Doors of old mahogany creak as they swing upon their hinges,
Granting entrance into an extravagant library now devoid of life, dusty, and bleak.
Shelves tower and line the walls, brimming with books, new and antique,
Titles familiar, forgotten, and from days of yore,
A lonely, forsaken trove of lore.

But though these tomes now lie abandoned,
Power still hums in the cracks of this place;
From atop the room's stone spiral staircase,
Soft sounds drift down from the floor above.

Ascendance reveals a circular room,
Much like below, but here books fly -
The fallen volumes that spot the ground
Hover, float and flap leather-bound pages;
A broom sweeps of its own accord,
And the faintest tune of music plays..