The Last library

The examination room's design was austere. The tribunal was empaneled for Allyson’s final exam—History—her worst subject.

Three figures sat behind an intricately carved wooden desk elevated on a dais. Their simple handmade garments belied the positions they held. The headmaster occupied the center seat, his flowing beard nearly brushing the desk and his piercing blue eyes radiating malice.

To his left, the dorm matron—a plump, gregarious woman wearing a blue dress, a bold choice since the staff typically wore gray or black. Her smile was small, uncertain, as she fussed with the hem of the vivid fabric.

To his right, Mr. Tate, the history teacher. Indoctrinator, really—the bane of Allyson’s existence. His fingers traced the patterned desktop. “Describe the events leading up to the Purge.”

Allyson began speaking, her voice trembling and weak. “Society, consumed by fear and moral decay, placed its faith in machines.”

“Louder,” the headmaster roared. His voice echoed through the chamber, bouncing off the stone walls like a hammer. Allyson flinched. Her hands curled into fists at her sides. She froze, mouth hanging open.

The headmaster leaned forward. “Aren’t you proud of what we’ve built?”

Allyson noticed the matron’s smile widening. They had prepared for this. She took a deep breath and held it before replying. “Pride isn’t a factor. No one is proud of putting down a sick animal, but it has to be done. Their technology made them sickly and weak. Pax Purus rose to power on their Peace Through Purity platform. After a brief period of struggle, the technophiles were forced to flee the planet, taking their technological evils with them.”

The headmaster leaned back, slowly clapping his hands. “Very good. We had our doubts about you.” He stopped clapping. “You seem to have overcome your lineage.”

Allyson’s jaw clenched, cheeks flushing. “My parents were technophiles. My mother was pregnant—she couldn’t withstand the rigors of space travel. They stayed behind, were imprisoned until I was born. Then they were executed.”

Mr. Tate leaned forward, sensing this was his moment. “How does that make you feel?”

Allyson met his gaze, her voice measured, almost clinical.

She raised her hand to her chest, drawing strength from the hidden locket resting there.

“They gave me nothing more than life. I have no allegiance toward them.”

She thrust her hand forward in salute.

“Pax Purus Aeternum!”

Silence. The echo of her salute hung in the chamber like a challenge, brittle and sharp. The headmaster studied her with narrowed eyes. Mr. Tate sat back, disappointed—or was it frustrated? The matron’s hands stilled in her lap. She no longer fussed with her dress.

The headmaster finally spoke. “Your final placement will be reviewed by the council,” he said, voice low and heavy. “You are dismissed.”

Allyson lowered her hand and turned to go, pulse thudding in her ears. The pendant felt hot now, as if awakened by her words. As she stepped through the heavy door, a faint vibration passed through the locket. Just once. Almost like it heard her.

Later that night, Allyson sat on her narrow bunk, the dormitory silent but for the wind whispering through the vents. She held the locket in her palm, turning it over in the moonlight. It had always felt warm when she needed courage, but tonight... it pulsed.

Soft. Steady. Like a heartbeat.

With trembling fingers, she pressed a small button—something she’d never noticed until now. A quiet click sounded. The locket changed. A blinking arrow appeared, shifting with her movement. A tiny line of light traced above the locket, coalescing into a symbol—an owl perched atop an open book. A voice emanated from the locket, whispering like it knew the danger. It offered three life-altering words:

“Seek the Library.”

Allyson’s breath caught. What library? Weren’t they all destroyed in the Purge? Those questions filled her thoughts as she drifted off.

The morning bell rang like judgment.

Allyson bolted upright, her bunk cold against her back. Fleeting images of machines lined up in rows danced through her mind—glimpses into an abandoned world. Screens flickering to life. Metallic arms moving with purpose. A library, but not of books. Of minds.

Then it was gone. Just the dormitory again. The wind whispering through the vents. The locket still warm against her chest. She looked down at it. No light, no symbols—just the familiar curve of metal, inert and silent. But the weight had changed. It felt like it meant something now.

Outside the dorm, footsteps approached. Doors opened, voices murmured, and the matron’s call rang out—too sweet to be sincere.

“Final placements, children! To the hall!”

Allyson’s heart pounded once. Then again. Today, they would reveal her future.

Allyson dressed in silence, every movement careful, practiced. The uniform felt tighter today, like it knew what was coming. Around her, the other girls murmured nervously, their eyes flicking to one another with hope or dread. No one looked at her.

