The corridor outside Seth Virell's new apartment was silent after the mysterious figure vanished, the faint scent of old parchment still lingering like a ghost.
Seth stared at the empty air where the figure had stood.
"…Great. Just like that, he's gone."
He rubbed the back of his neck.
"I didn't even get to ask what the hell an Axis Realm is."
His eyes narrowed.
"Alright. Next time I see him—assuming he doesn't just vanish into dramatic shadows again—I'm getting answers. Full answers."
He looked down at the key in his hand. It was a dull brass thing, heavy and slightly warm. No number was etched into it.
"Well… might as well see where you fit," Seth muttered.
He began trying the key on each apartment door along the corridor. Click. No luck. Click. Still nothing. His footsteps echoed in the narrow hall as he worked his way down.
When the key finally turned, he stopped mid-motion.
"…Huh. That's… convenient."
The lock gave way with a heavy thunk, and Seth pushed the door open. The scent of dust and faint wood polish greeted him.
Inside was simple: a bedroom with a single bed and thin sheets, a bathroom with a clawfoot tub, a small kitchen that looked barely used, and a modest living room with two faded armchairs and a round coffee table.
Seth stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
"Well… it's not exactly luxury, but at least it's mine."
He set his small satchel down by the bed and ran a hand over the quilt. It was coarse, but clean.
He collapsed into one of the armchairs, staring at the ceiling.
"Axis Realm… Cipher ranks… manuscripts… Closurist." He shook his head. "This is… insane. A while ago, I didn't even know the Library of the Broken Spine existed. Now I'm apparently an 'official Archivist' and supposed to… what? Hunt for cryptic manuscripts without losing my mind?"
He sighed, leaning his head back.
"…Maybe I already have lost it."
The day waned quietly, the muted light from the high, narrow window fading to dusk. Somewhere outside, faint carriage wheels clicked over cobblestones, and the occasional muffled shout rose from the streets of Aetheros.
When night finally arrived, Seth happened to glance at the window—
—and froze.
The moon was wrong.
It hung low in the black sky, swollen and massive, but it was not silver. It was a deep, bleeding crimson, its surface seeming to pulse like a living thing. Thin, roiling clouds drifted past it, but the moon's color only deepened.
Seth's throat went dry.
"…That… is not normal."
He moved closer to the window, resting a hand against the cool glass.
"Why is it… red?"
The moon seemed to look back at him.
Something in its light made the edges of his vision tremble. The shadows in the room stretched and bent subtly, as if they too were looking toward the sky.
Seth took a step back.
"Alright. No. No. This is… atmospheric trickery. Some… weather effect. Or… hell, maybe Aetheros just has a red moon."
But the longer he stared, the less convinced he was.
A thought flickered in his mind—one he didn't recognize as his own:
The ink runs deeper tonight.
Seth's breath caught.
"…Who said that?"
Silence. Only the faint hum of the city outside.
He rubbed his temples.
"Okay, Seth. You're just… overtired. Big day. Weird moon. No need to panic."
But part of him wanted to know.
He sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the window, the crimson light washing over him, and closed his eyes. He let his breathing slow, the way he used to when trying to focus on difficult study passages.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's…comprehend this. Whatever this is."
The darkness behind his eyelids shifted.
He saw a desk—no, an altar—carved from pale wood, covered in pages that fluttered without wind. The ink on them crawled like ants, rearranging into new sentences with every blink.
Somewhere above the desk, a massive shadow loomed, formless except for two impossibly large, pale hands that moved across an invisible manuscript. Every stroke of those unseen words sent vibrations through the air, bending reality itself.
The smell of old paper and iron flooded his senses.
Seth's voice trembled.
"…Nameless… Author…"
The moment the name left his lips, the vision surged.
The crimson moon shattered into countless sheets of parchment, each one burning with letters that couldn't be read yet demanded to be understood. They swirled around him like a storm, whispering in overlapping voices:
Every ending belongs to me.
Every final word is mine.
Seth clutched his head.
"Stop—! I… I can't—!"
The words were too much—more than words, truths pressed directly into his mind. His thoughts felt like they were being rearranged, edited mid-sentence.
And then… it stopped.
He found himself back in his apartment, lying on the wooden floor, gasping for breath. His hands were shaking.
He swallowed hard and sat up slowly.
"…I… I saw it."
His voice was barely a whisper.
"I… spoke its name."
The crimson moon still hung in the sky, but now it seemed quieter, less oppressive.
Seth pushed himself to his feet, leaning against the armchair.
"Alright… that's enough… comprehension for one night."
He tried to laugh, but it came out dry.
"If this is what being an Archivist feels like… I'm going to need stronger tea."
He shut the curtains, blocking out the moon, but the whispers lingered faintly at the back of his mind.
And somewhere deep in that quiet, he knew:
he had just taken his first real step toward something vast, dangerous, and impossible to turn away from.