The knocking continued.
Three times.
Then silence.
Then again.
Always in threes.
Like a heartbeat
missing its last beat.
Noé and Mira stood still.
Neither dared speak.
Because something about the sound—
wasn't threatening.
It was familiar.
Like a voice that had once whispered to them in a dream
they couldn't remember having.
The Head Archivist moved to the side of the chamber.
She pressed her hand against the stone wall.
A rune glowed faintly beneath her palm.
"I sealed this passage myself."
"It doesn't connect to any known part of the Academy anymore."
Mira stepped closer to the wall.
Her voice was steady.
"It does now."
The knocking stopped.
Not because it had given up—
but because it had been acknowledged.
Then the wall cracked.
Just slightly.
Enough for air to bleed through.
It wasn't warm.
Wasn't cold.
It smelled like charcoal and wildflowers.
And a voice slipped through the fracture.
Soft.
Calm.
Lysira.
"I'm not gone."
"But I'm not only me anymore."
Mira reached toward the wall, but Noé caught her wrist.
"Let it speak," he whispered.
The wall pulsed once more.
And Lysira's voice returned.
"It wants to know what we'll do with the truth."
"Not just the memories we protect."
"But the ones we bury."
The stone vibrated beneath their feet.
The runes along the edges of the room sparked faintly—
not resisting—
but remembering.
The Archivist's eyes widened.
She stepped back.
"This isn't just a message..."
"It's a test."
Mira whispered, more to herself than anyone:
"A test for who?"
From the other side of the wall—
Lysira's voice answered again.
"For everyone who ever loved a lie."
The wall remained cracked—
but didn't open.
Noé and Mira stood before it,
the weight of Lysira's words still hanging in the air.
"Everyone who ever loved a lie..."
The silence that followed was deep.
Worse than hostile.
It was honest.
The Head Archivist moved slowly toward a hidden drawer beneath the central desk.
She pulled out an object wrapped in velvet.
Set it down.
Unwrapped it.
A mirror—
no taller than a book.
But the frame was carved from scorched wood
and runes that moved.
Mira frowned.
"What is that?"
The Archivist hesitated.
Then said:
"Something we were ordered never to activate."
"A relic from before the Academy had rules."
"It doesn't show your face."
"It shows the moment you stopped being who you thought you were."
Noé reached for it instinctively.
But Mira caught his hand.
"You don't have to do this."
He met her eyes.
"I think we already are."
He touched the mirror.
And it lit.
No reflection.
Just blackness.
Then—
a flicker.
A memory.
Not from this world.
Not from this lifetime.
A room.
A bell.
A kiss.
And a goodbye.
"I'll find you again."
Noé gasped.
Stepped back.
"...I knew her. Before."
Mira didn't ask who.
Because she already knew.
Then the mirror pulsed again.
Showed her.
Not her face.
Her memory.
A child holding a name she never spoke aloud.
A room full of people pretending she didn't exist.
And a flame—
not real—
but held inside her since birth.
She staggered.
But didn't fall.
Her eyes found Noé.
And whispered:
"We were never strangers."
The wall behind them groaned.
Louder now.
More cracks.
And from inside—
Lysira's voice again:
"The flame remembers what the world tried to bury."
"But if you remember it, too—
then maybe it won't burn everything down."
The mirror dimmed.
But the room did not return to silence.
Because a new sound joined the cracks in the wall—
footsteps.
But not from the corridor.
Not from below.
From the air.
Mira stepped back.
Noé turned toward the center of the room.
The Archivist stood still.
Eyes narrowed.
She recognized the rhythm.
Then the voice came.
Not Lysira's.
Not the flame's.
Soft.
Cautious.
"I was told not to come here."
"But I heard the bell."
From the hallway—
a figure appeared.
Hooded.
Dust on their boots.
Eyes tired.
Like they'd traveled through something heavier than distance.
Noé's breath caught.
He didn't recognize the cloak.
Or the walk.
But the voice—
it hit him like lightning through memory.
"Who are you?" Mira asked.
The figure lowered the hood.
A boy.
Maybe their age.
Golden eyes.
