The ink shimmered like obsidian under starlight.
Coren descended alone, each step down the spiral stair taking him deeper beneath the library and deeper into silence. Not just the absence of noise—but an unnatural stillness, like sound had been swallowed.
The Spiral on his wrist pulsed faintly, more like a heartbeat now than a brand. It had stopped glowing. Its guidance was done.
Whatever lay below, it would not lead him through.
At the base of the stairs stood a door. No knob. No lock. No hinges. Just a slab of white- bone-colored stone with a single phrase scratched into it:
> Truth is not given. It is chosen.
The moment he reached out, the stone melted into smoke.
He stepped through.
---
The chamber beyond was circular, carved of ink-drenched stone that glistened like it was freshly bled. At its center floated a single parchment, suspended midair. Beneath it, a pool of ink—still, perfectly black. Above, the ceiling vanished into infinite shadow.
The Spiral burned suddenly hot on Coren's wrist.
A whisper—not spoken aloud, but etched into the air—formed around him:
> "Write the First Untruth."
He hesitated.
"I don't understand," he said aloud.
> "Then write anyway."
The Inkblade pulsed in his sheath.
He drew it. The blade had changed—now thinner, shaped like a quill. Its edge shimmered with language.
As he approached the page, the ink in the pool stirred.
Reflections surfaced—his childhood, blurred and fragmented. Faces he couldn't name. A woman with storm-gray eyes. A fire swallowing a sigil-covered tome. A voice screaming don't remember.
Coren gripped the blade.
Then, on the empty page, he began to write.
---
I Am Not What I Was
> "My name is Coren Vale."
"I was born to no house, in no city, and carry no past."
"I do not remember because there is nothing to remember."
Each line burned as it left the blade's tip.
He knew they were lies. Deliberate lies. But as he wrote, the Spiral didn't reject them—it drew them in.
And the ink on the page didn't remain flat. It bled downward, curling tendrils reaching into the pool. The falsehoods fed the Spiral.
When he finished the final line, the parchment curled in on itself, burned from the inside out, and vanished.
Then the pool parted.
A stair descended—not down, but up, impossibly high, leading into a tower of ink and bone that hadn't been there before.
At its summit, a door.
---
The tower's inner walls were inscribed with thousands of names—scratched into stone, written in ink, some slashed out violently. The air was thick with memory. Not nostalgia—but pressure. Each breath Coren took came with the weight of others' recollections.
Halfway up the stair, the Spiral flared.
He fell to his knees.
A vision slammed into him:
A boy—him, younger—standing beside a woman in a city made of mirrors. Soldiers in silver masks dragging someone away. A voice yelling: "You promised to forget!"
He clutched his head.
The Spiral quieted.
At the top of the stairs, the door stood waiting. Bone-white, sealed by a swirling sigil inlaid with gold. His Spiral matched it.
He placed his palm to it.
The door unsealed.
---
Inside was silence.
Rows of stone shelves stretched into darkness, filled not with books—but jars. Each one sealed, glowing faintly, labeled with a name and a single phrase: Memory Untaken.
He walked between them.
A name caught his eye.
Kaelen Vale
Forgotten by Blood.
He stopped breathing.
His father?
He reached for the jar—but it recoiled. Slid away on the shelf, out of reach.
> "Not yet," a voice whispered.
A figure stepped from the end of the aisle.
It was him.
Or… something like him. Older. Leaner. With ink-black veins webbing his face. The Spiral wasn't just on his wrist—it had spread to his throat, his heart.
> "You're not the first," the echo said. "You won't be the last."
"What are you?" Coren asked.
> "A version. A choice. A warning."
It raised its hand.
The tower groaned.
Jars rattled.
> "You wrote your First Untruth. Now choose your First Truth."
A pedestal rose between them, holding a blank page.
> "Write what must be true. Even if it kills what came before."
The inkblade trembled in his hand.
He stepped forward.
Then, with breath drawn deep and fingers shaking, he wrote:
> "I was made to forget."
"And I will unmake the one who made me."
The ink flared gold this time.
The tower shook.
The jar labeled Kaelen Vale shattered.
The memories inside didn't return to the shelf.
They poured into Coren.
And the Spiral—his Spiral—began to unravel.
Not vanish.
Evolve.
---
When he stumbled out of the vault, dawnlight greeted him.
The Spiral etched on his wrist had changed.
It now curved inward. A loop turned into a hook.
A sigil no longer of memory.
But of hunting.
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I had to seriously brainstorm about how to write what I want to in this chapter.. Hope y'all will like this..