The void stretched endlessly around him, a fathomless ocean without light, without direction. Seth Virell's boots scraped against something that was not quite ground, though it gave just enough resistance beneath him to convince his body he wasn't falling. The single sheet of parchment floated ahead, suspended in the nothing, its pale glow casting weak ripples through the void like a lantern sunk too deep under black water.
His throat was dry. He licked his lips, staring. "So that's it," he muttered. "The page."
The longer he looked, the more unreal it felt. Not merely parchment, but something written before ink, before script, before memory. He could not read it; no words were there. Yet his heart trembled as if the syllables of existence itself had been pressed into its fibers.
He circled slowly, boots echoing against the void. "What am I supposed to do with this?" His voice cracked against the silence. "Damn it… I wish that mysterious figure was here. At least he pretended to know what was going on."
The void answered.
Something stirred, not with sound but with a sudden shift in the weight of silence. Then — laughter. Soft, amused, rolling like velvet smoke across the emptiness.
A man's silhouette bled into being, tall, sharp-shouldered, his coat flickering between shadow and script. The figure tilted his head, grinning beneath a face blurred by obscurity.
"Oh?" the figure said lightly. "Looks like you've managed to summon me. How curious. Did you know you could do that?"
Seth staggered back, fists clenching. "What the hell is this?!" He pointed at the parchment trembling in the air. "Why is it here? Why am I here?"
The figure chuckled, pacing toward the page as though inspecting an old relic. His presence bent the void around him, tugging faint echoes into the shape of whispers.
"This," he said at last, gesturing with one gloved hand, "is the Final Page. An anchor of reality. One of twelve. Without such a pillar to steady you, when you claw your way to Cipher One, you risk collapse into pure madness. Even the brightest minds, even the most devout souls — torn apart by what they glimpse. With a pillar, you might… retain a fragment of yourself."
"Cipher One…" Seth repeated under his breath. The term, the shape of it, scraped across him like a blade's edge. "So this is… what? Some tool to make sure I don't lose my Sanity?"
The figure's grin widened, though his eyes remained hidden. "If you're lucky. If you're strong enough. And if the pillar chooses to hold. But yes — even gods have fought, bled, and died for these. The Pillars are… priceless."
Seth's breath caught. His eyes darted between the figure and the glowing parchment. "Then—then why me? If this is so dangerous, so precious, why give it to me? You could've kept it. You could've taken it for yourself."
For the first time, the figure went still. The grin didn't fade, but a low sigh broke from him, as though he were briefly weary of the question.
"I gave it to you," he said softly, "because I saw something… stubborn in your soul. A hint of defiance. You will not bow as easily as others. That makes you dangerous in ways few realize. And," here his grin returned, sharp and sly, "because I am a Tensionwright. This is not mine to use. It belongs to your Discipline — the Closurists. It would sit in my hand like ash. But in yours…"
He leaned closer, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "…in yours, it might ignite."
Seth's stomach twisted. He backed up a step, shaking his head. "You're insane. You could have traded this, sold it, bargained with it. But instead you're just… handing me the key to something that even gods fight over? You expect me to believe this isn't some trap?"
"Believe it, don't believe it. The choice is yours." The figure spread his arms, languid and theatrical. "No one can suspect you possess a pillar unless you tell them. Not even the most watchful Archivist. That is the nature of these Pillars. And I…" He tapped his temple. "…happened upon it in the Library's labyrinth by sheer accident. Had I tried to keep it, it would have unraveled in my grasp. Better to give it to the one soul I suspect will spit in the eye of destiny itself."
Seth's jaw clenched. "And what the hell am I supposed to do with it? Keep it in my pocket? Write letters on it?!"
The figure's laughter echoed again, sharp and resonant. "You may do whatever you wish. Within the Final Page, you may gather information. You may bend its space to form chambers, sanctuaries, even a cult if you so desire. Followers could worship you as a mysterious god. Or—" His voice dipped to a hiss, "…you may burn it all to ash. It is yours."
Seth froze, the words hitting him with a weight he didn't expect. A cult. A god. The thought unsettled him, yet stirred something deep in his chest. Power. Control. Sanctuary.
His voice cracked as he forced a reply. "Why tell me this? Why tempt me with all this nonsense? What's your game?"
The figure leaned in so close that Seth could feel the chill of his presence, though there was no breath.
"My game, dear Closurist, is tension. To pull the thread of your story taut until it sings. To watch you walk the razor's edge between survival and ruin. I am not here to save you, nor to damn you. I am here… to see what you do when the choice is yours."
Seth's hand trembled as he reached halfway toward the page, then pulled back. His heartbeat thundered in his ears. "And if I don't want it? If I refuse?"
"Then you leave it here." The figure shrugged. "Another will find it. Or it will wither back into silence. And when you reach Cipher One, perhaps you will disintegrate. That would be entertaining, too."
Seth glared at him. "You're sick."
"Undoubtedly."
The void pulsed. The Final Page brightened, as if hearing their voices. Seth squinted, shielding his eyes.
"I…" His voice cracked again. "If I take this, if I accept it, I'm painting a target on my back, aren't I?"
The figure's grin tilted. "Only if you let anyone see the ink. Remember — no one can know unless you tell them. That secrecy is the true gift. You may become a phantom god, a shadow king, or a lonely fool clutching at parchment in the dark. It is, as always, your choice."
Silence stretched.
At last Seth whispered, "You really expect me to become something like that?"
"No." The figure's tone softened — almost kind. "I expect you to become something no one can predict. That is why I gave you the Page."
He stepped back, melting slowly into the void, his outline dissolving into fragments of script.
"One last thing," his voice echoed as it faded. "There are twelve Pillars in all. Twelve anchors scattered across existence. Should you seek more, beware: each one demands a price. And some… are already claimed."
And then he was gone.
Seth stood alone in the void, the Final Page before him, glowing faintly. His breath slowed, each exhale trembling. He reached forward at last, fingertips brushing the edge of parchment colder than ice and hotter than fire.
The Page shuddered. A soundless thrum rippled outward, not in the void but in his mind. Words that had no language pressed at the edges of thought.
And Seth Virell — Closurist, reluctant Archivist, man who wished only to survive — knew nothing would ever be the same again.