The figure raises its helmeted head, various species of fungi sprout from the gap where its face should be visible. It invitingly gestures to a chair beside it, equally as worn as the one it currently sits in.

"My name is Cordatus," it says to you. Its voice is a chorus of whispers, its words pressing in as if they're filling every atom of the air around you. "You are free to sit, or browse, or do whatever else you will. We have nothing to hide here."

As you finger through the spines of dusty tomes, the back of your neck prickles with the feeling of being watched, like the book-covered walls are staring back at you.