Chapter Eight: The Fire That Refuses to Read
Veyr's inkblade hissed as it burned a scar into the earth.
Soot stepped in front of Tali, shielding her with his body. Remiel pulled a quill-dagger from his sleeve—one etched with rejection runes—but he did not attack. Not yet.
"Stay back," Soot warned. "I don't want to fight."
Veyr's voice was calm, almost amused.
"No one wants to fight until their story is threatened. But you've had your chapter. Now it's time to close the book."
He flicked his wrist.
Two more Inkburners emerged from the shadows—one wielding a brand made from melted prophecy scrolls, the other carrying a cage of flame-filled script-eaters: small, scuttling creatures that devoured anything written.
Remiel whispered, "Inkburners were once scribes. Until they rejected prophecy, declared it a cage, and chose to erase themselves from the script."
"They chose freedom," Veyr corrected. "You worship a parasite, Prophet. But the Ink consumes all stories. Ours will be the first flame it cannot rewrite."
Soot's chest tightened.
He stepped toward the pedestal.
The second quill sat like a living thorn, ink pulsing in rhythm with his breath. Its energy tugged at him—eager, wild, dangerous.
Take me, and bleed a weapon.
Then they attacked.
The cage burst open.
Script-eaters swarmed across the ground, skittering toward Soot and Tali with fire in their mouths. One leapt toward Tali's leg.
Snap— Soot's hand shot out. A wall of ink rose between them, shielding her. It held—barely. The creature hissed, spat flame, then dissolved into smoke.
Remiel moved like a ghost—slashing runes into the air, blinding one attacker with a sigil of misreading. But it wasn't enough. Veyr was already upon Soot.
Their blades met—one forged of ink, the other of fire-soaked iron.
"You don't understand what you carry," Veyr growled. "The quills are not gifts. They are locks."
"Locks for what?" Soot demanded.
But Veyr didn't answer.
He struck.
Steel met ink.
Ink met blood.
The thorn quill responded.
It rose from the pedestal on its own, burning with light—and stabbed itself into Soot's left hand.
Soot screamed.
The world blurred.
Letters flew like sparks.
Symbols swarmed his vision.
And suddenly—he knew.
Memory flooded in.
A vision of the Second Prophet—Elian the Thorn-Speaker—a man who had used the quill not to write, but to cut through false prophecy. He'd carved lies out of fate itself. And died for it.
But he'd left a command buried in the ink:
When the Thorn finds flesh again, open the path to the Third. Burn only the lie. Protect the maybe.
Soot came back gasping.
His left hand pulsed with light. A new script had appeared down his forearm, running like a scar.
Quill Two Claimed.
He raised the hand.
Veyr lunged.
Soot unleashed the quill's power.
A wave of unraveling script burst outward—stripping Veyr's blade of words, dissolving it mid-strike. The Inkburner staggered back, stunned.
"You… you learned it that fast?" he said, stunned.
Soot stepped forward, breathing heavily.
"Apparently, the Ink thinks I'm overdue."
But Veyr wasn't finished.
He pulled a second weapon from his side.
A scroll—not inked, but carved into skin.
He whispered a phrase.
"Let the erased scream again."
The scroll ignited in red fire.
A wind howled.
And from the cracks of the city emerged the Unwritten—lost souls, former prophets, and erased identities given back as monstrous reflections of who they once were.
Tali gasped. "What are those—?"
"Failed prophecies," Remiel said. "Twisted. Hungry."
They came like smoke with teeth.
Soot raised the thorn-quill.
He hesitated.
If he used it again, he might burn everything.
Even the truth.
Tali grabbed his arm.
"I trust you. Whatever you have to do—do it."
Soot closed his eyes.
Focused.
He whispered the command Elian had burned into the quill centuries ago.
Burn the lie. Protect the maybe.
The thorn quill pulsed once—and fired a blast of spiraling inkfire.
But it didn't destroy everything.
It chose.
The Unwritten screamed and fell apart.
The false names faded.
The forgotten stayed.
And Veyr—horrified—vanished in a burst of emergency script, teleporting away.
Silence fell.
The city shook, but the tower stood firm.
Tali collapsed into a seated heap, panting. Remiel lowered his weapon.
Soot stood over the pedestal, his left hand still glowing, bleeding ink from the point where the thorn-quill had entered.
"Two down," he said. "Five to go."
Remiel looked at him with quiet awe.
"You didn't just claim that quill. You merged with it. No one in history has ever—"
"I'm not following history," Soot said. "I'm rewriting it."
Then the wind changed again.
Another prophecy burned into his shoulder.
This time, it wasn't a command.
It was a warning.
The next quill is guarded by a Prophet who still lives.
And she remembers what you were before you were Soot.