Chapter 22 – The Grimoire of Eternal Hunger

The Great Library of Starfall smelled like ancient secrets and desperation.

Alfred pushed through the massive oak doors. His school uniform was wrinkled from morning classes. Dust motes danced in afternoon sunlight streaming through stained glass windows. Rows of towering bookshelves stretched toward vaulted ceilings, covered in faded murals of ancient scholars.

(Finally, some peace and quiet. Maybe I can figure out why my cakes keep flopping.)

Behind the circulation desk sat Madam Pinch. She was old enough to have organized the library’s first collection, probably. Her silver hair wound tight in a bun that could deflect arrows. Wire-rimmed spectacles perched on her narrow nose.

She glanced up from her ledger.

Her face went the color of spoiled milk.

(The Nightshade heir. Here. In my library. Dear gods, why today?)

Alfred approached the desk with his usual expression. The one that made puppies whimper and children hide. He didn’t notice how her wrinkled hands began trembling. How she gripped her pen like a lifeline.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for a book about mixing intense heat and raw ingredients.”

Madam Pinch’s pen clattered to the floor.

(Intense heat and raw ingredients. Dear gods, he seeks the forbidden Inferno Alchemy. He means to research flesh-melting incantations. We’re all dead.)

Her breath came in short, shallow gasps. She pressed one hand against her chest.

“I—I see. What specific… application did you have in mind?”

Alfred tilted his head. Why did she look so pale? Was she sick?

“Well, I keep having issues with temperature control. Everything keeps collapsing on me.”

(My sponge cakes are literally a disaster. Maybe I’m using too high heat? This is lowkey embarrassing.)

Madam Pinch clutched her chest harder. Her breathing got worse.

(He’s practicing already. The collapsing must refer to cities he’s razed in secret. Villages turned to ash. Dear gods, dear gods.)

“The… the cooking section is in the west wing. Third aisle from the left.”

She pointed with a shaking finger. Her voice barely rose above a whisper.

Alfred smiled, which somehow made everything infinitely worse.

“Thanks so much!”

He headed toward the west wing. Completely unaware that Madam Pinch immediately began drafting her last will and testament.

Between two massive shelves labeled “Culinary Arts” and “Herbal Remedies,” a familiar figure crouched. Elizabeth Voss had her black-dyed hair tucked under a dark hood. A leather notebook was clutched to her chest. Her eyes tracked Alfred’s every movement with hawk-like intensity.

(The Master walks among the forbidden texts. I must record everything for future disciples. This is history in the making.)

Alfred ran his finger along book spines. He squinted at titles.

“Let’s see… ‘Breads of the Northern Realm’… ‘Soups for the Soul’… Ah!”

He pulled out a thick volume with a bright red cover. Gold lettering spelled out “The Red Oven: A Comprehensive Guide to Baking.”

(Perfect. This looks legit. Finally.)

Elizabeth nearly fell off her hiding spot. She grabbed the shelf to steady herself.

(The Blood Pact of the Ancients. The tome bound in the crimson essence of fallen warriors. He’s claimed it with such casual confidence. My Master is too powerful.)

She scribbled furiously in her notebook. Her handwriting was barely legible in her excitement.

Alfred tucked the book under his arm. He wandered toward the reading area. Long wooden tables stretched beneath hanging chandeliers. Their candles provided warm pools of light. A few students hunched over their studies.

The moment Alfred approached, they gathered their materials with supernatural speed. They fled like rabbits from a wolf.

(Did I forget deodorant today? That’s weird.)

He shrugged and claimed a table near the window. Sunlight streamed across the polished wood. He settled into a chair that creaked ominously. The book fell open to a chapter on proper egg preparation.

The handwriting was absolutely atrocious.

Alfred squinted. He tilted the book at various angles.

(Who wrote this, a doctor having a seizure? I can barely read these instructions. Is this a three or an eight?)

His brow furrowed deeper. His natural expression intensified into something that could curdle milk at twenty paces. Frustration radiated off him in waves. He tried to decipher whether the recipe called for three eggs or eight.

The candles flickered.

Then they flickered again.

Students at nearby tables began hyperventilating. Their papers rustled as their hands shook.

(The dark aura manifests. He’s channeling power from the forbidden text. I need to leave. Now.)

A girl with brown pigtails actually fainted. Her friend caught her before she hit the floor. They evacuated quickly, dragging her unconscious body between them.

Alfred remained oblivious. He was too focused on distinguishing between the words “fold” and “beat.”

Luna materialized on the chandelier above him. Invisible to everyone else. Her tiny form shook with silent laughter. Her wings shimmered with barely contained amusement.

(Oh, this is too good. He’s having a stroke over bad penmanship. They think he’s summoning demons. I’m dead.)

A shadow fell across Alfred’s book.

He looked up. An upperclassman stood there. Chest puffed out like a rooster. The guy had to be eighteen. Broad shoulders and the kind of jawline that suggested his parents were related to geometric shapes. His blue academy blazer had medal pins clustered on the lapel.

