Prince of Gluttony: Born from Betrayal

The library was relatively deserted when Cain arrived. It was a repository of information one could imagine, a place where the quiet hum of the air mixed with the faint scent of aged paper and polished wood. Rows upon rows of books stood like silent sentinels, each shelf heavy with volumes that promised knowledge, stories, and secrets waiting to be uncovered.

His footsteps echoed softly against the marble floor as he moved deeper inside. The high, arched windows let in shafts of golden afternoon light that caught in the dust motes drifting lazily through the air. Somewhere in the distance, a librarian's pen scratched quietly against paper, the only other sign of life.

Cain's eyes scanned the aisles. Each section seemed to pull at him in a different way. One corner beckoned with its neatly labeled history texts, another promised the lure of arcane knowledge with thick tomes bound in cracked leather. He knew he had come here for a reason, but the sheer breadth of information made it easy to be tempted by subjects far removed from his original goal.

He stopped at an aisle that contained Basic Grimoires. Each one was filled with Elementary level spells of different elements. He let his fingers trail along the spines, feeling the varying textures of leather, cloth, and parchment bindings.

The titles were embossed in faded gold or etched into the covers in symbols that only the magically inclined could read. He pulled one at random, a thin grimoire bound in green fabric, and flipped it open. The neat, looping script inside detailed a simple light spell meant for beginners. It was nothing impressive, but it reminded him that even the most powerful sorcerers had started here, tracing the same words, practicing the same gestures.

He replaced it carefully and continued down the aisle, scanning for something more suited to his needs. The basic wind and water grimoires sat side by side, their pages filled with the fundamentals of control and shaping. The air magic volumes, lighter in both content and weight, were stacked neatly on the upper shelves. There were even earth magic guides, dusty and untouched, as if no one had bothered to give them a second glance in years.

Cain slid the red leather grimoire from the shelf with deliberate care. The cover was smooth yet faintly worn at the edges, showing it had been handled many times before. Gold lettering, still bright despite the years, spelled out Elementary Pyromancy: Principles and Practice.

He opened it and was immediately met with the faint smell of charred parchment, as though the book itself had once been too close to an open flame. The first few pages outlined the fundamentals; understanding heat flow, controlling spark ignition, and visualizing flame as an extension of the caster's will. The text stressed discipline above all else, warning that uncontrolled fire magic often harmed the wielder as much as the target.

Illustrations filled the margins, each depicting the correct stance for casting, the optimal hand positions, and the progression from a candle-sized flame to a controlled burst the size of a torch. Notes from a previous reader were scribbled in the corners in quick, sharp handwriting. Some were corrections to the original instructions, others were reminders like breathe evenly before shaping flame and do not overfeed mana or you will scorch your own sleeve.

Cain turned the pages slowly, studying each spell with the patience of someone who knew that rushing through would only lead to mistakes later. The section on conjuring a firebolt caught his attention. It described compressing a small sphere of heat in the palm before propelling it forward with a focused release of mana. The process seemed simple on paper, but Cain knew that precision would be key. Too little control and the flame would fizzle out before leaving his hand. Too much and the backlash could burn him.

A few chapters deeper, the grimoire covered sustained flames, such as keeping a campfire alight in harsh weather or forming a steady flame to light a path. These techniques emphasized efficiency, training the caster to feed the flame with only the necessary amount of mana. Cain found himself lingering on these passages, thinking of how useful they might be beyond combat.

The handwriting of the previous reader continued throughout the book. Some notes were practical tips, like focusing on the sensation of warmth in the fingertips to help with ignition. Others were cautionary remarks, such as a warning not to attempt certain techniques indoors without proper ventilation. Cain wondered briefly who had left them, imagining a diligent student who had struggled through the same lessons he was now about to face.

When he finally reached the last chapter, the content shifted from direct spellwork to philosophy. The author wrote about fire as a living thing, one that demanded respect and discipline. It was not simply a tool or a weapon but a force of nature that reflected the intent of the caster. Those who treated it carelessly were often consumed by it.

Cain closed his eyes briefly and let the words from the page form on his lips. He mouthed them slowly, tasting each syllable as though rolling an unfamiliar flavor across his tongue. The incantation had a rhythm to it, almost like a quiet hum, and he found himself leaning into its cadence, his mind already picturing the spark it was meant to summon.

Before he could finish the final phrase, a voice slid into his thoughts, smooth and unimpressed.

"Please do not practice Fire Magic of all things in the library. I do not want to have to put out another idiot's flame spell in a place filled with lots of paper."

Cain froze, the words of the incantation dying silently in his throat. His eyes darted around the aisle, half-expecting to see someone standing there, but the rows of books remained as still as before. No footsteps, no shadows moving between shelves. Only the muted sunlight through the tall windows and the ever-present smell of parchment.

"Who said that?" he whispered under his breath.

The voice returned instantly, as if amused by his confusion.

"I am the one preventing you from turning centuries of accumulated knowledge into ash. That should be enough of an introduction."

Cain's grip on the grimoire tightened. The voice was not echoing from the room. It was inside his head, carrying a faint vibration that was both unsettling and strangely authoritative. A telltale sign of telepathy magic.

"You're… reading my thoughts?" he asked cautiously.

"No," the voice replied. "But I am watching. This library has rules, and the most important one is that we do not turn it into a bonfire. If you absolutely must set something alight, I suggest a training yard."

Cain exhaled slowly, lowering his gaze to the page again. "I was not going to cast it. I was just—"

"Mouthing the incantation," the voice interrupted. "Which is the first step toward casting. Intent is a dangerous thing with magic, especially in a place like this. You are lucky I intervened before you reached the last word."

Cain closed the book halfway, irritation prickling at him. "And you are…?"

"The Libarian obviously."