I did not protest when Mistress Kallith decreed my reassignment. Not a word escaped my lips, but within me, a dark churn of humiliation and a sharp frustration seized my thoughts, rendering my teeth aching.

Reassigned. Exiled, really.

Luthen sought to cushion the impact as we ascended the spiral stairs leading to the upper stacks. "It's but a temporary measure," he murmured. "A week at most. She merely wishes for you to be away from the mirrors."

"I was engaged in work," I retorted, bitterness coating my voice. "It's not my fault that something--" I halted abruptly. Luthen's gaze widened with sudden apprehension.

"Something what, Vaerin?"

I averted my eyes. "Nothing."

He did not press further, and that silence gnawed at me more than any inquiry could.

The upper stacks, far colder than the lower halls, felt less a matter of temperature and more of spirit. Perhaps it was the shadowy remnant of old tomes that imbued the place with such a chill.

Here, the architecture shifted: the marble gave way to rough-hewn stone, and polished corridors transformed into narrow aisles that seemed to devour the very light. The walls were adorned with carved visages--each unique, twisted in solemnity or grotesque delight. Some appeared human; others most certainly did not. 

A draft slithered through the shelves, reminiscent of a whispered sigh from a long-forgotten soul. Flickering candles danced wildly, though no window breathed life upon them. 

Luthen halted just inside the threshold. "I loathe this floor," he murmured, his voice a tremor. "Everything here reeks of decay, as if something once lived and was consumed by the dust."

He spoke the truth. The air was heavy with the scents of mildew, decomposing parchment, and a faint sweetness that felt entirely out of place in such a repository of knowledge.

A solitary lamplight glowed forlornly at a desk near the central table, where Archivist Melcin bent over a disordered heap of loose vellum, spectacles askew upon his nose. Upon noticing our presence, he gestured with a thin, tremulous hand. 

"So," he wheezed, "you are the one Mistress Kallith is...relocating."

Relocating. Such a sterile term, fitting for furniture.

"Yes," I replied, my tone stiff, as if fortified against the chill.

He chuckled, a sound reminiscent of crumpling paper. "Fear not, child. The upper stacks do not serve as punishment." He waved a hand broadly over the shadowy aisles. "They are a test."

A shiver coursed down my spine. "A test of what?"

He smiled, revealing too many small, ivory teeth, glinting in the dim light. "How well you listen."

Luthen withdrew into the shadows to organize the manuscripts, muttering darkly that the higher stacks ought to come with the promise of hazard pay. I approached Melcin's desk, my gaze sweeping over the disarry of papers he had been poring over.

Ancient records. Older than the very founding of the Calyra. Some pages bore the scars of fire, their edges charred; others were tattered, whispering of neglect. Yet it was one particular page that ensnared my attention--a charcoal drawing of a mirror.

Tall. Oval. Enshrouded in black veils.

A sudden pang of dread gripped me. "Where did this come from?"

Melcin blinked slowly, akin to a lizard basking under a scorching lamp. "Found it, buried deep within a false spine on the western shelves. Concealed there long ago by an unseen hand."

Around the sketch, frantic notes were scrawled in a cramped, feverish hand:

"Reflections speak names unbidden."

"Do not allow it to see itself."

"The theologians were wrong; this one remembers."

"It is older than the Hall."

Older than the Hall. Older than the Calyra. I swallowed my fear, heavy as stone.

Melcin scrutinized me intently. "You've encountered it, haven't you?"

My throat constricted painfully. "What makes you say that?"

He tapped the sketch with a bony finger, the sound sharp in the stillness. "That mirror reveals itself only to those archivists it deems worthy."

"I didn't choose it," I whispered, desperation threading through my voice.

"But something chose you," he replied. His tone softened--not with kindness but with a profound understanding. "There are tales of others, you know. Archivists who glimpsed their names writ in silver. Whisperings that echoed through the corridors. Dreams of mirrors before their fingers ever brushed the glass."

I felt a wave of nausea wash over me. "How many?"

"Enough to warrant the Calyra's revision of the incident logs," he said. "Yet not so many that the mirrors ceased their selection."

Behind me, a shelf creaked, as if a book had shifted of its own volition. The candle's flame flickered, casting ghostly shadows.

Leaning over the desk, Melcin's voice dropped to a rasping whisper, laden with an unsettling intimacy. "Tell me, child...did it whisper to you?"

I recoiled, my heart a frantic drum within my chest. "No," I lied, the denial slipping from my lips tremblingly. "No, it didn't."

Melcin smiled, a knowing glint in his eye that sent chills along my spine. He returned to his manuscripts, his voice a mere murmur, lost in the gloom. "Then it will," he said softly, almost to himself. "It always does."

As the dusk deepened into night, Luthen emerged, precariously balancing two unstable stacks of scrolls. 

"You appear rather wan," he remarked, a note of worry lacing his voice. "Did Melcin trouble you? He possesses a flair for the dramatic."

"He claimed the mirror selects its patrons."

Luthen froze, the jest dying on his lips. Then, with an effort, he forced a laugh that lacked warmth. "He's merely an old man, lost in his stories. Pay him no mind."

Yet, his gaze slid away, avoiding mine. 

I began to gather my belongings, a restless urge propelling me far from this somber place. As we approached the door, a peculiar allure drew my attention to a solitary volume perched on a high shelf. Its spine bore the scars of age, and its cover was warped and fragile. 

Only one word remained discernible through the dust's grasp.

"Reflections."

And beneath it, nearly obscured, another inscription emerged from the gloom:

"Case Study: Vaer--"

I instinctively reached toward it, but Luthen's hand closed around mine. "Don't," he breathed, his voice trembling with unspoken fears. "Some things here still remember names."

With a gentle urgency, he guided me away from the shelf. The carved visages along the walls seemed to follow our retreat, their hollow eyes and twisted mouths morphing into silent harbingers of dread. 

We stepped into the corridor, sealing the upper stack doors behind us. The lock clicked audibly--not just once but twice, as if something trapped within were responding to our departure.