Behind him, a girl with blonde curls watched. Her admiration was obvious.

(Time to be a hero. Show Clarissa that I’m brave enough to stand up to the Nightshade heir. She’ll totally fall for me.)

“Hey.”

Alfred blinked. He looked up from his book.

“Yes?”

The upperclassman crossed his arms. He tried to look intimidating. It wasn’t working.

“You’re making everyone uncomfortable. Maybe you should leave.”

Alfred felt irritation spike through him. He’d just found his page after five minutes of struggle. And now this?

“Do you mind? I’m trying to figure out the proper ratio of eggs to flour.”

(Seriously, I lost my place. This handwriting is actual garbage. Can’t a guy just bake in peace?)

The upperclassman’s confident expression cracked. His face went pale.

(Eggs. Flour. Dear gods, those are code words. I’ve read about this in forbidden texts.)

His mind raced. Connecting dots that didn’t exist.

(Eggs means unhatched dragon souls. Flour is bone dust from his enemies. He’s researching a spell to grind people into powder. I’m going to die. I’m literally going to die.)

Warmth spread down his leg. He felt it soak through his expensive academy trousers.

His face went crimson. A dark stain appeared on his pants. The girl behind him gasped. Her admiration transformed instantly into secondhand embarrassment.

“I—I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

He turned and ran. His shoes squeaked on the polished floor. His desperate sprint echoed through the library like a symphony of shame. Other students scattered as he barreled past. A trail of mortified whispers followed him.

Alfred stared after him. Genuinely confused.

“What was that about?”

Luna descended to perch on his shoulder. She finally made herself visible to him. Her tiny voice dripped with false sympathy.

“Oh Alfred, he obviously ran because your intellect was too blinding.”

(Your ability to terrify people with baking terminology is my favorite form of entertainment. I can’t breathe.)

“My intellect?”

Alfred glanced back at the book. At the indecipherable scrawl that had him squinting.

“I can barely read this.”

“Exactly. You’re struggling with concepts so advanced, so complex. Lesser minds can’t even comprehend your dedication.”

(Keep believing that, sweet summer child. Please never change.)

Alfred shrugged. He returned to his book.

(I guess people here are just really weird about education. Whatever.)

He spent another hour puzzling through recipes. Occasionally frowning so intensely that the remaining candles guttered. By the time he finished taking notes, the reading area had completely emptied. Even Madam Pinch had retreated to some back office. The circulation desk sat abandoned.

Alfred approached with his book. He glanced around.

“Hello?”

Silence echoed back at him.

He spotted a self-checkout station. A wooden box with a slot for library cards and an ink stamp. A sign above it read “For After-Hours Returns.”

(Guess everyone went home early. Cool, I can handle this myself.)

He stamped the checkout card. He didn’t notice someone had replaced the standard black ink with red. The crimson mark blazed across the card like a brand. He slipped it into the pocket behind the book’s cover. Then he headed out.

The moment the library doors closed behind him, Elizabeth emerged from her hiding spot. She moved like a shadow. Silent and swift. She reached the circulation desk in seconds. Her hands trembled as she retrieved the checkout card from the return slot.

The red stamp glowed in the fading daylight.

(He has marked this territory as his own. The Red Stamp of Doom. This card must be preserved for future generations. This is a holy relic.)

She pressed it to her forehead reverently. Then she tucked it into a protective sleeve in her notebook. This would go in her shrine at home. Right next to the pencil Alfred had dropped last week. And the cafeteria napkin he’d used once.

Madam Pinch finally crept back to her desk an hour later. She found a note from her assistant explaining the checkout. Her face went pale all over again. With shaking hands, she pulled out her label maker. And a wooden sign.

By evening, Alfred’s chair had been roped off. A velvet cord surrounded it like a museum exhibit. A polished brass plaque was mounted on the backrest. It read: “The Throne of Silent Contemplation – Do Not Disturb.”

The library’s official records would later note something disturbing. Circulation in the west wing dropped by seventy percent. Students began taking the long way around. They avoided passing near Alfred’s claimed territory. Some swore they could still feel his dark presence. Emanating from the empty chair.

Alfred, meanwhile, walked back to his dorm with a spring in his step. The Red Oven was tucked safely under his arm.

(Finally. Tomorrow I’m going to bake the perfect cake. No more collapsed disasters. I’m gonna slay this.)

Luna floated alongside him. Invisible to passing students but grinning like the Cheshire cat.

(Tomorrow’s baking session is going to be absolutely legendary. I can already imagine the chaos. This is better than any nap.)

The sun set over Starfall Academy. It painted the sky in shades of orange and gold. Somewhere in the library, a janitor discovered the abandoned reading area. He wondered why it smelled faintly of fear. And wet fabric.

The legend of the Grimoire Incident would be whispered about for years to come.