The Gatekeeper

The scrolls mattered less than the message: you are not part of this.

There was, and there was not, a library in the Kingdom.

Not the kind built for children or citizens, but one buried behind stone walls and silent protocols. Inside were scrolls, diagrams, ciphered mechanisms, records of the Kingdom’s inner workings. It held the secrets of locks and levers, pulleys and passwords, how systems were built, and who they were built to protect.

The Raven arrived one morning just after mist. Her feathers were still marked with the dust of travel, her wings tired but alert. She had heard of this place, tucked inside a tower that didn’t appear on most maps, a place where knowledge was kept not for all, but for some.

At the base of the tall brass doors stood a Squirrel, uniformed and still, his tail curled like punctuation.

“I’m here to learn,” the Raven said, steady and clear. “Specifically about the security systems used within the Kingdom. The mechanisms. The designs. The logic beneath the layers.”

The squirrel’s eyes narrowed. “That information is restricted.”

“I’m not asking for all of it,” she said calmly. “Just context. A better understanding. I’ve been tasked with implementation, but I can’t do it well unless I understand what I’m working with.”

He handed her a scroll, thin, vague, covered in shorthand. “Everything you need is there.”

She scanned it quickly. No diagrams. No rationale. No connections between the components, just fragments of instruction.

“This doesn’t explain anything,” she said. “It’s a riddle.”

“It’s enough,” he replied, with a practiced neutrality. “If you can’t make use of it, perhaps someone else will.”

She tilted her head. “Is this a test?”

He didn’t answer.

The Raven stepped back and looked at the door. Smooth. Sealed. She had flown through storms. Navigated traps. Escaped cages made of silk. But this, this was different.

This door didn’t require strength.
It required permission.
And she wasn’t meant to have it.

She realized then: the library was never just a building. It was a symbol. A gate dressed in intellect. The scrolls inside were less important than the message outside: you are not part of this.

She saw it before in the Kingdom, teams built like tight circles. Knowledge held like rations. Newcomers given scraps while decisions were made elsewhere, quietly. The tribe rewarded itself by staying small.

She had flown into rooms like this before. Asked questions that made her suspect. Offered context only to be told she was "not strategic enough" or "too focused on implementation."

This wasn't about locks. It was about walls.

She stepped back from the guard and the sealed door. Not in defeat, but in recognition.

“Let them protect their archive,” she thought. “Let them write their names into each key.
I will build knowledge elsewhere.
I will build it in daylight.”

And she flew, not toward secrecy,
but toward the places where learning was still meant to be shared.

© 2025 Sarah Dooley. Story and images by the author. All rights reserved.