The moment Lena's fingers closed around the book, everything shifted.
The crumbling monastery vanished, the trees warped into pillars of bone. The air thickened—smelling like scorched paper and damp earth. And the whispers?
They weren't just around her anymore.
They were inside her head.
"Welcome home, Keeper."
It wasn't the Witness speaking. It was her own voice—but older, deeper, soaked in centuries. The book throbbed in her hands, its cover clinging to her skin. A serpent—the ouroboros—slithered from the book onto her wrist like a living tattoo.
Mira staggered back, her face pale. "Lena… your eyes—"
Lena didn't need a mirror. She could feel the change—ink weaving into her blood, the Witness sinking into her shadow.
The book had chosen.
And she had accepted.
---
THE FIRST WHISPER
The forest was gone.
With a single blink, Lena was standing in a vast hall lined with mirrors. Each one showed a different version of her:
- Lena at 12, gripping her mother's hand during another midnight escape.
- Lena at 20, burning letters from her grandfather, still unaware of what the book truly wanted.
- Lena now, the book fused to her hand, her reflection smiling back with sharp, needle-like teeth.
Mira wasn't Mira anymore. In her place stood the Last Witness. Its mouth was stitched shut—but the threads were coming undone.
"The first rule of being Keeper," it whispered, "is that you must feed it."
Glass shattered.
Shards flew, slicing into Lena's arms. But instead of blood, ink poured out—black, shiny, and moving like it was alive.
One large shard hovered before her. It showed a scene from tomorrow:
A café in Prague.
A waitress. Her nametag read: "Anya."
Lena's hand, writing in the book—
Anya Kovac. Tomorrow. Crushed by falling masonry.
The vision vanished. The Witness leaned in close. Its breath smelled like rotting paper.
"Your first sacrifice awaits."
---
THE FIRST LIE
Lena woke up screaming.
She was in Hotel Carpathia, Room 317. The book was beside her—open, silent. Only one sentence was written across the page:
"The Keeper's pen is mightier than the knife."
Her phone buzzed. A news alert:
"Tragic Accident in Prague—Waitress Killed by Falling Wall"
The photo showed Anya's face.
No.
Lena dove for the book, but it slid away, like it was alive. Ink spread across the page again.
"You didn't write it. But you didn't stop it."
A knock at the door.
Not three taps. Just one.
Slow. Heavy.
The door creaked open on its own.
Mira stood there—alive, but not right. Her eyes were wide, her lips cracked. She held a bundle of black thread and a bone needle.
"It's starting," she whispered. "The book is rewriting you."
She stepped aside. The hallway wasn't a hotel hallway anymore. It had become the monastery again—twisting, endless. Figures stared out from the shadows:
- The monk with his mouth sewn shut.
- Alistair Voss, throat split.
- Dozens more, their faces blurred, arms reaching forward.
All Keepers.
All failures.
Mira pressed the needle into Lena's palm. "You have one night to undo this. Or you'll become one of them."
Then she disappeared.
The door slammed shut. The book laughed, flipping to a new page.
"Keeper's Log: Night Two"
Sacrifices Made: 1
Sacrifices Remaining: ∞
And beneath it, in jagged letters:
"How far will you go to survive?"
---