3A. Biblioplex Mysteries

The imp chuckles hearing to Dorian —a raspy, hiccuping sound like a kettle boiling over in a graveyard.

"Oh, you’re a spicy one." It licks a claw and smooths down a nonexistent eyebrow. "The chaos you could cause, indeed. That ambition… delightful."

It flutters a few feet closer, the barrier between them hissing faintly at its presence, but it does not press through.

"You want secrets no one knows you know? Then listen, little schemer." It holds up one claw.

"First—Perceptio. To see what is, and more importantly, what isn’t. Sight beyond sight. Threads of fate. Patterns in minds. Reflections that lie. Master those, and you can not only see prophecies—you can steal them."

Another claw.

"Then—Creatio. Learn to shape the impossible. Flesh, dream, ink, shadow—make them real. It’s not just about summoning fire, oh no. Call us! We who slip between. Imps, devils, forgotten gods and whispering things with too many eyes. Ask us your questions. We might even answer… if you make it fun for us."

It lets the last word linger in the air like perfume. Then, a clap, both claws together.

"As for the expert magician that tried to pin it all on a summoned construct, …" It shrugs, the gesture insincerely innocent. "Who’s to say it’s not one of you?"

Kiraens attention flips to Dorian. Did he indicate that he knew how to bind demons?

The imp lets out a delighted little screech of laughter, twirling midair like a leaf caught in a foul breeze.

"Oh! What a truly vile fate. I’d be bored into oblivion before the century's end."

It leans closer to the barrier.

"But tell me, oh binder of fiends—do you even know how? Do any of the girls?" Its voice turns sing-song, taunting. "Dominatio magic is no parlor trick. You’d need precise glyphs, anchoring rituals, a vessel strong enough to hold a will like mine." The imp taps its skull. "And let’s not forget, you’d have to resist my counterspell... and oh, I bite."

Then it pauses, grin sharpening.

"Besides… my master would notice if I were bound. And He does so hate it when mortals play with chains."

The smile that follows is far too wide.

"Would you like to see what happens when He gets upset?"

Don't give a demon your name from your own lips! Names has power in his world
The thought of powerful names reminded her of the tattoo she carries and the name of that creatures. She refused to think of her as a goddess. It's more likely that she is a demon.

"Oh, you’re bold. I like that." Its wings flutter once, then twice, and it drifts just beyond the edge of the barrier, claws shaking Marlena’s gloved fingers. "But names, names, names... you know what they say about those. Dangerous things. Binding things."

It spins backward in a lazy arc and bows in midair with mocking flourish.

"You may call me—" it begins, then lets out a breath that twists into a word far too long, far too sharp at the edges.

"Zh'rakkalith'vessk'thunael—though mortals usually choke somewhere between the fourth and sixth syllables."

It grins again, wide and oily.

"It’s not my 'real name'. But I suppose you may use it or the abbreviated version: ‘Zessk.’ Or ‘Your Grace.’ Either is accurate."

Then it gives Marlena a little wink and flicks its claws against the air in what could be taken as a return gesture—or a feint.



"So. We’re on a first-name basis now. How terribly intimate. What's next?"

First, I would like to know who do you serve Zh'rakkalith'vessk'thunael?
Kiraens pronunciation is almost perfect. The languages of the Underdark have acclimatised her for dark names. That and prayers to Lolth.

I trust its not Lolth?

Secondly, you will be seen as a threat to the safety of students here, so you can't stay here. The Misthaven’s Dragon Guards will have your head.
So, while your visit will end, I would prefer it to end with the minimum amount of ...
Chaos? No he thrives at such
Bloodshead? No
Property damage? Perhaps
... Inconveniences for all parties Kiraen is not really happy with her final choice of words, but it was the best she could come up with.

"Oh, well done," it says. "A shame we didn’t meet under more proper terms. A sacrificial altar, maybe. Or a high seat at a shadow moot."

It drifts in a lazy circle as it answers, voice softening into something uncomfortably close to reverence.

"I serve one who is not to be named here. Not above ground. Not within this hallowed little dome of illusory safety you mortals scurry under." Its grin stretches, impossibly wide. "Say it aloud, and he listens. He listens, and he remembers."

Zessk clicks his claws together, and little motes of black fire spark between them.

"So let’s just say… my master is old. Clever. Loves secrets, like your friend here." It gestures lazily toward Marlena. "And he does not take kindly to losing what is his. That includes me."

