"What the hell happened?"
My voice echoes strangely in the room, as if the space is both smaller and larger than it appears. The sound bounces off surfaces that might not exist, returns from distances that definitely don't fit within four walls.
I move to the door, needing to understand where I am, why I'm alone, what happened between collapse and waking.
The handle turns easily—too easily, like it was waiting for me to try.
The door opens, and my eyes widen further.
The space beyond defies every law of architecture I understand.
It's a maze of suspended corridors that float in vast emptiness, connected by bridges that might be solid or might be suggestion. Rooms like mine drift at various heights and orientations—some right-side up, some inverted, some perpendicular to any reasonable definition of floor.
And threading through it all, unmistakable despite the impossibility, is a library.
Massive doesn't begin to describe it. The shelves stretch up and up and up, disappearing into shadows that might be ceiling or might be infinity. Books float between sections, reorganizing themselves according to logic I can't follow. Occasionally, one opens itself, pages fluttering as if being read by invisible scholars before closing with satisfied snaps.
The color scheme is deliberate—purple and red bleeding into each other like bruises healing or wounds opening. The purple is deep, royal, carrying weight of authority earned through centuries. The red is vital, fresh, speaking of life and death and the thin line between.
Smells assault my senses in waves. Old paper and fresh ink. Copper and lightning. Something floral that might be roses or might be the particular sweetness of decay. Each breath brings new combinations that shouldn't work together but somehow do.
The lighting is alive.
Not metaphorically—literally. Flames dance along walls that shouldn't be flammable, casting shadows that move independently of their sources. The illumination is always just enough to see by but never enough to see everything, creating pools of mystery that shift when observed directly.
I slowly close the door, back pressed against wood that feels too warm to be a dead tree.
"Okay," I tell myself, trying to organize thoughts that keep scattering like startled birds. "Okay, think."
I'm separated from everyone.That's bad…no shit, Gwenievere.
I'm in uniform, which suggests I've been officially processed into Year Three.That's... neutral?
I'm slightly blood-starved based on the queasiness rolling through my stomach and the way my fangs ache with hunger.That's definitely bad.
And I'm in some kind of floating library maze that shouldn't exist but clearly does.That's...I don't even know what that is.
Maybe Year Three isn't about learning from the Academy in the traditional sense.
The thought arrives with the particular clarity of desperate rationalization, but it feels true. This could be about discovering the hidden secrets that death left behind, about bringing the Academy back together from whatever shattered it into this impossible configuration.
"Gwenievere?"
The voice in my head makes me jump, hand going to my chest where my heart races with relief rather than fear.
"Mortimer?"
His mental voice carries its usual scholarly composure, but there's something underneath—relief matching my own, mixed with concern that makes my chest tight.
"Thank the ancient flames you're conscious. We've been trying to reach you for hours."
Hours. I've been unconscious for hours, while who knows what happened to the others.
"What happened? Where is everyone?"
There's a pause, the kind that suggests he's organizing information into digestible portions rather than overwhelming me with everything at once.
"The Academy collapsed. Not physically—dimensionally. When you lost consciousness, it triggered something. Or perhaps your unconsciousness was triggered by it. The causality is unclear."
