"The infiltration does not start when you enter ...
But when you are no longer perceived as an intrusion. »»
- The seer, in Ashen
The rain fell on Edelstadt.
Not a storm. No. A fine, constant, insidious rain. The kind of rain that makes you forget that you are wet ... until you realize that you can be shook up to the bones.
Ashen advanced, cap on the face, between the pillars of the scarlet district. Where the temples were kings, but faith ... bought.
The large temple of the threshold stood a few streets away. Massive. Black. Veined with red marble. A cathedral written in a language of judgments.
He knew we didn't enter a tavern. He needed a blanket.
And tonight, he had one.
The indicator had left him a word the same morning:
"A novice disappears. A new one enters.
Internal archives need an archivist.
Be what they don't look at.
And listen to what they don't want to hear. "
Ashen had presented himself under a false identity: Lior Eln, a scribe monk from the Sor-Zenith monastery. The papers were impeccable. Even the ink folds seemed to be ancient.
He had shaved his cheeks. Tied up her hair. And swapped his mask against a gray hood and a softer voice.
The priests of the threshold, pale and proud silhouettes, had hardly watched it.
A brother had led him to the low archives.
- "You will copy the old rolls. Nothing more. Words do not belong to you. You're just their mirror. »»
Ashen had nodded.
And now he was there.
Under the gigantic nave, in a half -underground room, filled with dusty rolls, forgotten relics, and a black wax scent.
He copied.
Fragments.
Prayers.
Reports.
and secret notes.
Many secret notes.
10:17 p.m.
Ashen was alone.
The oil lamp was flickering. The rats, even them, seemed to be absent.
He pulled a roll half eaten away by time.
"Order of the veil: Execution of refractories in the oath. Protocol 18. Cauterization by fire.Justification: Refusal to tilt the nape to the divine look. "
He swallows.
Another roller.
"The royal eye requires complete anonymity on the Vives Operation. No witness. No survivors in the underated external areas. Tactical priests authorized to lie."
Ashen frowned.
"Operation ash lives".
Why did this name give him a taste of blood in his mouth?
He opened a hidden drawer, spotted earlier under a disjoined slab. Inside, a sealed parchment.
The seal: a snake eating its own tail. Ancient sign. pre-sparatist.
He broke the wax.
Only one line.
"A madman escaped.
He still laughs. But it's not a joke. "
Ashen froze.
It was not signed. But the ink was cool.
He folded the parchment. Put him in his tunic.
Then lifted his head.
He was no longer alone.
A monk was held in stone supervision. High. Mask.
- "Brother Lior?" Asked the dry voice.
- " Yes ? »»
-"The high-inquisiteur summons you. He wants ... check your entries. »»
Ashen felt a cold drop behind his back.
But he just replied, calm:
-"List me." »»
And he followed the shadow in the silence of a temple that had not forgotten how to burn the lies.
"Those who manipulate faith do not believe in anything.
But they demand that we believe in them. »»
- Anonymous fragment found in the low archives
The walk was long.
Not by distance - but by the weight of silence.
The masked monk walked in front of him, without a word, his back straight like a cleaver. Ashen followed. His gray tunic seemed heavier with each step. His fingers were brushed against, without thinking about it, the fabric fold where the parchment was sleeping in the snake.
"A madman escaped."
These words turned into his head like a broken hourglass.
Faith had its smell here: dry incense, cold stone, and burnt wax. She also had her language: the absence of a look, the prayer whispered on walls that never respond.
We opened a big door to him.
A bare room. Without symbol. Without altar.
Just a chair in the center. And another, opposite.
A man was sitting there. Vaulted silhouette, entirely draped in black. A smooth mask, without line, covered her face. A single, red and shiny eye was encrusted in the front of the mask.
Ashen recognized this sign.
The Inquisitor Primus du Seuil.
The one that was sometimes called "voice without mouth."
He sat down, without asking him.
The masked monk stepped back, then disappeared. They were alone.
Silence lasted a long time.
Then the inquisitor spoke.
- "Brother Lior ... you copied well. Your letters are straight. Your loyal prayers. Your doubts, absent. »»
Ashen lowered his head. - " Thank you. »»
- "What you have read does not concern you. You are a scribe. Not a judge. »»
- "I am ... a servant of memory. Nothing else. »»
A time.
The inquisitor got up slowly.
- "The madmen, brother Lior, are not those who are delirious. These are those who see too much. Too many strata. Too many diapers. Too many truths. »»
He took a few steps, hands crossed in the back.
- "There is a problem here in our temple. A breath of fire. A laugh in the shade. Something ... moved into the structure of our faith. »»
He turned to Ashen.
