyran hesitated, fingers tightening on the inkwell's rim. "Because they weren't ignorant, they knew the truth and chose to bury it. I grew up hearing their endless speeches about unity, loyalty, maintaining order. Yet when I challenged them, I was silenced."

Rhiannon hummed thoughtfully and shifted, her hand moving again—this time toward him.

Veyran darted sideways, instinctively putting the journal between them as a barrier. He glared up at her, but she only smirked, clearly unimpressed by his attempt to evade her.

"So you left to seek answers?" she probed.

Veyran folded his arms, standing his ground. "Partly. The masters used their knowledge and our ignorance to hold on to power, chain us to their narrative. I had to see beyond their walls, even if it meant exile."

Rhiannon studied him for a long moment, then, with deliberate slowness, reached out again. This time, she didn't let him slip away.

Her fingers brushed past the book, knocking it to the side. Before he could react, she caught him—her palm wrapping gently but securely around his torso, lifting him off the desk in one smooth motion.

Veyran's breath caught in his chest. The warmth of her skin radiated through his clothes, her hold firm but not crushing. Not yet. He knew all too well how effortlessly she could tighten her grasp.

"You've seen your ancestors through human eyes now," she prompted, bringing him closer to her face. "What have you learned?"

Veyran forced himself to steady his breathing, refusing to let his discomfort show. He met her gaze, defiant despite his precarious position. "I've learned humans barely saw us as real people. But ironically, your reckless curiosity inadvertently recorded truths that our ancestors worked obsessively to erase. The Sunveil was our shield against humanity, but it ended up excluding our own desperate kin."

Rhiannon's expression softened slightly, her fingers relaxing just enough to remind him that she valued him enough to hold back from breaking him. "So, the Sunveil is both a means of defense and suppression?"

"Yes," he admitted bitterly. "My people chose isolation out of pragmatism and cold, hard calculation, shrinking from our challenges instead of meeting them head-on, or finding a way to co-exist."

Her eyes narrowed. "Yet your masters teach a more heroic, honorable version?"

Veyran exhaled deeply, resigned but honest. "They do. To admit otherwise would force them to question every choice that led to our society today. Easier to hide behind legends of noble sacrifices."

Rhiannon nodded slowly, her fingers shifting, cupping him more comfortably. "Our ancestors share that failing. Less painful to forget our missteps and deny responsibility. Yet, here you and I stand—two descendants, questioning old choices and narratives. Perhaps there's room now for a new understanding of old truths."

Veyran studied her warily. "And what if that threatens the progress both our people now enjoy?"

Rhiannon considered his question as she lifted him up to her face until their eyes were level. Her fingers tightened, a reminder of his vulnerability, yet her gaze held a spark of genuine regard.

"Then perhaps it's time we build something better."

"So, what should I dig up this time?" Auren asked.

Menna shook her head, frowning. "I'm not sure anymore. All the references I can access in Umbryss are sanitized. The masters' fingerprints are everywhere."

"I'm a librarian, not a puzzle-solver," he shrugged. "But I've learned that when scholars keep getting blocked by obstacles, it's because they're following paths designed by those who don't want them to stray."

Menna crossed her arms, intrigued. "And your solution?"

"If I were stuck," he leaned in closer with a mischievous smirk. "I'd look somewhere else entirely."

The librarian picked up one of the manuscripts she'd set aside, gently brushing off some lint from its spine. "You've spent weeks poring over texts that were carefully curated, filtered by generations of masters. If you're always led back to the same answers, maybe you need to ask different questions, ones they would never expect. Turn to topics the masters wouldn't deign to guard, those they've deemed irrelevant or trivial. Exploring something peripheral, a field on the fringes, might yield new perspectives."

Menna raised an eyebrow. "And those materials are all neatly organized somewhere?"

"The Great Library is full of apocrypha the masters never thought to censor," the librarian explained, his eyes twinkling. "But we stewards still have to file them away… somewhere among the cracks."

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