The clack of a candlestick marked where this person was. There was no other noise here in this archive, save the soft steps of Enanth. Calmly, with no hurry, he walked for he knew there was one way in and out.

The shelves here held many things that could bring greatness. That greatness was often wrought at a terrible price, magicks never fully understood or perverted in both writing and mind. And it was here that many of these fonts of literature would rest, perhaps for the rest of time.

Finally, he started to hear someone breathing in this quiet sanctum. With the clearing of the last shelves, he arrived at the back to the sight of a pale-skinned young man, dressed much like the rest of the mages here though the robe's make was hard for him to tell what Circle he belonged to. Still, Enanth had found him. The candlestick that marked the revealing sound of this man lay upon the ground glinting in the witchfire.

He folded his fingers inwards in a calm stance, looking him over. The young man had blue eyes that seemed to shine with a near unnatural light behind his spectacles. Then again, witchfire was unnatural.

"Young man, this section is restricted to Third Circle mages or higher. You can only be here with a written approval, young master," he spoke softly but firmly, the teacher in him coming out.

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