The darkness around Seth Virell seemed to breathe.
It was not the warm, human kind of breath, but the cold inhalation of an ancient archive that had not been opened in centuries. Somewhere in that dark, the steady sound of pages turning whispered like a heartbeat.
He still stood in the antechamber of the Library of the Broken Spine, before the immense doors that had admitted him into the Archivists' domain. The shelves around him stretched upward until they blurred into shadow, their spines painted with titles in a thousand scripts he couldn't read.
And before him, cloaked in the same stillness as before, stood the mysterious figure who had inducted him. The figure's face remained hidden beneath a low hood, the only visible part of them the gloved hands clasped loosely at their waist.
Seth cleared his throat.
"I… need to ask," he began, his voice sounding small in the cavernous quiet, "When you told me I must 'find or create' my manuscript—what does that actually mean? I don't even understand what a manuscript is in this context."
The hood inclined slightly, as if considering his question.
"A manuscript," the figure said at last, their voice low and resonant, "is the seed of a Cipher. Each progression along your Discipline is anchored to one. You will either find it already written, somewhere across the Realities… or you will create it yourself."
Seth frowned. "That sounds vague."
"It is vague," the figure replied without apology. "For you, a Closurist, the manuscript will not merely be found—it will be understood. Comprehension is the first lock to open. Without it, the next Cipher cannot be reached."
"Then…" Seth hesitated. "If comprehension is the key… why give me the Cipher Nine manuscript before I even know what to do with it?"
"Because the Library demands a pledge before it grants its tools," the figure said, tone as calm as before. "You hold the manuscript now, but you have not yet fully comprehended it. The more you read, the more it will… respond. When you reach the point of total understanding, the path to the next Cipher will open."
They paused, then added, almost idly:
"I have the recipe for the Cipher Eight Closurist manuscript."
Seth's head snapped up. "You do? Then why not—"
"You are not ready," the figure said, cutting him off without raising their voice. "When you are ready, I will give it to you. Not before."
The certainty in their tone closed the matter as neatly as a book snapping shut. Seth pressed his lips together, tasting the sour edge of frustration.
The figure took a step forward, and the shadows behind them rippled like disturbed water. "There is something else you must know, before we proceed."
Seth waited.
"All Realities," the figure said, "are books."
He blinked. "…What?"
"Books," the figure repeated, as though the word itself carried weight. "Every reality you have ever imagined, every history you think immutable, every possibility branching into infinity—they are all bound and recorded within this Library. They may be shelved. They may be misplaced. Sometimes, they are stolen."
Seth's stomach churned with the cold unease of hearing something so outrageous stated with such certainty. "…Then where are we now?"
"In the Library," the figure said. "Which is not a reality, but an axis. All Realities can be entered from here—if one holds the right catalog number."
Seth rubbed his temple. "You're telling me every possible world is a book."
"Every possible world is a book," the figure said. "And only one of them is the true reality—the base from which all others splintered."
A long pause stretched between them.
"And where is that?" Seth asked quietly.
The figure turned, gesturing for him to follow. "I will show you."
They walked deeper into the stacks, past aisles that narrowed like the throats of old wells. Seth tried not to stare too long at certain volumes; some covers seemed to pulse faintly, and once he could have sworn one was… breathing.
Eventually, the shelves broke apart into a wide, circular platform, at the center of which stood an iron archway without doors. Through it, Seth could see nothing—only a flat, gray shimmer, like sunlight caught on fog.
"This," the figure said, stepping toward it, "is the threshold."
As they crossed, the shimmer swallowed them. Seth followed, the sensation like stepping through a page.
The world beyond unfolded in a rush of cool air and the clang of distant machinery.
At first, he thought he was looking at some immense stage set for a period drama. Rows of tightly packed buildings climbed and fell with the rise of the land, their facades bristling with wrought-iron balconies, ornate gas lamps, and signs painted in curling Victorian script. Smoke rose from countless chimneys, mingling with the hiss of steam vents built into cobblestone streets.
Above it all, skybridges of brass and steel connected massive towers shaped like cathedral spires, their glasswork gleaming with clockwork precision. Somewhere far off, a bell tolled—deep and resonant, the sound of a city that measured time like a heartbeat.
But it was the scale that stole Seth's breath.
The city stretched to the horizon in every direction. Far to the west, he could see a river the size of an inland sea winding between neighborhoods. To the east, the buildings climbed into jagged hills studded with iron windmills. Even the air smelled of a thousand industries—coal smoke, hot oil, wet stone after rain.
"This is…" Seth's voice faltered. "…this is Aetheros?"
"Yes," the figure said. "The true reality. The base world. A city the size of a continent."
Seth stared, his thoughts spinning. Aetheros. The name curled in his mind like an echo from a dream he couldn't remember having.
They began to walk along a cobbled promenade that overlooked a broad avenue. Below them, carriages drawn by horses fitted with brass augmentations rattled past, their drivers shouting to each other over the din. Steam trams clanged down central tracks, their roofs hung with strings of glass lanterns. Pedestrians in long coats and layered dresses hurried along, the air full of parasols, newsboys hawking papers, and the hiss of pneumatic message tubes shooting capsules from one building to another.
"It's like…" Seth muttered, "…a Victorian city, if someone grafted machinery into its bones."
The figure glanced at him. "You will find it… eccentric. Every district has its own clockwork, its own way of breathing. You will have time to learn them."
"And I'm supposed to live here?" Seth asked, watching a man pass with a dog.
"Yes. You will maintain a residence here, among the citizens. You will eat as they eat, speak as they speak. It will not be difficult. But—" The figure's tone sharpened, just slightly. "You must never reveal your identity as an Archivist."
"Because…?"
"Because they believe we are a fairytale," the figure said. "An old superstition whispered to children. The idea that somewhere beyond the smog and towers, there are keepers who seal and unseal the fates of worlds—that is a bedtime story at best. At worst, it is a heresy."
Seth slowed, staring at the passersby with new eyes. None of them looked twice at him or his hooded companion. To them, he was just another stranger in the crowd.
"If they found out?" he asked.
"They would not believe you," the figure said. "But those in certain circles… would try to use you. Or erase you. Both are inconvenient."
A tram roared past, momentarily drowning the conversation. When the noise faded, Seth realized his hands had curled into fists.
"So what now?" he asked.
"Now," the figure said, "you find your place. The Library will call you when you are needed. Until then… live. Listen. And read."
They stopped at a wrought-iron gate. Beyond it lay a narrow street lined with tall, leaning houses whose windows glowed amber in the growing dusk.
"This will be your neighborhood," the figure said. "You will receive a key in your pocket when we part. Behind one of these doors is your home. Which one? You will know when you try the key."
Seth opened his mouth to ask another question—but the figure was already fading, their outline dissolving into the same gray shimmer as the threshold.
"Remember," their voice came, distant but clear, "you have not yet comprehended your manuscript. When you do… we will speak again."
And then Seth was alone, the streetlamps flickering to life above him, casting long shadows that stretched like the fingers of some vast, unseen clock.