They kept climbing.
The paths narrowed as they moved higher, the wide platforms of the lower levels giving way to tighter routes carved deeper into the mountain. Movement thinned with it. Fewer Avians crossed their path now, and those who did moved with purpose, not lingering, not stopping. The constant flow from below didn't reach this high anymore.
It was quieter. Not empty, but quieter.
The air felt different here. Less movement. Less wind cutting across the open paths. The stone around them closed in slightly—not enclosing, but shaping the space into something more contained, more deliberate.
Brenok walked ahead. Aric followed. Neither of them spoke. They didn't need to. The direction was clear.
Up.
The path turned inward along the mountain's face, the exposed edges giving way to a broader stretch of stone that sloped gently upward before flattening into a wide, carved space. They reached it together.
The entrance wasn't marked.
No gate. No barrier. Just an opening in the stone—wider than the paths below, taller than any structure they had passed through so far. The rock had been cut back, not smoothed completely, but shaped enough that the transition from outside to inside was clear.
Aric slowed as he stepped through.
The change was immediate.
Sound dropped. Not gone, but reduced. The wind no longer reached them. The movement of the city faded behind them, replaced by something stiller, heavier.
Their footsteps carried.
A low echo against stone.
The space inside stretched upward rather than outward. The walls rose high, carved with layers of shelves set directly into the rock. They weren't uniform—some deeper, some narrower—but all filled.
Books. Scrolls. Bound stacks of material that had been placed, used, returned.
Levels rose above them—not separate floors, but open tiers connected by narrow steps carved into the walls and angled paths that climbed along the edges. Some sections were reachable only by steeper routes, others by broader steps worn smoother by frequent use.
Light came from above. Openings cut into the mountain let it fall inward in narrow beams, illuminating sections unevenly. Some areas remained in shadow. Others stood fully exposed.
Aric stepped further inside, his pace slowing without him noticing.
Brenok stopped beside him. "This is it."
"Yes."
There were Avians here.
Few. Spread out across the space. Some moved along the higher levels, crossing narrow paths with steady footing. Others stood near shelves, pulling materials, returning them, moving on. No one spoke loudly. No one lingered longer than needed.
The silence wasn't enforced.
It existed.
Aric looked up. The structure continued higher than he could see from where he stood—layer after layer of shelves, paths, and open space. Not chaotic. Not random. But organized in a way he didn't yet understand.
Used.
Brenok moved first without hesitation, stepping toward the nearest section of shelves and pulling a bound text free. He opened it, flipped through a few pages, then closed it again.
Not what he was looking for.
He set it back.
Aric moved to another section, his hand brushing briefly along the edge of the shelf before he pulled one of the books free. The material felt different—thicker, heavier. He opened it.
Lines of text. Structured. Ordered.
Nothing.
He closed it and put it back.
They didn't speak.
They didn't need to.
They started searching.
At first, the movement was direct. Purposeful. They checked titles, opened what seemed relevant, closed what wasn't, and moved on.
Time passed.
Not marked. Not counted.
The rhythm settled quickly.
Take. Open. Scan. Discard. Move.
Again.
Aric climbed to a higher level, using one of the angled paths cut into the wall. His steps slowed slightly as the incline increased, his hand brushing the stone for balance. The shelves here were narrower, the materials older, some worn along the edges.
He pulled one free and opened it.
Avian script. Detailed.
Irrelevant.
He returned it and moved on.
Below him, Brenok shifted between sections, covering ground efficiently. He didn't linger. Didn't recheck what he had already dismissed.
The space remained quiet.
The only sound was pages turning, footsteps shifting, the faint scrape of material being returned to stone.
Aric moved across another section and opened another book.
Trade records.
Closed it.
Another.
Territory boundaries.
Closed it.
Another.
Species documentation.
Not humans.
Closed it.
The next wasn't bound.
Loose pages, edges worn unevenly, some missing entirely. The writing broke off mid-line in places, sections torn or lost. Aric turned one page, then another, trying to follow something that wasn't complete.
Nothing held.
He let it fall closed and set it aside.
He exhaled slowly.
If it was here, it wasn't easy to find.
He moved again.
Down one level. Across. Up again.
The structure didn't guide him. There was no clear system, no section marked for what he needed. Just knowledge—layered, buried, waiting.
Brenok crossed in front of him once, holding a book for a moment longer than the others before setting it aside.
"Nothing," he said.
Aric nodded. He had found the same.
They kept moving.
Time passed.
Long enough for the rhythm to change.
The movements became heavier. Not careless—but slower. Books opened a fraction later. Closed with less certainty. Aric paused once longer than before, holding a text open without reading it before setting it back.
Still nothing.
He moved again, climbing higher. The shelves changed slightly here—older, less uniform, fewer texts, more space between them.
He reached for one, then stopped.
There was no pattern. No indication this level held anything different.
He pulled it anyway.
Opened it.
Read.
Closed it.
Nothing.
He set it back.
Below him, Brenok had stopped.
Not moving.
That was wrong.
Aric watched for a moment. Brenok didn't reach for another book. Didn't continue. He just stood there.
Aric stepped down one level. Then another. Moved toward him.
"What."
Brenok didn't answer immediately. His hand rested on the spine of a book—not pulling it free, not yet.
Then he did.
Slow. Deliberate.
He turned it slightly, looked at the front, then held it out.
"Aric."
Aric stepped closer and took the book.
Looked down.
The title was clear.
Different from the others. Not structured. Not distant.
Direct.
Soli — The Last Human
Aric didn't move.
Didn't speak.
The space around them stayed quiet, unchanged—but the search had ended.
He tightened his grip on the book.
And didn't let go.