-"Do you think memory is a force?" »»
Ashen hesitated.
Then replied, slowly:
- "Not alone. But in bad hands ... it becomes a weapon. »»
A silence. Then a brief, dry laugh, behind the mask.
- " It's good. You understand. »»
He returned to him. Closer.
-"Tell me, Brother Lior ... Have you ever heard of Operation Cendres Vives? »»
Ashen remained of marble.
But his heart accelerated.
- " No. »»
- " Perfect. »»
The inquisitor put a gloved hand on his shoulder.
- "Continue your work." Be discreet. We observe you. And if one day ... you come across a certain crazy, or hear murmurs about it ... "
Silence heavier than air.
- "... Come see me. I will listen to you. Only once. »»
Ashen bowed.
- "Well, Monsignor. »»
- "You can have. »»
He went out. Without trembling. At least not visibly.
But in his chest, a black light had turned into rear.
They knew.
Or rather: they foresee.
"Something moved into the structure of their faith ..."
And this something was him.
Back in the archives, he sat down, again alone.
He resumed the copy of rollers. But his pen was not trembling.
He now knew that the large temple hid more than dogmas.
He was hiding plans.
Names.
Erasure rituals.
And maybe ... the start of the end.
"The ink is tamed blood.
But some words are still bleeding. »»
- Graffito erased in a forgotten cell
Ashen's pen slipped into the vellum with meticulous precision.
Each letter, each loop, each silence between two points, was weighed like a prayer.
But his mind no longer wrote.
He was listening to. Again and again.
"If one day ... you come across a certain crazy ..."
He sighed slowly, and looked at the stone door.
The scriptorium was deserted. The evening fell, and the bell of the second Halo would soon resonate.
He put his sheets away. Took two. Then got up.
A corridor. Then another. Person. The voices of the priests resounded further, in the central nave.
Ashen descended the staircases forbidden.
Three levels. Then an iron wall. And a half-open grid.
Silence here was not the same.
He was not religious. He was… forgotten.
The Bassesssss archives.
A room that no novice had the right to consult.
He entered.
The ground was dusty. The shelves - gigantic, blackened, leaning - seemed to bend under the weight of prohibited knowledge.
He chooses a roller at random.
The title was no longer even readable. Just an ink stain.
He unrolled.
"On soul anomalies and refusal of memoryChapter 12: Transversal madmen. "
Ashen stopped.
He read. Slowly.
"... Those who are called" mad "are not always demented. Some are reflections of a dead world. Survivors of a broken loop. Fragments of an ancient soul, spit in a new body ..."
He sat down.
His fingers were shaking.
He continued.
"... The Church of the threshold has identified these individuals as dangerous. Not because they want to harm ... but because they remember what they should not. Of a world that even the gods have erased."
A step resonated on the stairs.
Ashen put the parchment in his tunic and blew the lantern.
A shadow was going down.
He slowly retreated, between two shelves, masked by shadows and forgotten books.
A silhouette appeared: an old man. Black dress. A bure coat marked with the Haut-Sceau seal.
A top-me.
He was wearing a missive.
Ashen held out.
- "... King Maelrath demands it. All dissidents will have to be noted. Codified. Purified. »»
Another voice replied. A woman, younger.
- "Even those who have never doubted? »»
- "Especially them. The real heresy begins in the silence of the convinced. »»
They came out.
Ashen remained frozen.
Then he straightened up.
He now knew that something larger was at work.
The king.
The church.
The "refused".
And him, in the middle.
A piece of ash in a sea of ink.
In his novice room, he looked a word on the wood on the wall with a needle.
Only one.
"Remember."
The next day, during the evening meal, he met the eyes of a young monk. Man greeted him.
But Ashen lives. Behind the calm eyes, a flame. A camouflaged fear.
He approached.
- "Are you new?" Ashen asked.
- "Two weeks. Transferred from Sornheim. »»
- "Do you sleep well here?" »»
The young man shrugged.
- "Better than in a grave. »»
Ashen smiles.
-"So ... beware of prayers that you have never taught. They know how to bury the living. »»
They looked at each other. A moment too much.
Then everyone resumed their journey.
Ashen knew what he should do.
Continue to search.
Discover the names.
Find others like him.
And above all ... never laugh.
"There are names that the archives erase,
not out of oblivion,
But as a precaution. »»
- Fragment of the erased barrel
Ashen copied. As always.
But nothing was trivial.
His hands trace the official lines, but his mind decoded the rest: omissions, too clear silences, annotations on the fringes. He now knew what he was looking for.
No evidence.
