The Archive was cold.
Not the kind of cold that brushed the skin — but the kind that settled in the bones, like forgotten grief. Aryan sat on the obsidian floor, his back against a bookshelf filled with journals that whispered when no one looked at them.
He could still feel the echo of the trial pulsing in his chest. A memory that had cut deeper than any blade.
Was Rayyan really alive in that illusion? Or had the Archive simply used his brother's voice as bait?
He didn't know.
The Archivist watched silently, hands folded behind his back, face half-shadowed under that ever-shifting hood. Time moved differently here — Aryan could feel it. Minutes passed like hours. Or maybe it had been only seconds.
Then came a sound.
A door groaned open on the far wall.
Zair stumbled through, his tactical vest torn, eyes wide, breath ragged.
His hands were stained with blood — not his own, Aryan guessed. His knuckles were bruised again. He clutched a fragment of something silvery, sharp like a splinter of moonlight. An Echo, probably.
But his face… it was empty.
"Zair," Aryan whispered, rising.
Zair didn't answer. He looked at the Archivist. "Is it done?"
"For now," the Archivist replied. "But it never truly ends."
Zair dropped the fragment at his feet and sat beside Aryan without a word. After a long silence, he said, "They made me choose between saving a child… or killing the person who'd drop the bomb later. I picked the child."
"But the bomb still goes off," Aryan said quietly.
Zair nodded. "Yeah. But I didn't want to kill a stranger based on maybe."
Aryan looked down. "They called it a test of memory. But it felt like a test of pain."
The Archivist turned toward the door.
It creaked again.
This time, Nara emerged.
She was pale, sweating, clutching her recorder to her chest like it was life itself. Her lips were moving soundlessly — either praying or repeating something she needed not to forget.
Then, with a sudden cry, she slammed the recorder onto the ground.
It clicked and whirred… and played a voice.
Her mother's voice.
Singing softly in a language Aryan didn't recognize. A lullaby, maybe. It played for seventeen seconds before cutting off with a click.
Nara didn't look at anyone. She sat with her back to the group.
Aryan felt a sick certainty: whatever her trial had been, it had ripped her open. And she wasn't ready to share it.
Now only one remained.
Kio.
Minutes passed. Then more. The Archive grew darker. The walls shifted again, revealing massive gears embedded in them — turning impossibly slow, like time itself was breathing.
Still no Kio.
Zair stood. "How long do we wait?"
"As long as the Archive requires," the Archivist replied. "Some trials are brief. Others… unfold."
Suddenly, the lights flared.
The final door groaned.
And Kio staggered out — barely standing, eyes wide with raw terror.
He looked at the three others… then screamed.
It was not a human scream. It was primal. Animal. His body jerked backward — then forward again, as if caught in two timelines at once.
Sparks danced in his eyes. His voice came out fragmented:
"They saw me. All of me. Not memory. Not past. Future. I saw them die. All of us. Aryan. Zair. Nara. Me. Over and over—"
The Archivist raised a hand. Kio's body froze, suspended in mid-air like a puppet.
The room went silent.
Then the Archivist whispered a word — a word that did not belong in any known language, but sounded like forget — and Kio collapsed.
He was breathing. But unconscious.
"Echo Shock," the Archivist said simply. "Rare. Dangerous. Sometimes the Archive gives too much."
Aryan stared, horrified. "Is he… broken?"
"No," said the Archivist. "But he has seen further than he was meant to. The Echoes chose him for something else."
Nara finally spoke. "You said this was a game. You said we had a choice."
The Archivist tilted his head. "All games have rules. All players choose their piece. But not every player understands the board."
Zair rose to his feet. "We're not playing anymore."
"But you are," the Archivist said with that same eerie calm. "You passed the first trial. Now you've tasted the Archive. And soon, the next challenge begins. You may rest until the hourglass turns."
A soft hum began. One of the lanterns flickered and formed a shape in mid-air: an hourglass made of swirling blue sand, suspended above the center of the room. The sand had not begun to fall.
"Sleep while you can," the Archivist said, vanishing into the shadows.
Aryan looked around. The Archive had transformed again. Beds had appeared — not mechanical, but warm. Old. Like something from before the Collapse. One even had a stuffed rabbit on it.
The silence was crushing.
They each drifted toward a bed, too numb to speak. Zair took a corner mattress, back to the wall. Nara curled into herself, clutching her recorder again. Aryan slid into his own, but sleep wouldn't come.
Kio was still unconscious on the floor.
Aryan rose quietly and covered him with a blanket.
As he returned to bed, he whispered:"Whatever this place is… we'll survive it. All of us."
He didn't believe it. Not yet. But the words helped him pretend.
📜 End of Chapter 3