When Soot awoke, the room was different.
Gone was the stone cell with its narrow window. He now lay on a slab in a chamber lit by dozens of floating script-orbs—each pulsing with inked phrases in languages older than breath. The walls were draped with veils of black parchment that fluttered despite the still air.
Someone was watching him.
"I expected the Ink to kill you."
The voice was old—dry as dust on a scroll. A figure stepped forward, tall, robed in layered texts stitched into fabric. His face was hidden by a half-mask shaped like an open book. The rest of his skin was covered in thin lines of tattooed script.
"You're one of them," Soot muttered, sitting up slowly. "An Archivist."
The man inclined his head. "Correct. I am High Scriptor Remiel. Keeper of the Forbidden Verses."
Soot's body throbbed. The last lines from the prophecy still glowed faintly across his skin.
Truth bleeds tonight.
The dead prophets are waking.
Remiel moved closer, studying Soot like a scholar examining an ancient map.
"You were not supposed to receive the Waking Words," he said. "Only the First Ink was allowed to access that knowledge."
Soot frowned. "Then explain it. What are the Waking Words?"
Remiel walked to one of the veiled walls and lifted the parchment.
Behind it, embedded in the stone, was a mural.
A carving of seven figures, faceless and bound, their bodies covered in glowing script. One of them had their hands raised. The others had mouths sewn shut.
"These are the Buried Prophets," Remiel said. "They lived before the Great Silence, in the time when prophecy was common, wild, and unregulated."
"What happened to them?" Soot asked.
"They spoke truths that fractured empires. One prophesied the collapse of the Ministry. Another, the death of language itself. So the rulers of the time did what all frightened kings do—they erased the messengers."
Soot's blood ran cold. "They killed them."
"No," Remiel said. "They silenced them. They were sealed below the Archive, their bodies trapped in living tombs. The Ministry renamed the event the 'Silence'—as if it were some natural, cosmic tragedy. In reality, it was a purge."
Soot stood up. His voice was low and tight.
"And now they're waking."
Remiel nodded. "Because of you. Your prophecy isn't just words. It's a key."
Far beneath the Archive, something stirred.
Chains forged from glyph-iron groaned in the dark.
A single eye opened in the black—a milky white orb with ink flooding its center.
Then another.
And another.
Seven in total.
They did not breathe.
They did not speak.
But their thoughts, carried by inked tendrils through ancient roots of language, rose like smoke toward the surface.
The world forgot us.
But the Ink remembers.
The boy bleeds with our fire.
And above them, the walls cracked.
Remiel led Soot down a staircase hidden beneath the Archive's northern wing.
Each step was inscribed with a forgotten tongue. As they descended, the air thickened with an ancient power. Torches burned blue. Shadows flickered with memories.
"You should have died last night," Remiel said, not unkindly. "That prophecy—Ink Prophet Dies Tonight—was not a metaphor."
"Then why didn't I?" Soot asked.
Remiel hesitated.
"Because the prophecy changed its mind."
Soot stopped walking.
"That's not possible."
Remiel turned to him, eyes serious. "It wasn't. But you are not like the others. Your ink responds to you. It's adapting. You've gone from being a messenger to being… an author."
Soot stared.
"You mean I can write prophecy?"
"I mean," Remiel said, "for the first time in history, prophecy may no longer be absolute. It may be editable."
They reached the lowest level.
The Vault of Inkbones.
Massive doors opened with the groan of ages. The chamber inside was circular, lit by floating pages that flamed silently. Bones of previous prophets were stacked in tall cages—skulls marked with fading words, ribs turned into quills.
Soot stepped inside, feeling every breath like fire in his lungs.
In the center stood a pedestal.
On it: a scroll sealed with red wax and a black feather—ancient, brittle, humming with power.
Remiel bowed slightly.
"This is the First Word."
Soot approached.
"What is it?"
Remiel's voice dropped to a whisper.
"The original prophecy. The one that birthed all others. The seed of the Ink."
Soot reached toward it. The feather trembled.
Suddenly—visions.
A thousand voices. Screams. Fire. The Burned Library collapsing. Children covered in words. Cities rewritten. People vanishing as their names were stripped from language.
And a single phrase carved into the sky like lightning:
"The Ink Prophet will unwrite the end."
Soot fell to his knees.
Remiel caught him. "Are you seeing it?"
Soot nodded, gasping. "It's not just about me dying. It's about… the end of everything."
Remiel placed a hand on his shoulder.
"Then you must decide: Will you let prophecy control fate—or will you rewrite it?"
Above them, alarms rang.
The Archive shook.
Remiel stood up sharply. "They've broken free."
Soot staggered to his feet. "The Buried Prophets?"
"No," Remiel said.
He turned to face the stairway. His eyes narrowed.
"Something worse."