The rain had no sound in the Outer City—only the hush of water sliding down the brass gargoyles that watched from the rooftops. The wind moved as if careful not to wake something ancient beneath the cobblestones. Somewhere in that sleeping hush, Selene Valis stood before the gate of the Expeditionary Hunters' Guild, clutching a soaked parchment sealed with the emblem of a serpent biting its own tail.
The letter had come without return address, written in ink that shimmered faintly when turned toward moonlight.Her admission notice. Her summons.
"The Guild requests your presence at once. Bring no escort. Burn this letter after reading."
She hadn't burned it. She wanted proof that her life before this moment had existed.
The gates opened without sound. Inside was a courtyard of black marble reflecting dim lanterns. Statues lined the walls—heroes, explorers, saints, all faceless. At the far end, an iron door exhaled warm air and the scent of ozone, parchment, and something faintly metallic—blood, or mercury, or both.
A tall woman stepped out to greet her. Her eyes were pale silver; her robe bore stitched runes that moved slightly, like script trying to escape its own seams.
"Selene Valis," she said. "Archivist lineage. Linguist. Scholar of dead tongues.""Yes.""You're late by three nights.""I wasn't told the journey would—"The woman raised a hand. "The Guild never tells you. It only observes."
She turned, her heels clicking like metronomes of ritual. Selene followed.
They walked through halls that pulsed faintly with life—walls breathing, floorboards sighing. Every few steps, a painting would twitch as if waking from a dream. Shadows lengthened and shortened without logic. Selene realized the architecture obeyed no fixed design; it was the Guild itself that rearranged for every initiate.
At last they reached a long chamber filled with desks, quills, and what appeared to be floating pages, tethered by chains of light. Each page bore strange etchings: sketches of monsters, field notes, and paragraphs that erased and rewrote themselves while she watched.
"The Journal," the woman said, with reverence and warning."The Guild's memory. Our map. Our curse."
Selene stepped closer. Words bled into view:
Entry 000: Arrival of New Archivist — Valis, Selene. Linguistic aptitude: exceptional. Cognitive risk: high.Note: The Undersphere has noticed her already.
She stumbled backward."How—how does it know my name?""The Journal knows everyone it will eventually kill," the woman said quietly.
Hours later, she sat alone in a small dormitory that smelled of dust and saltwater. Her window overlooked the sea; somewhere beyond the mist, lightning flickered in violet arcs. On her desk lay a mirror, small and cracked, given to her by the same woman at orientation.
"If you see movement in it that doesn't mirror you, do not look away. It means you are being studied."
Selene tried not to glance at it now, but her curiosity was stronger than her fear. In the reflection, her eyes looked older—centuries older—and something vast and spiral-shaped turned slowly behind her, like a shadow on the inside of glass.
She spun. Nothing there.
A knock at the door.
When she opened it, a boy about her age stood in the corridor. His eyes were gray with a faint shimmer, his skin almost luminous under the lanterns. Around his throat was a faint sigil, pale and moving like mist—the spiral.
"Room assignment," he said simply. His voice was calm, almost too calm."You're my roommate?" she asked.He nodded. "Corin Ashfall. Field division. They said we're partners."
He stepped past her, leaving drops of seawater on the floor though he wasn't wet. The scent of iron followed him.
Selene's pulse quickened—not from attraction, not yet—but from the impossible familiarity of his presence. She had seen that face before, in her dreams, standing at the edge of a black sea.
"Goodnight," Corin said, already lying down, eyes open to the ceiling.
Selene tried to sleep, but couldn't. The Journal's whispering carried through the walls like breathing. And when she finally drifted toward unconsciousness, she dreamed of a voice whispering through ink and static:
"The expedition begins at dawn. Bring your courage. Bring your mind. Leave your soul."