The door didn't so much open... it was more like it split apart—iron jaws sliding away with a slow, grinding hiss.
Inside, the dim light came from floating orbs glowing a deep red.
The air carried the scent of ink, aged parchment, and a faint metallic tang.
Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling, crammed with scrolls, crystal tablets, bound tomes that shivered like living creatures, jars of murmuring smoke, and tiny cages housing softly glowing insects.
At the far end sat the broker—a tall, thin figure draped in a hooded robe that seemed to ripple with shadow.
Beneath the cowl was no face, only a smooth oval of darkness.
Long, jointed fingers rested on a ledger that appeared to be bound in tanned skin.
"Welcome to the Vault of Paid Truths," The figure spoke, "Here all knowledge can be known... but it all has a price. Blood, secrets, memories, favors… we accept many currencies."
