The cries of the burned woman haunted Roche's mind as she climbed the stone steps of the castle, dodging maids and servants running about with various supplies in their hands. By the time she got to the third floor, she was covered in a thin layer of sweat. She didn't dare use her inkblood again to cleanse herself. She walked through the eerily empty winding halls until she found a large set of double doors with the royal insignia carved into it. The sight of the symbol made Roche's stomach turn after the fire display, but she swallowed her disgust and pushed open the door.

"Hot damn." Roche muttered, her words swallowed by the silence of the library. The library was a huge, cavernous space. Large floor-to-ceiling wooden shelves connected the well kept white stone floors. The grout was clean enough that Roche wagered she could eat off of it. The ceiling was clear and domes, with electric pot lights tucked in. They were off, even though almost no natural light was streaming through the large windows overlooking the cliffs. Roche gaped at the sight. Her village didn't have fancy pot lights. Or electricity.

Roche wandered in. She could see large stone columns interspersed through the library, overshadowed by friezes with vivid carved scenes. The scenes seemed so animated that Roche found herself dazedly stepping closer, shifting from sculpture to sculpture, until she had waded far too deep into the library to understand where she was.

Her heart picked up as she turned in a slow circle. The shelves around her all looked the same. Roche gulped. Now how was she supposed to find the royal librarian? She was on the verge of shouting for help in the silent library when she heard the squeak of rolling wheels and the hum of something she'd only heard in the Faultless City: electricity. Roche followed the sound until the shelves widened into a large circular chamber with stones on the floor that were more sandy than pearly. The shelves spanned the walls, filled with thick and crumbling pages. In the center of the room, perched atop a large ladder with wheels at the bottom and some kind of electric unit attached, an elderly woman dressed in an atrociously long robe slid more books on the shelf. Roche silently padded to her side, staring up the ladder. When the woman didn't turn, Roche cleared her throat.

"Excuse me?" she called up. The pale, wrinkled woman twisted in surprise, nearly slipping off the ladder. Roche flinched and dove forward to catch her, but the ladder began to hum with electricity. It rolled to the side, steadying the woman before she could fall. The woman scowled, straightening her thin, wired spectacles.

"Er... sorry." Roche muttered, lowering her gaze. She stared at the ladder. "Fascinating. Does that run on some kind of electricity? How did it know you were going to fall?"

"You're certainly a curious sort." the woman grumbled. She pressed a button, and the steps of the ladder began to lower her to the ground. Even when they were on even footing, the woman towered over Roche. "Is this your first time in the Faultless City?"

"How could you tell?" Roche asked, shocked. The woman grinned, tucking a stray strand of her ash-grey hair behind her ear.

"If you were from here, you wouldn't be surprised by electricity and sensors." She gave Roche a once over. "So what is someone who is not from the Faultless City doing in my library?"

"Your library?" Roche repeated dubiously. She furrowed her brow. "Are you Verita? The Royal Librarian?"

The woman dipped her head with a nod. "You know of me?"

"I was sent to find you." Roche pulled out her sealed envelope. Her mother had warned her not to open it during the ride to the Faultless City. "My mother gave me this. Said you should read it."

"I see," Verita repeated slowly. She pried open the seal on the envelope with her thumbnail with a soft snick. "And your mother is..."

"Elena." Roche supplied. Verita's thin shoulders stiffened instantly, her pale lips twisting hawkishly. Wordlessly, she pulled out the letter, scanning its contents. Roche fought the urge to slip beside her and read what it said. Her mother had been very secretive about the letter.

"Don't you open it, Roche. Not all the words in the world are meant for you."

Roche frowned at the memory. Verita stared at the letter for a few moments before folding it up into a thin square. Her papery fingers tucked it into her sleeve, her rheumy brown eyes unreadable.

"Your mother wishes for you to stay with me." Verita said after several long moments. "That is not a responsibility I take on lightly. If your mother were not such a close friend, you would already be gone."

Roche swallowed, feeling terribly weary. "Please. I have travelled a long way. I have nowhere else to go."

"Your mother is quite fond of you." Verita waved the letter through the air. "I'm sure she would let you stay with her. Why have you come all this way to the Faultless City?"

Roche's throat was very dry. She ran her tongue over her cracked lips.

"I was hoping to study here. Under your tutelage."

Verita snorted. "If you want to study, you'd be better off attending one of those academies."

Roche knew that. She'd wanted that. But it wasn't safe. They do extensive inkblood screening at those academies. Even if she was less conspicuous than most, she couldn't risk that. And staying home wasn't an option anymore. She was old enough to know that her existence put her mother at risk. She wouldn't be the one to get her sweet mother killed.

Verita fiddled with the letter once more. She sighed.

