It’s dimmer here, but it lacks the malevolent aura of the forest and parts of the city. Rising all around you are cases upon cases of books, reaching far upwards into the zenith of the spire itself and well past your vision. There is a constant staccato of fluttering pages as the books themselves seem to shift and dart about in the air before returning to the stacks. A few butterfly nets lie nearby, in lieu, perhaps, of a catalog.

While you watch, one of the books flits down to a tall pedestal, where a disembodied quill begins to dance over its pages. It’s a decent climb up a ladder to see for sure what it’s writing, if you’re curious.