The quill scraped the page as the Ashling leapt.
I vanish between heartbeats.
The words ignited, searing down the parchment. Heat surged through him—and the world shifted.
The Ashling's claws scythed through empty air. He wasn't there.
For a heartbeat, neither was he anywhere at all.
Then breath rushed back into his lungs, and he found himself three paces to the side, knees buckling, chest heaving like he had sprinted for miles. The quill smoldered faintly in his grip, its feather darkened at the tip.
New Skill: [Phantom Step] – Move unseen for a breath. Cost: breath stolen from the lungs.
His throat burned. Each inhale scraped like sand.
The Archivist's voice cut sharply across the aisle. "Good. You wrote a price. Now move!"
More Ashlings lurched from the shadows, drawn by the glow. Five at least—maybe more. Their ruined books flickered in their claws, pages fluttering as if hungry for him. Black flames dripped from their bodies, gnawing the shelves they passed.
The nearest one lunged again. He dodged on instinct, Swift Step firing through his veins. His body blurred sideways, faster than the claw. But his balance broke, his heel skidding across ash. He nearly fell—until Measured Breath steadied him, calming the tremor, slowing the panic.
Three breaths. Focus.
The Ashling roared, stumbling into the shelf. A storm of ashes poured down, obscuring the aisle.
"Don't fight them head-on!" the Archivist's voice rang. "We are not here to win. We are here to live."
"I can't outrun all of them!" he shouted, voice raw.
"Yes, you can," she said simply. "Write it true."
Another shadow rose behind him, reaching with smoldering hands. He spun, Chronicle flaring in his grip like a shield. Claws raked across its cover. Sparks exploded, but the book held.
I move without leaving a trace. But the world forgets I was there.
He scrawled the words, desperate. Heat raced through the page, hotter than before. His heart stuttered—and then the world dimmed.
The Ashling's claw swung through him. Passed through him. His body blurred like smoke. Its hollow eyes lost focus, head tilting as if confused.
Then it turned away.
The others followed, searching elsewhere, jaws clacking as their books hissed. They no longer saw him.
But his body ached strangely—his hands, his chest. He felt hollowed, less, as though something small but vital had been cut away.
"What happened?" he gasped.
The Archivist's ink-black eyes caught his. "The world forgets you. And so do you, in pieces. A dangerous line. But it saved you."
The Ashlings prowled past, their flames searing the shelves. One brushed close enough that the heat blistered his skin, but its eyes passed over him as if he were dust.
When the last had gone, silence fell again.
The skill bled away. He solidified, staggering, the Chronicle heavy in his arms. His vision swam with afterimages of smoke.
"I…" He swallowed hard. "I almost disappeared."
"Not quite." The Archivist stepped from the shadows, parchment skirts whispering. "You cut away presence, not existence. Clever. But costly. Keep cutting too often, and one day nothing will be left to return."
His hands shook. He clutched the Chronicle tighter, staring at the faintly glowing lines. Every word costs something.
The Archivist tilted her head, studying him. "You are beginning to see why most cling to their given Entries. Safety in what is already written."
"And me?" His voice cracked. "I'm just—making it up as I go."
"Yes." She smiled faintly. "And that is why you are dangerous."
They pressed deeper into the Archive.
The shelves leaned tighter, the air colder. Ash clung thick to the ground, muffling each step. Faded symbols crawled faintly across the wood, then guttered out.
At last they came to a broad chamber where shelves had collapsed inward, forming a broken circle. Torn books lay scattered like corpses, their pages half-burned, fragments of words still twitching with faint glow.
"This," the Archivist murmured, "was a scriptorium once. A place of practice. Now… it is ruin."
The young man turned slowly. His pulse still raced, his lungs still burned, but awe pushed through the exhaustion. The fragments seemed alive, trembling with scraps of forgotten declarations.
He crouched, picking up a torn half-page. Words still shimmered faintly across it:
My eyes pierce the veil of dark—
The rest had been devoured by fire.
"Don't—" the Archivist began, but too late.
The words flared as his skin touched them. For a heartbeat his vision changed. The shadows peeled back. He saw cracks spidering through shelves, the outline of something skittering far behind the walls, even the faint weave of threads curling off the Archivist herself, as though she were made of pages stitched together.
He dropped the fragment with a cry. His eyes burned, spots swimming across his vision.
"Borrowing again," the Archivist said, calm but sharp. "Scraps can grant power, but only briefly. They are unstable. And dangerous."
He wiped at his eyes, vision slowly settling. "Why show me this place, then?"
"Because you must learn." Her quill spun lazily in her hand. "The Archive offers many temptations. You cannot avoid them all. Better to fail here, in ruin, than in the Index proper."
He stared at the fragments scattered across the chamber. The temptation gnawed at him. Each scrap was a promise. Each could be written into his empty ledger, if he dared.
His book pulsed in his hands, as if aware of his thoughts. Heat built along the margin, faint but insistent.
He forced the cover shut.
The Archivist's lips curved. "Good. Restraint is rarer than hunger."
A low sound stirred the ash.
At first he thought it another patrol, but this was heavier, more deliberate. A dragging step, then another, shaking dust from the shelves.
The Archivist's eyes sharpened. "Not Ashlings."
A shape emerged in the distance—taller, broader, its frame cloaked in torn robes. A book was chained to its chest, glowing faintly with stolen light. Its hands clutched not claws but quills of black iron, their tips dripping with embers.
The sight froze him. "What is that?"
The Archivist's voice dropped to a whisper.
"A Librarian."
The figure lifted its head. Its face was hidden by an iron mask, etched with runes. Hollow sockets turned toward them. The chained book flared—and from the shelves around it, pages tore free, whirling into the air like a storm of knives.
The young man staggered back. His Chronicle pulsed wildly, heat rising as though warning him.
The Librarian raised its iron quill. The pages circled closer, their edges slicing faintly at the air.
The Archivist's voice was calm, but her hand tightened on his sleeve. "Run. Write only once. If you falter, you will be stolen."
His throat closed. His quill hovered above the page.
What do I write?
The Librarian's book snapped open, light spilling. Pages screamed.
And the air itself turned sharp.