Faults.
Echoes.
He read between the names.
Between prayers.
And that evening, a milestone drew his attention.
A ritual, incomplete formula:
"May the king's hand arises on the…"
… And nothing.
No object, no place.
Just a white man.
And on the sidelines, a unique letter, scribbled, almost erased:
HAS.
He blinked.
His heart missed a beat.
He wanted to convince himself that it was a coincidence. But the shape of the letter ... The angle of the pen ... it was his own writing.
He had no memory of having annotated this manuscript.
And yet ... This ink was indeed.
In the evening, in his room, he opened an old notebook recovered in the low archives. The binding was gnawed, but an interior page had been protected by a thin wax film.
A name.
Or rather ... the absence of a name.
"Subject: ∅. Unknown origin.
Marked by divergence.
Reintegrated under surveillance. "
He turned the page.
And there, his own reflection.
A sketch, badly drawn, but ... him. Or a younger version. Empty eyes. The madman's mask sketched on the face.
And below, an annotation:
"Designated for liturgical use. Classified: enterti."
Ashen hugged his teeth.
- "I was a ... object of worship. »»
He got up, pushed the notebook, and went out in the corridor.
The night was silent. The temple snored like a beast of a softener.
Ashen brought the statues of the seven, avoiding lanterns and looks.
He entered the southern annex - reserved for old rituals.
Black stained glass. Wall frescoes erased by time.
And there, on the ground, a circle of salt.
In the center, a broken altar.
He approached it. Slowly.
His hands stood up there. Heat went up.
A blurred memory.
A voice.
"Ashen… if you keep laughing, you are going… Breaking the world."
He suddenly reculed.
The circle had ignited - briefly, just a border of blue light.
Then everything became black again.
He no longer slept, the following nights.
Each manuscript copy, each prayer transcribed, was an attempt to find the black hole in their past.
And one night, a name reappeared.
Not an entire name.
But a fragment, in a prohibited liturgical poem:
"... ash,
That was-no-one-name,
The walker-in-rire,
The 44th watched by the 43,
the vacuum brother… "
Ashen reread the passage ten times.
The 44th.
The red chair.
The last in the round room.
Everything came back.
But not like memories.
Like presents.
Reflections.
He looked at himself in a dusty mirror later.
Not his face. Just the madman's mask, placed in front.
He touched him.
- "If I died a hundred thousand billion times ..."
He took a long inspiration.
- "... So this time, I want to die useful. »»
A whisper went up in his mind.
Not a voice.
A word.
Only one.
"Anankhé."
The word vibrated. As a call.
He didn't know what it meant.
But he knew where to look for.
"Memories are not lost.
They change shape. »»
- Maxime Valemyriane
Kael hated family meetings.
Not those where we cut heads - that, he loved - but the long sessions around the cards and seals, where we were talking in polished terms to say dirty things.
Tonight he was sitting in the large strategy room in the Valemyr estate.
Facing him: Duke Veyron, impassive, and the Duchess Elaira, cold like glass.
Between them, a sealed parchment of the royal seal.
Kael read in silence.
His eyes slipped on the lines.
-"Purges ... against non-believers?" »»
- "Not purges, corrected his father. … Adjustments. »»
- "Adjustments that involve performing whole families," replied Kael with a grin. "Even for us, it's ... ambitious. »»
Veyron put his fingers on the table.
- "The king does nothing to chance. The church wants more space. We will give him. »»
Elaira did not speak.
She fixed the parchment with an air almost ... distracted.
Kael noticed his gaze: not towards the text, but towards the lower corner, where there was ... a trace.
A small letter engraved, half erased: A.
- "What is that? Asked Kael, pointing the finger.
Elaira frowned, as if she didn't see what he was talking about.
- "A rature. Unimportant. »»
Kael had a dry little laugh.
- "Usually, erasures have a story. Even the ugliest. »»
Veyron interrupted him.
-"Concentrate on the mission, Kael. In three days, you will represent the house at the temple of the threshold. The king wants to see our ... loyalty. »»
Kael nodded, but his gaze returned to this tiny brand.
An silly detail.
And yet ... there was in this curve, in the way in which the ink had dried ... something familiar.
Later, in his room, he poured a glass of dark wine.
He thought of this letter.
To this feeling.
Like a memory that did not want to train.
He excavated in his chests, released an old box of childhood toys.
Among them, a small wooden puppet, whose head had been replaced by a coarse mask.
And behind, engraved ... an A.
He remained frozen.
-"It's ridiculous ..." he whispered. "I never had a brother. »»
And yet, by tightening the puppet ... He felt a strange weight in his chest