Tension coiled through the halls of the Soulwarden Citadel like a living thing. Emilia clutched the scroll as if it might vanish, its weight growing heavier by the moment. Every corridor they passed echoed with unease. No one spoke aloud what they all feared.
A traitor was among them.
"What name is on the scroll?" Asher asked, his voice sharp, eyes unblinking.
Emilia hesitated. "It's encrypted. Written in soul-script. I can't read all of it yet—but someone on Alsira's Council bears a shattered name."
Liaen swore under his breath. "That means they've given their soul to the Cult."
"And they're likely orchestrating the awakening from the inside," Asher added grimly.
"We need someone who can read this," Emilia said.
Elira drifted beside her, dimmer than ever. "There's one who might help. The Archivist."
Asher's brow furrowed. "I thought he vanished during the war."
Elira's voice grew thin and distant. "He never left. He just stopped being human."
They made their way to the Old Archive—a crumbling cathedral buried beneath the Scholar's Tier. It was said to contain texts older than Alsira itself. After the First Cataclysm, the city sealed it off when too many researchers went mad attempting to decipher soul-script.
They descended into the ruins. Dust hung thick in the air. The cold was unnatural, the kind that seeped through bone and memory. Asher's hand never left his sword hilt as whispers flickered at the edge of hearing.
"I don't like this," Liaen muttered.
At the heart of the cathedral stood a massive stone desk. Behind it sat a figure—withered, robed in layers of soul-cloth. Its face was hidden behind a mask of parchment. The scent of old ink, brittle pages, and slow decay filled the room.
"You've come to trade secrets," it said, not turning. "All who enter my domain must pay in truth."
"The name," Asher said. "We need it read."
The figure turned. Its eyes were ink wells. Its voice was layered—young and old, crisp and broken.
"I am the Archivist," it said. "And I will read your scroll. But first, a truth from each of you. No lies. No hesitation."
Emilia stepped forward. Her voice was quiet. "I'm afraid I'll lose myself. That I'll become what they want me to be."
The Archivist nodded. "You will. But you may choose how you change."
Liaen followed, jaw clenched. "I still dream of the day I ran while my brother burned."
"You'll burn too," the Archivist said. "Just slower."
Asher said nothing.
"Your truth?" the Archivist asked.
He met its gaze. "I'm afraid of losing her. Again. I don't know if I can survive it twice."
Elira's light shimmered faintly beside him.
The Archivist inclined its head. "All acceptable truths."
It reached out with skeletal hands and took the scroll. The soul-script ignited, burning away in a flicker of violet flame—revealing the name beneath.
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
"No," Liaen breathed. "It can't be."
Emilia staggered back a step.
The name on the scroll: High Marshal Cyran Valem.
One of Alsira's most revered defenders. A hero. Guardian of the city's outer defenses. The man entrusted with the warding of the soul pillars.
"He's been on the Council for decades," Emilia said, voice unsteady. "How could—"
"He wears a mask like the rest," the Archivist said. "But his soul hums with dissonance. A true servant of the Cult."
They returned to the Citadel under the veil of night, the truth burning in their veins like fire.
"We can't confront him directly," Asher said. "Not without proof the Council would accept."
"Then we find the last throne," Liaen said. "If we stop the final awakening, it won't matter how high he's climbed."
Emilia stared into the flickering light of a nearby lantern. "He knows we're hunting now. He'll strike first."
Elira nodded faintly. "Then we move faster."
Asher looked at them one by one—Emilia, Liaen, Elira. His broken family, reforged by fire, death, and war.
"We end this," he said.
"Before the Choir sings again."