The first thing Lena noticed wasn't what she saw—it was what she felt.
Not paper under her fingers.
Skin.
Cold. Beating. Alive.
She shot upright with a gasp—
and realized she wasn't in the library anymore.
She was inside the book.
The sky above was a storm of swirling words. The ground shifted beneath her feet, made of worn pages and haunted faces—Jenna, Dan, Mira—all staring up at her, eyes wide, mouths moving silently in terror.
The air smelled like blood and rot.
Like a wound that had just been opened.
---
THE FIRST PAGE
A voice slithered out of the, Keeper."
The Last Witness appeared, half-human, half-smoke. Its stitched-up mouth began to come undone, one thread at a time.
Lena's voice shook. "What is this?"
It smiled. "The truth. The original book. The one your grandfather actually stole."
The world trembled.
And then she saw it—
a memory not her own.
Prague. 1968.
A young Alistair Voss stood trembling in a crypt, clutching a different book—this one bound in living flesh, its cover stitched with what looked like human hair.
A monk whispered:
"It doesn't just write history. It feeds on it."
The memory burned away.
New York. 1987.
Alistair again, older now, bent over his desk, crying. He was writing names into the book—
including his own daughter's.
Lena's mother.
Lena staggered back. "No—"
The Witness leaned closer.
"He didn't take the book to study it. He took it to feed it. To protect you."
Then the floor gave way.
---
THE SECOND LIE
She fell—
straight into another page.
Another memory.
The night her mother died.
But it wasn't a car crash.
It was Alistair.
Standing over her mother's bed, the book open beside him.
Her mother's voice broke:
"You said it would never be me."
Alistair wept.
"I'm sorry. It asked for family this time."
Lena screamed—
—and jolted back into the Rare Texts Room.
She hit the floor hard.
Alistair's wheelchair was knocked over.
His book lay wide open,
its pages now blank.
His throat...
slashed clean through.
The Witness stood above him, its fingers dripping blood.
"He gave himself back to the book," it whispered. "One last gift. His life for yours."
The book in her hands burned. Pages flipped on their own—
until they stopped at the last entry:
Alistair Voss. Tonight. Betrayed by his own blood.
And just beneath it, still wet with ink:
Lena Carter. Tomorrow. Cause of death: Becoming what she fears most.
---
THE THIRD CHOICE
The Witness held out the needle again.
"You already know what needs to be done."
Lena turned toward the shattered window—
and her reflection stared back.
But it wasn't her.
It was Alistair.
Smiling.
Waiting.
Her hand trembled as she reached for the needle.
The book hissed. Its pages writhed.
"Sew your lips. Bury the truth. Take the Keeper's place... forever."
The lights flickered.
Shadows twisted.
And then—
Another voice spoke.
"Lena."
She spun around.
Mira stood in the doorway,
her throat whole.
Her eyes clear.
"Don't do it," she begged. "There's another way."
The Witness growled, its form glitching like a corrupted video.
"LIAR."
Mira stepped closer, hand outstretched.
"Take my hand. Remember who you are."
Lena stood frozen.
Then—
The needle pierced her thumb.
Blood bloomed.
But it wasn't red.
It was black.
Ink.
The world shattered around her again.
---