I slam the door shut behind me and collapse against the floorboards. My knees hit hard, but I barely feel it. My lungs burn, my throat tastes of iron. I cough until bile and blood spatter the wood.
I can still hear it, the shriek of that thing, the thousand voices tearing at me. Even though the alley is far behind, the fragments are still here. Inside me.
Gods, they won't stop.
Faces flash in my skull. Too vivid. Too real.
A man with scarred knuckles slamming a tankard on a tavern table.
A little girl sprinting barefoot through tall grass, her laughter sharp as glass.
An old man staring at a horizon that no longer exists.
Their lives are pressing against mine, pushing, clawing for space. My skull feels too small to hold them.
"Stop," I croak, clutching my head. "Please, stop."
But the flood doesn't stop.
---
The first name bursts free before I can stop it.
"Darrin Holt!"
The voice isn't mine. It's rough, drunk, soaked in ale. I feel his laughter, the ache of a missing tooth, the sting of a fist in a bar fight. It isn't me, but it is me. My bones remember what they shouldn't.
The next comes before I can breathe.
"Eliah!"
Bare feet. Grass brushing her knees. The way she calls for her brother, I can almost hear her voice echoing off walls that don't exist anymore.
They come faster now. Names. Faces. Moments. Each one drills into me like a nail hammered into wood. I double over, clawing at the floor.
I'm going to break.
---
I drag myself up, half-blind, stumbling to the desk. My fingers find the journal without thought, without hesitation. I throw it open, snatch the quill, dip it in ink with hands that shake so badly I nearly snap the feather.
The words spill out.
Archivist's Record – Entry Three.
I scrawl Darrin's name. Eliah's. The mother on the docks. More faces. More fragments. Some are complete. Some are broken. I write them anyway. If I stop, if I hesitate, they'll fade into the void.
I can't let that happen.
Ink stains my fingers, my sleeves. My wrist cramps, but I force it to keep moving. Faster. Faster. Pages fill. I don't even know if my writing is legible anymore, but the act matters more than the words.
I have to save them. Even if I don't know why. Even if no one else remembers.
Even if it kills me.
---
Hours or days? bleed together.
The fever comes like a hammer. One moment I'm writing, the next I'm sprawled in bed, drenched in sweat, shivering so hard my teeth clack against each other.
My dreams aren't dreams. They're lives. Hundreds. Thousands. I live them in flashes. A child learning to swim. A thief cutting purses in the market. A soldier's blade slipping through flesh. I feel them all. Every heartbeat. Every death.
I wake screaming names I don't recognize. Sometimes the names are carved into my throat before I even realize I've spoken.
Other times, I can't even form words. I just choke, sob, claw at my hand.
The mark never fades.
I dig my nails into it until blood wells up, but the black symbol only deepens, its shifting lines pulsing like veins beneath the skin. Sometimes it looks like an A. Sometimes an O. Always changing. Always mocking me.
Archivist.
That word haunts me even in fever.
---
When the fever finally breaks, I am hollow. My body trembles when I try to stand. My legs threaten to buckle beneath me.
But the fragments haven't stopped.
Everywhere I look, I see gaps.
At the market, there's a flower stall that shouldn't exist. A vendor who shouldn't be alive.
Jareth.
He stands there again, apron clean, smiling, handing out candied nuts. My breath catches. My stomach twists.
I know what will happen if I approach. He'll vanish. Dust. Silence.
I turn away. I run like a coward.
---
Nights are worse.
The whispers return. They aren't inside me this time. They curl around the edges of the house, just outside the window, just beyond the shutters.
"…Archivist…"
"…you carry them now…"
"…how long before you break…"
I fling the shutters open, desperate to catch whoever taunts me, but the street is always empty. Rain. Mist. Lanterns sputtering.
But I know someone is watching.
Once, I catch the silhouette of a figure too tall, too still, at the far end of the street. The moment I blink, they're gone.
My breath won't steady. My hand won't stop trembling.
Am I losing my mind? Or has it already been taken from me?
---
The journal is the only thing that keeps me from splintering apart.
Page after page fills with fragments. I've built a system without meaning to. Names on the left. Moments on the right. Sketches where I can manage them. Some are sharp, whole. Others are broken scraps, nothing but single words or half-seen images.
Eliah – ran through grass, flowers clutched in hands.
Darrin Holt – tavern brawl, missing tooth, gravel laugh.
Mother on the docks – eyes clouded, waiting.
The more I write, the steadier I feel. For a little while. But the steadiness never lasts.
The mark crawls further each day, black veins winding up my wrist like roots. Sometimes I can feel it pulse with my heartbeat.
Sometimes I catch myself staring at it for hours, until I don't know if I'm Kaelen anymore, or just the thing wearing his skin.
---
Tonight, the mark sears hotter than ever.
I jolt upright, the journal slipping from my lap. The glow from my palm fills the room, pulsing, dragging me to my feet.
The chain yanks hard this time. Stronger.
I don't scream. I don't resist.
I already know what it means.
Another Hunt.
My stomach clenches. I'm not ready. My body is still weak, trembling from fever. My mind frays with every passing day.
But the mark doesn't care.
It drags. It burns.
If I ignore it, someone else will vanish. Another name. Another fragment. Another life swallowed by nothing.
I can't allow it.
I grab my cloak. Shove the journal into my satchel. My legs shake beneath me, but I force them to move.
Out the door. Into the rain.
The streets stretch dark and endless before me. The mark pulls like a hook buried in my bones, dragging me down alleys I don't recognize.
The night is too quiet. Too still.
And then, faint. Whisper-soft.
"…Archivist…"
I clench my marked hand until blood wells from my palm. My teeth grind together.
"I'm coming," I whisper.
And I step into the dark.