Since the first elves who beheld the night and the day and the shape of their own hands, people have made up stories and fixed in stone, metal, or on parchment whatever the world includes or dreams create. Here is the fruit of their labor: the Library. The wealth of volumes it contains outnumbers the stars or the grains of sand in the desert. They say Nihimon had recklessly tried to read them all and lost his mind. Here were the great memories of the centuries, the swords and the heroes, the concise symbols of magic, the knowledge that fathoms the arcane, and the verse in which love’s caress endures.

The faithless say that if it were to burn history would burn with it. They are wrong. Unceasing human work gave birth to this infinity of books. If of them all not even one remained, they will again beget every page and every line.

Elsworth raised his hand above his head and opened his mouth. The voice that came forth was not his own.

“I, who subdued the elves, and impose the night upon the day, order the destruction, by fire, of the abundant Library, which will not perish. All praise is due to Asmodeus who never sleeps, and Phyllain, his Apostle.”