Stepping through the sixty-meter bronze gates was like crossing the threshold into a cathedral built for gods of pure intellect.
The inside of the mountain didn’t reveal a claustrophobic maze of damp stone tunnels or shadowy catacombs. Instead, the space opened into an underground library of impossible proportions. Towering arches carved from flawless, mirror-polished black glass rose hundreds of feet overhead, supporting a vaulted ceiling that stretched for miles into the underground gloom. Embedded in the dark stone of the ceiling were thousands of self-glowing spirit-crystals, mapped out in precise, glowing star clusters that cast a warm, calm amber light across the entire floor.
Extending into the distance in exactly perfect rows were massive bookshelves carved from massive stone slabs of deep gray dark rock. Each shelf unit stood fifteen stories tall. It was flanked by elegant bronze spiral staircases and graceful flying walkways suspended by braided copper cables. The aisles between the shelves were broad avenues paved with polished gray flat stone slabs, wide enough for four carriage teams to ride abreast.
The air in the grand hall was fully dry, cool, and fragrant. It carried the comforting, scholarly perfume of aged cedarwood, dried parchment, beeswax polish, and fine pine-soot ink. The timeless, sacred air of an ancient archive preserved outside the river of time.