"It is fortunate that I have an opening for an apprentice." Verita huffed, "And that I owe your mother a life debt. I will take you as my apprentice, if you wish."

Roche grinned at her, so much relief coursing through her veins that she nearly got on her knees. "Thank you! I-"

"But," Verita interrupted, staring down her very long nose at Roche, "This is a position that requires the utmost obedience and discipline. Are you willing to put in the effort required?"

Roche nodded eagerly. Verita's eyes fluttered like she wanted to roll her eyes.

"And of course," Verita glared at Roche, "As is policy throughout this kingdom, no inkblood is allowed. Here, that rule is more important than ever."

"Of course. Why is that rule more important here?" Roche inquired nervously. What was so special about a library? Verita's eyes narrowed.

"Inkblood," Verita answered slowly, like Roche was a child who needed to be talked down to, "Relies on the user's connection to words and communication. It blends languages across the world to mend the gap between the smallest of matter that is invisible to the eyes and that which we can see. The more the user understands writing and communications, the stronger their inkblood will be. Someone could have a gallon of inkblood injected into their veins, but it wouldn't mean anything if that person couldn't communicate. Likewise, some of the strongest inkblood users had but a drop of inkblood injected within them, but knew enough languages to traverse the world. The library is the most dangerous of places for someone with inkblood."

Verita paused, like she was waiting for Roche to say something more. Roche picked her words carefully.

"Interesting." she replied blandly, forcing a dull smile to her face, "So what duties will I have as your apprentice?"

Verita's shoulders relaxed. She beckoned for Roche to follow her through the winding shelves. Eventually, they found a set of creaky wooden stairs tucked in a dingy corner of the library. Verita climbed the stairs with surprising ease for her age, leading Roche to a small wooden door that she had to duck to pass through.

"These are my quarters. You'll be staying in the guest quarters back there." Verita pointed to an even smaller door in the back of the small room. There were many simple wooden tables and benches, piled with parchments, papers, stone tablets, and small vials of ink. Tucked in the corner was a small cot. One of the tables had a stack of fresh fruit and bread. Roche's stomach rumbled at the sight of the simple food. She hadn't eaten in ages. Verita raised a pointed brow. "Get cleaned up. I will disclose the rest of your duties after lunch."

Roche was relieved to find that the bathing system was what she was used to and not some electric monstrosity. She cleaned herself up with the simple wooden bucket, warm water, and soap. The towel she'd packed was downey soft, one of the better ones that her home had. She remembered her mother fussing over it as she'd packed it away.

"Bah! Take it, love. We can't be sending you off to the city with rags for a towel, can we now?" her mother had protested when Roche had tried packing a scratchy towel. Her heart throbbed with homesickness, but she shoved away her worries. The further away she was, the safer her mother would be. Roche re-entered Verita's main quarters in a simple gingham pink dress that she'd hand stitched to fit. Verita nodded her approval, setting down a plate of grey looking gruel.

"I see you've corrected your attire."

"What's wrong with what I was wearing earlier?" Roche asked, feeling more curious than offended. Verita clicked her tongue.

"Females in the Faultless City are expected to maintain their beauty. Gowns and dresses paired with simple jewelry will mark your respect. As my apprentice, you must appear presentable at all given times." Verita explained. Roche slid onto the opposite side of the wooden table, balancing herself precariously on the wooden stool with a frown.

"Trousers and shirts are... not presentable?" Roche replied, taking a bite of the gruel. She nearly spat it out. It was a flavourless paste. Verita arched a brow.

"You'll need to be smarter than that if you are to be my apprentice." was all Verita said. "In the villages and outer cities, wearing trousers and shirts are not a problem for females considering the manual work done. But here, the expectation for your attire is different. To earn any respect, you must follow the dress code."

Roche wished it was written down, but the most important rules rarely ever were. She forced herself to take another bite of the gruel. Her stomach flipped in protest. Verita seemed to be having no trouble digesting the muck.

"Is the stew to your liking?" Verita asked. Roche swallowed her bite, fighting to keep it down. She managed a nod.

"This is delicious." Roche lied baldly, trying not to worsen her impression. Verita smirked.

"When your mother last visited me, she brought Irulian food. Quite flavourful in contrast." Verita's smile disappeared. "Your appearance will already make you suspect in the Faultless Kingdom. I'd suggest getting used to ignoring any ties you have to Irulia. They are not a fondly considered kingdom in these parts."

Irulia. Roche was tied to it from the warm brown of her skin. It had been years since Roche's mother had fled Irulia, shortly after Roche's birth. The kingdom was always in some conflict with the Faultless City, despite their shared hatred of inkblood. Even in the villages, Roche had learned to separate herself from that part of her identity.