Black markings beneath one.
And a key hanging from his neck.
"I think..." he said slowly, looking at Noé,
"...you were the one I wasn't supposed to forget."
The silence broke.
Like glass.
Noé took a step forward.
"Do I know you?"
The boy nodded.
"I don't know if you should."
"But I remembered you anyway."
The wall cracked wider.
The flame beyond pulsed stronger.
And from the mirrored floor—
an echo rose:
"Three remembered. That makes four."
Mira's voice was steady now.
"Who are you?"
The boy smiled—
sadly.
"I'm the one they tried to erase."
"And I'm here...
because I still hear her voice."
The stranger stepped into the chamber fully.
The moment his foot touched the mirror-glass floor—
it pulsed.
Not from him.
In recognition of him.
Mira whispered, "That key..."
He touched it lightly, like instinct.
"It's not for a door."
"It's a fragment."
"From the first bell that ever rang."
Noé felt his pulse spike.
"You heard it too."
The boy nodded.
"I heard it every time I forgot something important."
"And every time I did...
I woke up remembering you."
The Archivist stepped forward, slowly.
Eyes locked on the markings beneath his right eye.
"I've seen your face before."
He smiled faintly.
"You were supposed to."
"Then you weren't."
He looked down at the mirror beneath his feet.
And it showed him.
As a child.
Sitting at the edge of a field.
Hands outstretched.
Catching flame like falling snow.
Laughing.
Then crying.
Then alone.
"I was one of the first," he said.
"Not to touch the flame—
but to hear it weep."
Noé stepped beside him.
"You never went to this Academy."
"I did once," the boy said.
"For one day."
"And then?"
"Then I was erased."
"But she remembered me."
He turned to the cracked wall.
To where Lysira's voice had last spoken.
"She's inside now," he said.
"Not trapped."
"Accepted."
Mira's voice broke slightly.
"What does that mean?"
The boy turned to her.
Golden eyes glowing.
"It means she's the flame's voice now."
"And she's not done burning."
The mirrored floor glowed.
The runes on the walls shifted.
The chamber responded.
And a path opened—
not backward.
Not deeper.
But sideways.
A corridor of memory
that shouldn't exist.
The boy smiled again.
And this time—
it was joyless.
"I can take you to her."
"But only if you're willing to leave your timeline behind."
The corridor pulsed beside them.
It wasn't made of stone.
Not light.
Not time.
Memory.
But memory with no anchor.
A hallway that only existed
because someone still believed it should.
Mira looked to Noé.
She didn't speak.
She didn't have to.
He nodded once.
The stranger — the boy with the golden eyes — smiled again.
But this time,
there was something breaking behind it.
"Once we step through...
the world won't update."
"It won't miss you."
"You'll just... stop being part of it."
Noé's voice was calm.
"Then we make a new one."
The boy reached into his cloak.
Pulled out a slip of paper.
Black, with red threads stitched through it.
He handed it to Mira.
"This is your anchor."
"If you tear it—
you return."
"But alone."
Mira took it carefully.
Looked at Noé.
Then back at the path.
Noé extended his hand.
She took it.
They turned to the stranger.
And he led the way.
The moment they stepped into the corridor—
they felt it.
Everything that had defined them—
their enrollment.
Their spells.
Their titles.
Their histories—
peeled away.
Not erased.
Not stolen.
Just... put aside.
As if the flame didn't want their identities—
just their honesty.
The corridor grew darker.
The walls shimmered.
And voices filled the air—
but not shouting.
Not calling.
Whispering.
"He kissed her beneath the broken bell."
"She ran before she remembered why."
"One chose silence. One chose fire."
Mira stumbled slightly.
Noé caught her.
But his own feet were heavy now.
Like every lie he'd ever told
was pulling him back.
They reached a door.
A real one.
Wood.
Steel frame.
Old.
Marked with a symbol neither could read—
but both understood.
The boy turned.
"I'll knock once."
"If she opens it—
we walk in."
"If she doesn't—"
He didn't finish.
He just knocked.
Once.
Silence.
A heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
Then—
click.
The door opened.
And firelight spilled out.