Morning came in colors Elira didn't have names for.
The sky stretched soft pink and green, like someone had spilled dreams on it.
The moss had stopped glowing.
The books from the Archive had faded into mist.
But the path ahead?
It was shimmering.
Like it knew where they needed to go.
"Where to now?" Sera asked, spinning her dagger by the tip.
Flick pointed east. "The map says nothing's there."
Varn scratched his head. "Maybe it's a place not meant to be found."
"That's exactly why we're going," Elira said, already walking.
They moved quickly.
Past quiet rivers that sang lullabies.
Through forests where the trees leaned close just to listen.
At one point, a cloud rained blueberries.
Flick collected a whole pouch.
He tripped twice because of it.
But it was at the edge of a broken field that they saw it:
A book.
Just sitting on the grass.
Closed.
Old.
Beating.
"Is that… alive?" Amaryn asked, stepping back.
Solin crouched beside it. "Not alive."
He touched it.
Then pulled back like he'd been burned.
"It's scared."
Books shouldn't run.
But this one did.
As soon as Elira stepped forward, it jumped.
Not high.
Not fast.
Just enough to skid away, flipping open slightly to show a flash of words
Then slamming shut again.
Elira chased it.
The others followed, stumbling through the tall grass.
"Do we… usually run after books now?" Flick panted.
The book ducked behind a stone and disappeared.
They skidded to a stop.
"It's hiding," Elira said, kneeling beside the stone.
She reached out gently.
"Hey," she whispered.
"I'm not here to trap you. I just want to know you."
The stone trembled.
Then a page peeked out.
A single word floated on it:
"Lost."
Elira blinked.
"What do you mean?"
Another page turned:
"Forgotten."
Then:
"She stopped telling me."
"Who?" Elira asked.
The book opened fully.
Pages flipped themselves wildly, and a scene burst into the air.
A girl—young, with dark curls and a crooked smile.
Telling a story to her little brother under the covers.
Every word glowed.
Until one day…
She stopped.
No more stories.
No more light.
The book had been waiting.
For her voice.
Her laughter.
But it never came.
So it ran.
"It's not just stories being forgotten," Elira whispered.
"It's storytellers."
Sera knelt beside her.
"What do we do?"
Elira stood slowly.
"We remind the world how to remember."
That night, they camped under the crooked tree that smelled like cinnamon.
Elira didn't sleep.
She wrote.
She wrote about the girl and her brother.
She wrote what she thought their next story would've been.
She didn't know if it was perfect.
But she believed in it.
She left the page on the grass.
And by morning…
The book was gone.
In its place: a sprig of golden ink-root.
Still warm.
Still breathing.
Flick picked it up. "Think it'll help?"
"I think it's thanks," Elira said.
Above them, the sky opened slightly.
And one star blinked back into place.