Walking that slow was boring for everyone.

Orme railed against his old knees, who wouldn't go any faster. He bemoaned his feet that hurt, his legs that wouldn’t carry his weight for as long as he'd like.

At some point, Iyona told him to shut up and walk. That he should be grateful to be walking at all, that people his age were often using a walker, when they could get out of their chair at all, when they weren't downright dead.

Orme laughed. “I'm 70, not 100!”

And yet there was some truth in what she said. Orme’s wife had been so sick by the end, she could only go from the chair to the bed. Most of his friends were dead and the one remaining was, last he saw him, in a wheelchair. Ageing in this country was rough and short.

Orme shook himself. He was still walking, running, fighting. That's what mattered.

The companions ended up in a small but tidy village with stone houses. His pride still piqued from Iyona's words, Orme refused to stay the night. They would dine, locate the village on the map, and leave.

To his companions’ dismay, that is exactly what happened.

“The next ruin is North West from here. Only a few days of walking. I'm hoping no goblins, this time…” Wren still wasn't over the previous encounter. It had really rattled them.

Orme forced his pace for the next several days, but still barely walked as fast as he wanted. The scenery around the companions never changed, the constant fog clung to their legs, and nothing happened.

They eventually made it to the ruin. This time, it wasn’t buried.

It was a giant tower, half demolished. Vines were growing on what was left of the walls, and bats had taken up residence in what was left of the roof.

It was immense.

It must have been a beautiful building back in its days of glory. There were still some traces of paint on the outside walls, white and blue. The door was long gone. They entered, and found that the inside was even more beautiful than the outside.

The floor was made of colourful tiles, arranged in a sort of mosaic that represented a group of owls in flight.

Wren stared. “Whoa,” they said. “This place is like a dream!”

It was true. Some of the windows were still standing and were intricately decorated with iron flowers and leaves. There were giant wooden beams, from which delicate chandeliers hung. And there were books.

So many books.

Wren didn’t waste another second. They went straight to the closest shelf and pulled a book out, hungry to learn what this library was all about. Orme, on the other hand, looked around some more. 

The shelves were neatly arranged to provide not only the maximum space for the books, but the easiest way to browse through them. There was a ladder a bit further, with wheels, that one could use to reach the highest ones. And in an alcove, there were scrolls.

They looked old, very old, and half of them seemed to be crumbling under the merest touch.

Orme didn’t touch anything.

Iyona looked at the covers, all of which had the titles printed on. Some were blue, some were red, most were green. She reached out to a grey tome, and saw a picture on the front of two fighters.