Novel-Verse

The library did not contain books; it contained glass spheres filled with the memories of dead gods, and today, one of them had started to crack.

Irene adjusted her spectacles, wiping a smudge of celestial dust from the right lens. She stood halfway up a rolling mahogany ladder, staring in horror at a sphere the size of a melon resting on the highest shelf of Section 4: *Deities of the Forgotten Harvest*. Usually, the spheres emitted a low, comforting hum—the sound of an eternity spent in peaceful stasis. Inside them, miniature nebulas of gold, indigo, and crimson swirled in endless, repeating patterns.

But the sphere in front of her was not humming. It was shrieking.

A high-pitched, vibrating wail filled the cavernous, dimly lit aisle. A jagged, spiderweb fracture ran down the side of the glass, and through it, a blinding, chaotic yellow light was leaking out. It smelled like ozone, crushed wheat, and the sharp tang of freshly spilled blood.

“Oh, by the Architect,” Irene whispered, her grip tightening on the wooden rungs. She checked the small brass placard beneath the shelf. It read: Aethelgard, Lord of the Summer Rains and the First Scythe. Slumbering since the Third Era.

If a god’s memory sphere shattered, the entity inside didn’t just die. The concentrated divine energy would detonate, wiping out the entire library, the surrounding city, and perhaps a good chunk of the continent. And worse, the god would wake up—confused, angry, and completely unmoored from reality.

Irene scrambled down the ladder, her sensible brown boots hitting the polished stone floor with a thud. She sprinted down the long, arching corridor, her librarian’s robes billowing behind her like dark wings. The shrieking was getting louder, echoing off the vaulted ceilings.

She needed the binding resin. It was the only thing that could seal a divine fracture. She reached the central rotunda and threw open the heavy iron doors to the supply closet. She rummaged past jars of lunar sand and spools of starlight thread until she found what she was looking for: a heavy leaden jar filled with a thick, amber substance.

When she returned to Section 4, the situation had escalated. The crack had widened. The yellow light was now pulsing in time with a massive, invisible heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump. The wooden shelves were groaning under the strain of the waking god’s aura.

Irene climbed the ladder as fast as she could, her heart hammering against her ribs. She unscrewed the leaden jar with trembling fingers. The resin smelled like ancient tree sap and burnt copper.

“Shhh, easy now, Aethelgard,” she murmured, dipping a silver spatula into the jar. “The harvest is over. You can rest.”

As she brought the resin close to the crack, the sphere pulsed violently. A voice—ancient, booming, and filled with a desperate, crushing sorrow—exploded directly into her mind.

WHERE ARE THEY?

Irene gasped, nearly dropping the spatula. The force of the voice felt like a physical blow. She could suddenly smell the sweat of thousands of worshipers, hear the rhythmic beating of ceremonial drums, and feel the heat of a brutal, unending summer sun.

MY CHILDREN. MY FIELDS. THEY ARE BURNING. I MUST WAKE.

“They aren’t burning,” Irene yelled, fighting against the overwhelming psychic pressure. She pressed the resin into the crack. The glass hissed, and the yellow light flared. “The Third Era ended four thousand years ago! Your people are gone, Aethelgard. You are safe here.”

GONE?

The grief that hit her then was so profound it knocked her backward. She barely caught herself on the ladder. The sphere rattled violently on its velvet cushion. The crack spiderwebbed further, creeping toward the top of the glass.

Irene knew she only had seconds left. The resin wasn’t holding. The god’s sorrow was too immense, too volatile. She couldn’t seal it from the outside.

Making a split-second, incredibly foolish decision, Irene dropped the spatula and placed both her bare hands directly over the fracture.

The yellow light surged into her. Her vision went completely white. She was no longer standing in a dusty library; she was standing in an endless field of golden wheat beneath a blazing sun. Before her towered a figure made of woven sunlight and sharpened scythes. He was weeping.

They forgot me, the god wept, the sound like grinding stones.

“I know,” Irene whispered, stepping forward in the vision. She reached out and took the massive, terrifying hand of the deity. “I know they did. But I remember you. I read your history. I know you brought the rains when the rivers ran dry. I know you loved them.”

The god looked down at her, the blinding light dimming slightly.

“You did your job,” Irene said softly, her voice echoing across the endless fields. “You can rest now. The harvest is safe.”

For a long, terrifying moment, the god stared at her. Then, slowly, he closed his eyes. The fields of wheat dissolved into a soft, golden mist. The sun set, leaving behind a peaceful, starry night.

Irene gasped, her vision snapping back to the dim library aisle. Her hands were still pressed against the glass sphere. The shrieking had stopped. The yellow light had faded back into a slow, swirling nebula of gold and deep, twilight blue. The crack in the glass remained, but it was sealed from the inside, glowing with a soft, silver light.

The library was silent again, save for the low, comforting hum of a thousand sleeping gods.

Irene slumped against the ladder, completely exhausted. Her hands were trembling, and she felt a tear trace its way down her cheek—a tear that belonged to a god dead for four millennia.

She pulled a small cloth from her pocket, wiped the celestial dust from the sphere one last time, and slowly climbed back down.

Explore more fantasy and magical realism from Novel-Verse: Bone and Briar, The Merchant of Whispers, and Spells for a Broken Heart.