The air turned sharp.
Pages screamed past like knives, torn loose from shelves that had stood for centuries. They whirled in a spiral, slicing wood, cutting ash into shapes. At the eye of the storm stood a figure cloaked in tatters of parchment and iron, its mask smooth and blank but for two vertical slits. Chains bound a heavy book to its chest, glowing with stolen lines. In its hands, a pair of quills glistened black, dripping sparks that stank of scorched ink.
The Archivist's eyes narrowed. "A Librarian," she said. "Run. And write only once."
The young man's heartbeat thundered. He had felt fear when the Ashling lunged at him—this was different. The Ashling had been hunger given form. The Librarian radiated will. Each flick of its quill commanded the Archive to obey. Shelves bent like reeds; words smeared off bindings and turned to dust at its passing.
The Chronicle pulsed in his grip, warning him. He lifted it as the paper storm closed.
Edges struck his arms, shoulders, face—cutting, but not cutting. His book's glow flared, and he remembered the Archivist's words: conditions, costs, balance.
Measured Breath. He drew one, two, three—and steadied enough to write.
He scrawled quick and sharp:When blades close, my skin hardens to ash-stone; afterward, my hands are numb.
Heat surged down his arms. His skin roughened, gray-streaked, turning aside the storm's fury. Pain dulled into tingling. His fingers numbed.
New Trait: [Ash-Stone] – Flesh hardens against edged harm under threat. Cost: hands numbed for an hour.
The storm battered him, but he stood. The Librarian tilted its mask, as if curious how long he would last.
"Left!" the Archivist snapped.
He dove, the storm slicing the shelves instead. Books screamed as their letters bled out, spines unraveling into ash.
They burst into another aisle. His chest heaved, lungs rasping. "What is it?"
"Collector of words. Thief of fates," the Archivist said, running beside him with impossible calm. "Its quills command. Its chains bind. It wears the voices of the dead."
He stumbled after her. Behind them, the storm chewed the Archive to ruin, pages screeching like living things.
And then—a sound that cut through everything.
Not the hiss of paper. Not the crack of flame. A breath. Small, human. Fragile.
He skidded to a halt.
Among a pile of collapsed shelves, half-buried in ash, a girl lay curled. Her arms locked around a small book, its cover nearly charred through. Ember-veins glowed along the pages, flickering with each of her shallow breaths. Her body was thin, half-consumed, hair tangled with dust. The book pulsed faintly, then stuttered, like a heart losing rhythm.
The Archivist didn't even glance at her. "Leave her."
He stared. "She's—alive."
"For now. But her page is burning. When it's gone, she will rise hollow. Ashling." The Archivist's voice was cold as iron. "You cannot save her."
He crouched anyway, brushing debris aside. The girl's eyelids fluttered. She was young, younger than him, her lips ash-pale. Her eyes cracked open, blank and wandering, but focused when they found the glow of his book. Her fingers twitched, clutching tighter at her dying Entry.
His jaw clenched. "I won't leave her."
"You will." The Archivist's tone sharpened. "Survival is scholarship. Save her, and you give the Librarian two prey instead of one."
The storm screamed at the far end of the aisle, growing louder. Shelves snapped like bones.
He pressed the Chronicle against his chest. His hand shook, but the thought came anyway, reckless and raw: What if I write not for myself—but for her?
The Chronicle warmed in warning, as though it heard his intent. He felt the edge of danger, the same as when the page had nearly blistered.
The Archivist's gaze cut to him. "Don't," she said, voice low. "That way is corruption."
He ignored her. Ink pricked his skin like thorns as he scrawled:
My words may bridge to another's page if I pay the ink with my own.
Heat drained instead of surging. The Chronicle's glow dimmed as if pouring its fire into a vein beneath the ash. A tether formed, invisible but felt, linking his book to the girl's.
New Skill: [Inkbridge] – Link your Entry to another's. Transfer a stabilizing truth at cost of your own heat. Risk of corruption.
The girl's book fluttered, ember veins glowing brighter for a moment.
The Archivist hissed, "Fool."
The storm struck the aisle mouth. Pages screamed toward them.
He pressed the Chronicle to the girl's flickering cover. "Hold on," he whispered, though whether to her or himself he didn't know.
The Librarian stepped into view, mask gleaming blank. One quill twitched downward. The storm dove.
And he made his choice.
He would write in her book.
The quill burned against his fingers.