⋱⌘⋰ Lore Scrap ⋱⌘⋰
"A whisper misfiled becomes a curse misplaced."
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The Sorting Room was not what Eira expected. No towering shelves. No quiet reverence. Just stone and sigils, humming gently underfoot. The entire room pulsed — not with light, but something deeper. Memory. Intent. Magic. Circular wards were etched into the floor, each one glowing faintly. Ink shimmered through narrow channels between them, flowing like veins. An iron sphere floated overhead, steady as a second moon. Tools lined the walls in methodical rows — rune compasses, whisper clamps, shears shaped like question marks. A tuning fork hummed. A small jar labeled "resonance splinters" rattled faintly when Eira passed. Finnian bounded down from a stair rail with a grin. "This is where the chaos happens. Also known as: my natural habitat." Cael ignored him, striding ahead to a circular pedestal. "This is where we sort. Where whispers are given form. Where their truth — or falsehood — reveals itself." Eira stood just outside the boundary rune, her wrist tingling beneath the ink-binding. "And if we get it wrong?" "Then the Library writes its own correction," Cael said. "Often with blood." "That's comforting," she muttered. Finnian beamed. "You'll do great! Probably!"
The whisper on the table hissed and spat droplets of violet ink onto the page.
Eira flinched. Finnian didn't.
"That's a reactive sort," he said cheerfully, sliding a glyph card between the pages. "Watch for ink scatter and emotional bleed."
"Emotional bleed," she repeated, trying not to wince as the glyph shimmered and the book stilled. "That's a real term?"
"You'd be amazed how many sorters end up sobbing halfway through their first decade." He paused, then added with a grin, "Cael says I'm ahead of schedule."
He gestured to a stack of unsorted whispers beside them.
"Some sorters used to map the impossible sections," Finnian said, almost offhandedly. "Thorn Serel tried to chart the Unbound Wing. Cael says they got halfway before the corridors turned on them."
"What happened?" Eira asked, lowering her voice without meaning to.
"They came back. Mostly."
Finnian had grinned, but there was reverence in it.
"Their map still sings if you listen to it too long."
Eira stared at the stack. It stared back.
Cael gestured to a sealed whisper within a glass dome. It shimmered like pale breath, suspended mid-thought. "This one is mild. Try it." Eira stepped forward, her fingers brushing the dome. A sound bloomed in her mind — soft, melodic, and unbearably familiar. A lullaby. Sleep, little ember, the dark cannot hold you… The tune wrapped around her ribs like warmth in winter. Her chest tightened. "Sing it," Cael instructed quietly. She obeyed, voice trembling: "Sleep, little ember…" A breath echoed from the hallway. Finnian glanced toward the door. "Um—" Outside, a man had collapsed to his knees. One of the older sorters. Silent tears marked his face. "That was his daughter's whisper," Cael murmured. "She burned with it still on her lips." "I didn't mean—" Eira's voice broke. "You gave it rest," said a voice behind her. Vessa had entered without sound, arms crossed, lavender scent trailing faintly. "Mercy is not a mistake." — The next whisper waited, darker. Flickering. Off. "Same process?" Eira asked. "Yes," Cael said. "But don't touch it yet." She stepped forward, cautiously, sensing its resistance. Too late. The whisper lunged. A mouth formed — jagged and wrong. It snapped at her hand. The bite burned like ice and fire together. She cried out. Cael reacted in an instant — ink from the floor snaking upward, slicing the air into wards. The whisper shrieked and splintered. "False," Cael said, voice cold. "Built from echo. No origin. Dangerous." Finnian darted to her side. "Whispers aren't supposed to have teeth!" Eira stared at the bite, red blooming across her palm. Cael stepped forward, tracing a glyph with two fingers. The pain dulled. Her skin knitted closed. "You must learn the difference," he said. "A true whisper reveals. A false one consumes." "That could've rewritten my name, couldn't it?" He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
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Later, Finnian hovered while Eira cleaned the ink-stained basin. "That lullaby one?" he said. "First time I've seen Cael almost smile." "Almost?" "It's a very subtle art." She smirked despite herself. The ink on her wrist shimmered faintly. One whisper sorted. One survived. And the Library was watching.
⋯⋱⧉⋰⋯ To be continued…
⸻ ❖ Archive Fragment ❖ ⸻
Some whispers bring rest. Some bring warning. All bring change.
⋱◈⋰ End Chapter ⋱◈⋰