Iridian
A little whisper of an echo darting through the darkness.
Both of us tensed, our wolves alert and ears scanning for any trace of sound. Staying quiet was one of the lines in the poem, but we had no other way to communicate. Quiet did not mean silent, and I wondered if we might get away with lowering our voices. A musty smell wafted through the shelves; it smelled of dust, bones, and dry leather. It wasn’t the most disgusting thing I had smelled, but was bad enough to make Helena and I wrinkle our noses. I pointed towards the unending rows of bookshelves.
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