The chamber convulsed with whispers that had turned to shrieks.Ash poured like smoke from the shelves, twisting into forms that half-resembled people: fragments of faces, shattered weapons, hands clutching at memories they no longer owned. Their voices layered on one another, a thousand unfinished sentences clawing for his mind.
Kairon's chest tightened. His Chronicle burned hot against his palm. "They're—angry."
"They are lost," the Archivist corrected, her voice cold. She raised her quill as if it were a blade. "Anger is all that keeps them from fading. Do not pity them too much, or you will join them."
The nearest echo lunged. Its body flickered between soldier and shadow, its hollow gaze fixed on the glow of his Chronicle. Instinct guided Kairon's hand. He scrawled across the page:
I strike with borrowed precision.
The warmth flared, then steadied. The sensation of the bow returned for three breaths—sharp, taut, merciless. A light-formed arrow hissed from the ghostly string, striking the echo in its throat. It staggered, unraveling into motes of gray.
"One," Kairon whispered, exhaling. Already the echo faded from his fingers.
Another figure rushed him from the side—this one carrying a spear, its edge glowing faintly with embers. Kairon ducked, but the haft clipped his shoulder, sending him sprawling in the ash. The Chronicle nearly slipped from his grip. Panic jolted through him.
The Archivist's voice cut sharp. "Guard your book! They will tear your lines if they touch it."
Kairon rolled, clutching the Chronicle tight to his chest. His heart hammered. If they reached his book—if they rewrote even a single line—he might vanish. He dragged in a breath and scrawled again:
I dodge when the air shifts.
The page burned hot, but the heat was tolerable. A surge filled his muscles. The spear thrust down again—and his body swayed aside almost before he saw it, guided by the shift in air pressure. The echo struck only stone. Its form cracked, fissures racing through its body.
Kairon's lips curled into something between fear and exhilaration. "That works."
But the respite was brief. Three more echoes spilled from the shelves, stumbling into half-solid shapes: a woman clutching a staff, a child holding a broken knife, a warrior missing half his face. Their whispers merged into a single hungry chorus.
Kairon's throat tightened. "There's too many—"
"Then shape what is missing," the Archivist said, her voice calm even in the storm. "The Unwritten improvises, or he is nothing."
Her words stabbed into him like iron. Improvises. He forced his hand to steady. He wrote again, quick and reckless:
Ash bends where I strike.
The quill scorched the page. Heat seared his fingertips. The Chronicle shuddered like it might blister. But the words sank in.
New Skill: [Ashbend] — Strikes can scatter echoes into fragments.
Kairon's palm burned with white-hot energy. He lashed out. His hand connected with the chest of the nearest echo. Ash burst outward like shards of glass, the creature crumbling to dust in a single blow.
A ragged laugh tore from him. "Yes—!"
But then his skin prickled. The margin of his Chronicle had darkened, thin threads of char creeping along the edges. Page Burn.
The Archivist's voice cut cold. "Reckless."
Kairon's grin faltered. His heart lurched. But there was no time to regret. The last two echoes surged at him together. He sucked in air, steadied himself. His bow-hand twitched with memory. He whispered:
"I borrow the arrow, just once more."
The Chronicle flared. The bow returned for its brief, promised breaths. Kairon drew, loosed. One echo fell. The other's knife slashed across his arm before he could recover. Pain flared hot, bright. His grip faltered—but he forced the bow to vanish, closing the line before it could cling too long.
The last echo hissed, its knife raised for a killing stroke.
And then the Archivist moved. Her quill slashed the air. Ink erupted like a whip, snaring the echo's arm. She flicked her wrist, and the figure tore apart, collapsing back into drifting ash.
The silence returned, heavy and listening. Kairon staggered, clutching his bleeding arm, sweat dripping into the ash at his feet. His breath came ragged, but his Chronicle still glowed faintly in his grip. He was alive.
The Archivist regarded him with unreadable eyes. "You borrow well. But you burn too quickly. Remember the heat."
Kairon glanced at his Chronicle. The char at the margins worried him. If he pushed too far… would his lines unravel? Would he? He forced himself to shut the book with trembling fingers.
"I'll… be more careful," he muttered. Though in his chest, a dangerous thrill still burned. The echo of Seran Daro's bow lingered in his bones, and the rush of Ashbend still tingled in his palm. Power was addicting.
The Archivist seemed to read that thought. "The echoes are temptation. Their voices will whisper when you are weakest. Be certain they are never louder than your own."
He nodded, though uneasily. Around them, the chamber still whispered faintly—names, regrets, broken promises. He thought he heard his own name among them, though he knew that was impossible.
Kairon straightened, wiping ash from his face. His arm throbbed, but the wound was shallow. He looked into the spiral of shelves, deeper and darker than before. "What's next?"
The Archivist's eyes lingered on him, sharp as blades. "Next, you learn whether the Archive has chosen you to fight… or to fall."