Eliria of Quartz and the Library of Mirrored Questions

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The eighth domed chamber of the Aether Library smelled of warm wood, old leather, and light dust. No wind stirred, no ticking disturbed the uniformity of the rooms. And yet—as Eliria of Quartz entered, a faint crackling sound rippled through the air, as if time itself had stopped. She moved silently on her articulated legs of bronze metal. Her body consisted of twisted coils, delicate limbs interwoven with springs and joints that worked like breaths. Her face was a circular clock face with two hands that never stopped moving. On her pointed hat sat a small compass, barely larger than a button, yet delicate enough to sense vibrations in her mind. Eliria sat at the heavy lectern of polished walnut. Her fur-lined backpack lay on her back, still zipped. But what she had brought with her today was not a book, not a map, not a letter. It was something else. Before her stood a sphere. Crystal-clear, spherical, resting on a pedestal of bound volumes. Within it danced golden light—not like a lamp, but like a moving memory. The sphere contained no answer. It contained a question. And Eliria had come to look at it. She tilted her head slightly to the side. Her eye-pointers glowed softly. Within the glass ball, tiny dots flickered, rearranging themselves, forming a structure—a luminous tree? A spiral? Or was it a question itself, given form? The sphere told nothing. It only showed. Fragmentary, open, reserved. Like a thought just before it is thought. Eliria raised a metal hand, delicate as a writing instrument. She didn't touch the glass—she felt it. The light within seemed to respond to her clock face. Not with words, but with rhythm. Two hands twitched, then remained silent for a moment. She saw a scene: A child who didn't open a book. A woman who hesitated. An old man who said something that was never heard. She didn't see images—she saw decisions, frozen in the moment before. A faint sound vibrated through the table. The sphere didn't answer—it reflected. And Eliria knew what that meant: The question wasn't "What would have been?" but "What lingers within me?" She closed her fingers slowly. Her joints whirred softly. Then she reached into her backpack, pulled out a blank map, and with a steady hand, drew a new line—not a direction, but a possibility. The sphere settled. The light gathered at the center again, like a heart that kept beating. Eliria stood up. The compass on her hat turned almost imperceptibly. Not a new assignment, not a warning. Just an approval. She picked up the sphere, carefully placed it back in its padded bag. As she strode through the high-ceilinged hall, light spilled through a circular window. Dust glittered in it like forgotten thoughts. The books around her remained silent—but in their silence lay agreement. For some questions, Eliria knew, didn't want to be answered. They only wanted to be seen.