The atrium faded behind them, a wound in the Archive still weeping ash.Kairon—he still stumbled slightly over the name, but it steadied him every time he whispered it—followed the Archivist into narrower halls. The air here felt colder, as if the shelves themselves resented their presence. Books sagged against one another, spines cracked, titles half-erased. The silence wasn't stillness. It was listening.
"Where are we going?" he asked quietly. His own voice felt too loud here.
The Archivist's parchment skirts whispered as she turned a corner. "To a place where echoes linger. If you would learn to read fragments, you must first hear them."
"Hear them?" His fingers brushed the Chronicle at his side. The cover was warm still, faintly pulsing, as though it remembered his naming.
She glanced back at him. "The Archive does not only write. It remembers. Every life scorched into ash leaves an after-sound, a resonance. Some fade. Others… linger. The Librarians plunder them, bind them, twist them into soldiers. But if you are deliberate, you can listen without being bound."
The thought made his skin crawl. He remembered the hollow-eyed figures in the atrium, their bodies burning away as they obeyed another's will. "And if I'm not deliberate?"
"Then they will write themselves into you," the Archivist said, unflinching. "And you will not be yourself anymore."
He tightened his grip on the Chronicle. His name was still new, fragile as a candle in a storm. He couldn't afford to let it be smothered.
The hall opened into a chamber unlike any he had yet seen.Here, the shelves circled inward, spiraling down into a pit of darkness. Along their spines glimmered faint letters—names, thousands of them, carved deep and trembling like dying stars. The air was thick with whispers. They brushed against his ears without sound, tugging at memory he did not have. His breath misted pale in the chill.
The Archivist stopped at the rim. Her ink-dark eyes gleamed faintly. "The Hall of Echoes. These are fragments of the dead not yet erased. Approach carefully."
Kairon descended. Each step sank faintly into the ash that carpeted the stone. The whispers grew louder, not words, but impressions—sorrow, rage, longing, love—all tangled into a storm of voices. His chest tightened. "They feel… real."
"They are," she said behind him. "But not alive. Echoes are temptations. They will offer you strength, memories, skills. And in exchange, they will try to nest inside your Chronicle."
He reached toward a shelf. A book trembled there, its name scorched but still legible: [Seran Daro]. The letters flared as his fingers neared, as if the soul inside recognized his gaze.
The Chronicle at his side pulsed hotly. Not warning—invitation.
He hesitated. "If I open it…?"
"You will see what remains," the Archivist said. "A shard of a life. Perhaps useful. Perhaps poison."
His throat was dry, but he slid the book free. It vibrated faintly in his palm, thrumming with a ghost's heartbeat. He opened it.
Ash lifted off the page like smoke, swirling into an image—a man with a bow, standing at the edge of a cliff. His arms were taut, his eyes narrowed against wind. For a heartbeat Kairon felt the bowstring in his own fingers, the pull of tension, the precision of the breath before release. The memory was so sharp it startled him. He gasped and shut the book.
The image vanished. But the sensation lingered in his hands.
"I could feel it," he whispered. "Like I knew how to shoot."
The Archivist's tone was low. "That is borrowing. A dangerous gift. Use it too long, and the echo carves itself into you. Then your Chronicle no longer belongs only to you."
Kairon looked at the book, then at his own. The temptation was sharp. In battle, that skill would have saved him. But he remembered the hollow eyes of the ash-figures, lives stolen and chained. His stomach churned.
Still, he could not deny the thrill. He slid the book back into its slot with shaking fingers. "How do I keep it from carving me?"
"Boundaries," the Archivist said. "Rules. Write them. The Archive respects balance."
Kairon nodded slowly. He pulled the Chronicle open. The heat stirred under his hands again, listening. He raised the quill and wrote carefully:
I may borrow an echo, but only for three breaths. Then it leaves me.
The words glowed, bright but not scorching. The warmth sank gently into the page.
New Skill: [Echo Borrow] — Temporarily claim a fragment of skill from the dead. Limited by set condition.
Relief spread through him, though his hand still trembled. He looked up at the shelves spiraling above and below, countless names watching. "Three breaths," he murmured. "That's all."
The Archivist studied him. "You walk a narrow path. But restraint is rare here. That may keep you alive."
A shiver ran through the chamber. The whispers rose, louder now, urgent. The ash on the shelves shifted. The Archivist's head snapped up, her quill poised. "They feel you. Too many at once."
Kairon staggered back a step as several books shuddered violently. Ash poured from their spines. Shapes began to rise—half-formed, flickering between memory and husk. Hollow eyes opened, and their whispers became screams.
The Archivist's voice sharpened. "They're drawn to your name. You must fight them back."
Kairon gripped his Chronicle. His heart raced, but he steadied his breath. The echo of Seran Daro still tingled in his fingers. He opened the book, pressed the quill down, and whispered:
"I borrow the bow."
The page flared. A ghostly bow snapped into his grip, its string humming. One of the ash-shapes lurched forward. Kairon drew and released in a single motion. The arrow of light pierced through its chest. It screamed, then crumbled.
The others surged closer. He inhaled once, twice, three times. Already the bow faded, the echo leaving him as promised. His arms felt suddenly empty.
But he smiled grimly. "Three breaths was enough."
He raised the quill again.