At Kiraen’s pointed warning, Zessk chuckles again.

"Oh, darling. I thrive on inconvenience."

But then, to everyone’s surprise, he folds his arms and sighs dramatically.

"Still, still. I’m not keen on being hunted by dragons or sliced in half by professors with egos the size of leviathans. So, I’ll leave. Willingly, even."

He leans in toward the barrier again, nose nearly brushing it, eyes gleaming like molten brass.

"But only if someone asks nicely. Say… please, Zessk."

"Ooooh," he purrs, "you almost had it, really. Beautiful pronunciation, so sharp, like a dagger sliding between ribs. But—" he leans back, tail curling around a nearby bookshelf like a serpent, "—I didn’t say say my name. I said say ‘please, Zessk.’"

He rolls onto his back in the air, idly spinning as if this entire exchange is nothing but a game played on a lazy afternoon.

"Rules are rules, darling. I’m a guest, after all. A mischievous guest, yes, and yes, potentially catastrophic if left unchecked—but a guest."

He twirls in the air and lands, crouching like a gargoyle.

"Besides… you used the formal name. That’s for summoning, not dismissing. You called, little spiderling. Why would I leave now that I’ve been invited?"

His claws tap a slow beat on the book beneath him, eyes gleaming.

"Someone else want to try? Maybe the kind girl, or the clever girl, or the one pretending not to enjoy this…" His gaze lingers briefly on Marlena, then flicks to Dorian. "Or perhaps the wicked boy with the broken soul?"

The imp’s wings twitch at the sound of "Your Grace," and he straightens, clearly pleased. He smooths the fine edge of his ragged ear as if adjusting an invisible crown, then bows low with exaggerated flair.

"Ah, now that is a proper way to address royalty-in-exile. I do appreciate a bit of ceremony."

Zessk lifts his head.

"Yes. You are correct. Creatio to shape the vessel. My full name to find the thread. The ritual, of course, to pull it taut across the veil. And then…" He clicks his claws together. "I’ll arrive. Depending on your intentions, your offering, and your tone—perhaps even with a gift."

He leans closer to the barrier, tapping a single claw lightly against the faint shimmer of Dorian’s magic.

"But no, I won’t leave just yet. I like it here. And you haven’t made me leave. Ask all you want, but your authority is paper-thin and this library is full of torn pages."

Then, his pointed ears twitch. A noise—soft, but deliberate. Footsteps. He cocks his head toward the sound, sniffing the air.

"Mm. One of yours, I think. Two maybe. The old one. The one who smells like stardust and ink." He grins wider.

"We have a few minutes. I won’t fight you. Not yet. Let’s call it... a truce. A little diplomatic visit." He crosses his legs mid-air and reclines, claws laced behind his head. He turns to Dorian

"Ask what you want, mortal man. Impress me."

Zessk raises a brow ridge, intrigued by the simplicity of Dorian’s plea."Please?" he echoes, drawing the word out like a wine he didn’t expect to enjoy. "No threats. No chains. No 'Your Grace'. Just a ‘please’?"

He looks at each of them in turn.The silence stretches just long enough to build doubt.

Then, with a sharp exhale that might’ve been a chuckle or a sigh, Zessk gives a languid shrug.

"Very well. You asked nicely. It’s rare. I’ll not ruin the novelty of it."

He stretches, catlike, and flutters his wings. The air around him begins to shimmer.

"But remember this—when you want to learn more... I’ll be listening. Watching. Whispering, if you let me."

His form flickers and then with a sharp, snap-like distortion in the air, he vanishes. Not a puff of smoke, not a swirl of shadow. Just a sudden absence. The faintest lingering scent of sulfur and cinnamon.

Silence settles like dust in his wake.

Kiraen's blade lowers by a few inches. Marlena releases the breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. The faint shimmer of Dorian’s Tutela barrier trembles, then fades as well.

And from the distance… footsteps. Louder now.

Callador is coming.

Callador stepped into the reading alcove with the slow, heavy tread of someone who did not rush, because he never needed to.

His green eyes took in the scene in a single sweep—the faint ripple of fading magic, the tension still lingering in the shoulders of the three students, and the subtle scent in the air that he clearly recognized. He sniffed once and adjusted his spectacles.

"Imp," he said simply, his voice like stone. "How recently?"