The knock came soft, almost timid.
Seth stirred from his thoughts, forcing his expression into something resembling calm. He crossed the velvet floor, opened the door, and found a young maid standing there. Her eyes lowered respectfully, the tray in her hands steady despite its weight.
"Your dinner, sir," she said softly.
The tray held roasted fowl glazed with herbs, bread still steaming, a bowl of broth, and a crystal cup filled with violet wine. More than he had eaten in days, more than he could have afforded even with a month's savings.
Seth muttered thanks, took the tray, and set it on the desk. When he looked back, the maid was already retreating down the corridor, her footsteps silent against the carpet.
The door clicked shut.
The silence pressed in once more.
He sat and forced himself to eat. Each bite tasted of nothing, his tongue dulled by the weight of fear. His mind replayed the priestess' words, Aldric's steady gaze, the shadowed hall of the Final Page.
Write, or be written.
The words would not leave him.
When he finished, he stood quickly, as though movement alone might drown the thoughts. He carried the tray back to the door, left it neatly outside, and returned to the room. His steps slowed as he turned toward the bathroom.
The marble tiles gleamed faintly in the gaslight. He stepped inside, shut the door, and locked it with trembling fingers. Steam from the bath had faded, leaving only a faint fragrance of lavender in the air.
It was the only place where he could be sure no priestess, no Ascendant, no unseen gaze could interrupt.
His reflection in the mirror looked pale, eyes ringed with exhaustion.
He exhaled once, closed his eyes, and whispered:
"Final Page… open."
The marble dissolved. The air split like parchment torn.
When he opened his eyes again, he was seated on the throne within the endless hall. The shelves towered, blank tomes muttering silence, the ink-flame candle burning with tireless patience.
He did not need to call twice.
The shadow emerged at once, drawn as if it had waited all along. Its form was cloaked, face blurred, features slipping like wet ink. Yet its presence pressed on Seth like gravity itself.
This time, its gaze was different. Sharper. Intense enough that Seth's chest felt as though it might cave beneath the weight.
"You called me again," it said, voice sonorous, reverberating like a plucked string of dread. "What now, Archivist?"
Seth swallowed. His voice came hoarse.
"They're saying they will report me to the headquarters of the Church. They'll send word to the Moonlight District."
The figure stilled. The air seemed to contract.
Slowly, it leaned forward.
"Do you know what kind of trouble you are in?"
Seth's throat tightened. He tried to deflect with forced bravado. "You're a Cipher 4, aren't you? A Tensionwright. Archivists are stronger than Divine Ascendants."
The figure chuckled softly, though the sound carried no mirth.
"Yes," it said, almost lazily. "I am Cipher Four of the Tensionwright Path. And yes, Archivists are… different. Stronger, in certain ways."
Its tone hardened.
"I can effortlessly defeat those below Verse Two. Verse Three, Verse Four, down to Verse Nine—they are no threat to me. Verse Two, however… becomes difficult. Verse One, the highest state, is a contest of attrition where even I might fall."
Seth leaned forward on the throne. "Then why not? Why not just… destroy this branch church? Tear it apart before they can report?"
The shadow straightened, its laughter low and edged with mockery.
"Do you think so small? Do you think the world consists of these walls alone?"
The hall trembled faintly at its words, shelves groaning.
"If I destroy this branch, the Cathedral will know. And when they know, they will not send a lone Verse Two. They will come in force. Verse Ones will stir. Entire legions of Divinities will awaken."
Its voice deepened, every word striking Seth's chest like a hammer.
"And when they discover that you hold a Pillar—when they realize the Final Page is no longer an empty myth—every church of the Seven Orthodox Gods will come. Every higher Cipher Archivist will descend. Do you understand, Seth Virell? It will not be a conflict. It will be a war."
The ink-flame guttered violently.
"The whole of Aetheros will burn."
Seth felt his blood run cold.
The figure did not relent. Its voice grew darker, heavier, until it filled every corner of the hall.
"And worse… if war spreads, the gods themselves may descend. Not avatars. Not fragments. The true, unshielded presence of the Orthodox and the Unorthodox alike. Then the sky will split. The seas will empty. The streets of Aetheros will drown beneath madness and miracle."
It leaned closer.
"The entire world will become a battlefield. And all of it will begin because you let them know you had the Final Page."
Seth's lips parted, but no words came. His thoughts scattered like leaves in a storm.
He had thought himself clever for concealing his identity, for hiding his Archivist nature. He had feared discovery. But never—never—had he imagined the scale of destruction that a single revelation could unleash.
His voice cracked. "I… I never thought… seeing gods would lead to this."
The shadow was silent for a moment, studying him.
Then it sighed, almost human.
"Yes. That is the scale you tread now. Mortal ignorance dies quickly when faced with Pillars."
Its form rippled, blurring more, as if thought itself distorted it.
"Wait," it murmured, almost to itself. "I must think."
Seth looked up sharply. "Think? About what?"
"If I summon you directly to the Library of the Broken Spine now, suspicion will follow. Too sudden, too clean a disappearance. They would pry. They would hunt. We must be careful."
Its voice grew low, pensive.
"There are ways to hide you. Ways to veil the trace. But it must be done properly, or every faction will scent you. Patience, Seth Virell. Patience may save us both."
Seth clenched his fists on the throne, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths.
He wanted to scream. To demand answers. To flee this entire labyrinth of gods and Ascendants. But he forced the words down, pressing his nails into his palms until the pain steadied him.
The figure turned, its blurred form facing the shelves.
"Do not act recklessly. Eat their meals. Sleep in their beds. Play the part of harmless mortal. Let them think you are fragile. That will buy time."
It turned back, gaze sharp enough to pierce the marrow of Seth's bones.
"And when I decide the path, you will walk it."
The hall shook once more. The ink-flame swelled, then collapsed into a single drop of black fire.
The shadow faded into silence.
And Seth was alone.
His eyes opened to the marble bathroom once more.
The gaslight flickered. The faint smell of lavender returned. The bath lay still.
He staggered forward, bracing himself against the sink, staring at his reflection in the mirror.
His face was pale, eyes wide, lips trembling. He hardly recognized himself.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
Then the words escaped him, a whisper cracking into the still air.
"A war that destroys Aetheros… because of me."
The mirror did not answer.
But in his chest, the words of the shadow still throbbed.
Write, or be written.