"Well, if you're done eating, I have a list of tasks I expect you to have completed by sunset." Verita announced, clearing away their bowls. Roche stood to help wash them, but Verita shoved a sheet of more imminent tasks in her face.

"Your mother tells me you know your letters," Verita said, moving over to a faucet, "And you are quite adept with words and storytelling. So these tasks should be doable."

Roche unrolled the slip of paper, gaping at the length. Most of it was menial labour, sweeping, dusting, ordering books, delivering books across the city...

"I'm not sure I can complete all this by sunset." Roche gasped. Verita shot her an unimpressed look.

"If you are to remain my apprentice, then you will. Otherwise you will have to return to your mother." Verita set down their washed dishes with a clang, turning to glare at Roche over her shoulder, "I have paid my debt to your mother by giving you a chance. Do not squander it. Your mother is a dear friend, but she knows I do not tolerate laziness."

Laziness? Roche's jaw dropped. How was she supposed to clean the entire library and travel the lengths of the city in a few hours? Still, she couldn't risk angering Verita further. The indignant pink spots on the aging woman's cheeks told Roche that she was already pushing her luck. She stiffly curtsied and hurried out of the room. She stared at the swirling dust motes in the library. Rows upon rows of shelves were covered in dust, and even though the floor was mostly pristine, Roche had a feeling that Verita would know if she didn't sweep it.

After wandering around, Roche found a broom closet. She found a broom with a worn handle that fit cleanly in her hands, the bristles worn and ratty. Using it would take ages. She swept the floor until her wrists and ankles throbbed, and the many levels of the stone floors were spotless. It had taken hours. Roche chewed her lip as she stared out at the library. She didn't have enough time to dust the shelves and scrub the floors AND be able to complete her book deliveries. She sighed, looking around. She wandered for a bit until she was sure no one was around. She scraped her thumb against one of the friezes until a steady trickle of blood pooled in her hand.

"Come on," she whispered, focusing her will, "What do I need to say?" In her palm, her blood stirred. The surface of the liquid rippled and slowly black ink surfaced. It never showed itself unless Roche willed it. She had no idea how it had gotten within her. She supposed that when you called into the abyss of language and stories and dreams for as long as she had, the stories speak back eventually. And sometimes, they came in handy. She studied the word that surfaced in her copper palms. It dissipated quickly, as if the inkblood knew how much danger they were in. Roche swallowed.

"Temeo." she whispered first, feeling a familiar pain cleave through her. It was less painful this time, like a muscle that had been worked. The blood drained off her hand, turning to water and iron pebbles. The inkblood seeped back into the cut. Roche rubbed it, feeling sparks of pain shoot up her hand. She focused on the word the inkblood had given her.

"Reafenis." she growled next. The pain returned, stronger. Her vision blurred. When she'd blinked herself to clarity, she saw dust motes flying into the air, collecting in neat piles at the end of the shelves. She hurried to sweep up each one, wading deeper and deeper into the library. As she swept up the last pile, she became aware of a small scratching noise. She looked around, but she didn't see anyone in the shelves nearby. Her heart launched into her throat. If someone had seen the display...

"Verita?" Roche called hesitantly into the engulfing silence. Her words were swallowed into the eerie stillness. Goosebumps rose on Roche's flesh. The scratching returned. Louder. More persistent. Then the strangest thing happened.

Roche stumbled backward, her body lurching as the inkblood in her body urged her away from the sound. The scratching paused for an instant, and then became even louder. Her inkblood roared in her ears. Roche vaguely realised that the sound was coming from the walls.

Get away, it shouted, RUN! Roche froze. Never had she heard the inkblood so clearly. Its whisper was feminine and insistent, harried with terror. Her legs were moving before she even realised she was running, broom and dustpan in hand.

"Forgetting something?"

Roche yelped, her dustpan flying. Clouds of dust filled the air, sending her and Verita into a coughing fit. Verita thumped her chest, glaring at Roche. Her eyes focused on the dust sitting around them. She lifted a brow.

"So you've managed to clean the library entirely?" Verita asked, lifting a brow. Roche nodded, avoiding the woman's gaze. Her heart was still pounding in her chest.

"Most of it." Roche rasped, pointing to the dust around them. Verita frowned. Roche dryly realized that this seemed to be a familiar expression for Verita.

"Clean that up and run the book deliveries. You only have a few hours of daylight left." Verita snapped, hurrying off with a flourish of her robes. When she was sure that she was alone, Roche looked back at the wall. The scratching had stopped, but the sense of foreboding still made her shudder.

Run. The inkblood whispered again. Roche cleaned up the dust and gladly obliged.

A/N Switched to writing in past tense. Which do you prefer?