Part Three: Unraveling the Threads

The air had turned colder by the time the Scholar made his way to Marnie Wrapp’s library. The small building stood on the edge of the village, its stone walls weathered by time, but still standing strong. A single lantern flickered near the entrance, casting long shadows across the ground.

The Scholar paused at the door, his hand resting lightly on the handle. Mirelle had said this was where the real secrets were kept—the tomes left behind by witches and warlocks who had sought to tap into Hallowvale’s ancient magic. He took a deep breath and pushed the door open, stepping inside.

The interior of the library was quiet, the air thick with the scent of old books and candle wax. Shelves lined every wall, crammed with dusty tomes, scrolls, and parchment. A single figure sat at a desk near the back, her back to the door, her quill scratching against parchment. Marnie Wrapp, the librarian, did not look up as he approached.

The Scholar cleared his throat softly. “Miss Wrapp, I presume?”

Marnie turned slowly, her sharp eyes narrowing as she took in the sight of him. “That depends,” she said, her voice dry as parchment. “Who’s asking?”

“A scholar,” he replied smoothly, “seeking knowledge of the deeper magic that runs beneath this village. I was told your library holds valuable texts—tomes left by those who came before, seeking the same answers.”

Marnie set down her quill, folding her hands in front of her. “You’re not the first to come asking about that,” she said, her gaze hard. “Most who do either leave disappointed or don’t leave at all. What makes you think you’ll find what they couldn’t?”

The Scholar smiled faintly, his eyes gleaming with confidence. “I’ve found that persistence and a clear goal often yield better results than curiosity alone.”

Marnie studied him for a long moment before standing and gesturing toward a set of shelves in the corner. “The tomes you’re after are there,” she said. “But I’ll warn you—most of what’s written is incomplete. The ones who wrote them either didn’t finish their work, or they were too far gone to make sense of what they found.”

The Scholar nodded, stepping toward the shelves. His fingers brushed over the dusty spines of the books, each one humming faintly with the echoes of forgotten magic. This was it—what he had been searching for.

At the cemetery, the Merchant returned to Grimble, hoping to pry more information from the reaper. The crescent moon charm Grimble had purchased earlier now hung from his skeletal wrist, and the Merchant’s eyes gleamed as they spotted it.

“Grimble, my friend,” the Merchant called, stepping forward with an easy smile. “I trust the charm has served you well?”

Grimble nodded slowly, his hollow eyes flickering beneath his hood. “It… helps,” he said quietly. “Less attention.”

The Merchant smiled wider. “I’m glad to hear it. You’ve been here a long time, haven’t you, Grimble? Long enough to see the village grow from its earliest days.”

Grimble stiffened, his skeletal frame tensing as suspicion flickered in his hollow eyes. He had felt something off about these visitors since their arrival, and the Merchant’s probing questions only deepened his unease. “I tend the cemetery,” Grimble said, his voice low and wary. “That is all.”

The Merchant’s smile did not waver, though they noted Grimble’s change in demeanor. “Surely, in all those years, you’ve learned more about the village’s foundation. I’ve heard whispers of ancient magic—magic that runs deep beneath Hallowvale’s bones.”

Grimble’s fingers twitched toward the charm on his wrist. He had indeed seen much in his time as the caretaker, more than most could imagine. But the Protectors—the secret society sworn to protect the village’s hidden magic—would not take kindly to outsiders prying into matters they had guarded for centuries.

“The past is not yours to know,” Grimble said, his voice tight. “And some things are better left buried.”

The Merchant’s eyes narrowed slightly, sensing that Grimble was holding something back. But the reaper’s sudden wariness was a warning sign. Pressing too hard now might make him retreat entirely.

“I see,” the Merchant said, taking a step back. “You’re wise to be cautious, Grimble. But sometimes, sharing knowledge can help protect what matters most. Think on it.”

As Grimble watched the Merchant leave, his skeletal hands clenched around the charm. He could no longer ignore the unease that had settled over him. These visitors were more than they seemed, and their interest in the village’s foundations was too precise to be mere coincidence.

At the far edge of the village, the Apothecary arrived at Dr. Gloom’s lab as the moon began to rise over the rooftops. The lab itself was a ramshackle building, its windows dark and shuttered, but a faint glow from within indicated the doctor was hard at work.

The Apothecary knocked softly, and after a moment, the door creaked open. Dr. Gloom stood in the doorway, his wild hair and excited eyes gleaming in the dim light. “You’re here,” he said, ushering the Apothecary inside. “Good, good. There’s much to discuss.”

The lab was cluttered with vials, beakers, and strange mechanical contraptions, all of which hummed faintly with energy. Dr. Gloom moved quickly through the space, his hands twitching with anticipation as he gestured to a table covered in notes and blueprints.

“You see,” Dr. Gloom began, his voice brimming with excitement, “Hallowvale’s magic isn’t just in the air—it’s in the very materials that make up the village. The stone, the wood, even the iron. They’re all infused with ancient energy.”

The Apothecary stepped closer, scanning the notes scattered across the table. “And you’ve confirmed this?”

Dr. Gloom nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes! The materials themselves are imbued with magic. It’s subtle, but it’s there. That’s why my experiments have been so successful—why my machines work the way they do. The village is a conduit for this energy.”

The Apothecary’s eyes gleamed as they studied a set of blueprints. “And who do you think is responsible for this infusion? The magic couldn’t have originated from the materials themselves.”

Dr. Gloom’s excitement dimmed slightly, his brow furrowing. “That’s the mystery, isn’t it? I’ve found proof that the village was built on something—something magical. But I don’t know who or what did it. Or why.”

The Apothecary’s fingers brushed over one of the notes, their mind racing. If the materials were imbued with magic from the start, then Hallowvale’s very construction had been deliberate. But by whom? And for what purpose?

“We’ll need to investigate further,” the Apothecary said, their voice calm but tinged with intrigue. “There’s more to be uncovered here. Whoever—or whatever—built this village did so for a reason. And we need to find out why.”

Dr. Gloom nodded, his curiosity rekindled. “Agreed. There’s more beneath the surface than we realize. And I intend to find it.”

The Apothecary smiled faintly. “As do I.”