She stepped into the hallway and joined the stream of cadets funneling toward the main hall. Overhead, the fluorescent lights hummed their cold approval.

She tried not to think of the locket. Tried not to wonder if it would betray her with a glow, or a whisper, or worse—be noticed. But as the line slowed at the entrance to the hall, she felt it again.

A single pulse. An urging that whispered: North.

The matron’s voice snapped Allyson back to the present. “Daydreaming again?”

Allyson tugged on her uniform, straightening it. “Sorry, Matron.”

“Congratulations. You’re going spear fishing,” the matron announced with a flourish. “The guards will issue your spear when you leave the village.”

Allyson blinked. “Spear fishing?”

The matron’s smile thinned. “Yes. You’ll work the shallows along the northern shore. Peaceful, simple. Just like Pax Purus intended.”

North.

The word pulsed in her mind like a heartbeat. She didn’t let her face change, didn’t look down at the locket.

“Thank you,” she said quietly.

The matron waved her off. “Report to the cartage shed. Take only what’s issued. Nothing else. Dismissed.”

Allyson strolled out of the hall and across the village green. The sun was bright, but the wind cut through her uniform. She kept her pace steady, eyes forward, even as her mind churned.

She arrived at the cartage shed slightly out of breath. The squat building sat at the edge of the village like a forgotten punctuation mark. She paused, chest rising and falling, and scanned the area.

Several raised platforms lined the space behind it, each built from rough timber, their edges worn from years of use. Wooden carts stood hitched and ready, iron-braced wheels sunken slightly into the packed earth. The mules stood still, steam rising faintly from their backs in the cold morning air.

A small group of spear fishers waited by the loading ramp. None spoke. A bored-looking handler with a clipboard ticked names off as one by one, they mounted the carts and were handed a spear and a food pouch—issued gear. Just enough to live. Never enough to ask questions.

Allyson stepped into line, folding her arms against the wind. The handler didn’t look up as he flipped through his clipboard, lips barely moving as he recited names like they were inventory.

“Rickert,” he called.

She stepped forward.

He finally glanced at her, eyes narrowing just a fraction too long. “Ah. The technophile spawn.”

The words hung in the air like a spark on dry grass.

Allyson said nothing.

The handler handed her a food pouch, its cloth still damp from whatever dark cellar it had been pulled from. Then came the spear—lightweight, wooden shaft, metal tip dulled from overuse. A tool, not a weapon. Certainly not a choice.

He leaned in, voice low. “North cart. Don’t speak unless spoken to.”

Allyson nodded, took the gear, and moved toward the assigned cart. She felt the locket press against her skin again—warm. Reassuring.

She climbed onto the wooden bench, the mule’s ears flicking as if sensing her arrival. The other fisher beside her, a girl maybe two years older, gave her a glance but said nothing.

The cart creaked as it rolled forward, pulled slowly along the dirt road that led away from the village—away from walls and eyes and into the silence of the north.

The village shrank behind them, swallowed by rolling hills and scrubland dotted with wind-warped trees. The road turned rough and narrow as the carts spaced out, one by one peeling off toward distant shoreline outposts.

Allyson sat in silence, her fingers curled loosely around the spear. She couldn’t shake the feeling of dread. The images from the library haunted her thoughts as the cart trundled along—machines lined up like soldiers, screens blinking awake, metallic arms reaching out in silence.

It was too much. A jarring bump nearly knocked the spear from her hands. She tightened her grip, struck by a sudden, terrible realization:

Accessing the Library wouldn’t just be dangerous.

It would be like handing her spear to a toddler.

Too unwieldy.

Too dangerous.

Too much power in unready hands.

Resolved, Allyson watched the landscape change. The sky widened. The wind shifted. And through it all, the locket pulsed—not with urgency, but with direction.

North.

The cart stopped, and the passengers began to disembark.

Allyson’s hand moved quickly, instinctively. She pulled the locket from beneath her shirt, clenched it tight in her fist as if to absorb its warmth one last time.

Then she climbed down.

At the front wheel, she paused, crouching low as if to tighten her bootlaces. Her fingers worked fast. She slid the locket into the dirt, wedging it carefully beneath the iron rim. A few rocks, deliberately placed, disguised the shape.

When the cart moved, it would roll forward—crushing it.

No ceremony. No tears.

Just the end of something she never really owned.

She stood, expression blank, and walked toward the outpost.

Behind her, the cart creaked to life.

The wheel turned.

A crunch, soft but final.

She didn’t look back.