The book pulsed beneath Elias's fingertips.
Its leather cover was cracked, burned along the edges, yet warm—too warm, like something alive. It breathed faint light, golden and faintly red, casting shadows against the ruined temple walls. Dust drifted in the air, sparkling in the glow as if the world itself was holding its breath.
Elias froze, torn between curiosity and fear. His hand hovered just above the surface, trembling, while behind him the silver-haired woman's warning still rang in his ears:
"Every Archivist thinks they can wield the books. Every Archivist is wrong."
He wanted to pull back. He wanted to listen. But something deeper—a pull older than thought—drew him closer. His skin tingled, the same sensation he had felt when first touching the great tome in the library. That same hum in his blood, as though a forgotten memory waited just beyond reach.
The survivors had grown restless. He could feel their eyes boring into him from across the temple, their whispers carrying the weight of fear. Even the boy, awake now, tugged at his sleeve.
"Don't," the child whispered. "Please, don't."
Elias's throat tightened. But if this was truly his role—if he was the Archivist—then how could he ignore the book? How could he turn away from something meant for him?
He touched it.
The world shifted.
At first, it was only a flicker, like closing his eyes for the briefest instant. But when he blinked again, the temple was gone.
He stood in the same plaza he had first arrived in—only it wasn't ruined. The towers rose tall and gleaming white against a bright blue sky. Banners fluttered proudly, bridges glistened across flowing canals, and laughter echoed through the air as people crossed the square, children running at their heels. The scent of roasted spices and flowers drifted on the wind.
It was the city before the fall.
Elias spun in place, heart racing. He recognized buildings now half-collapsed, statues that in this moment still stood pristine, their faces unmarred by cracks. The boy beside him was gone. The survivors—gone. He was utterly alone.
"No…" His voice cracked. "This isn't real."
A voice whispered behind him.
"Memory is real. For those who remember."
Elias turned sharply, but there was no one. Only the bustle of the city. Only shadows where the voice might have been.
He realized then: the book had pulled him into the past. Into the world's living memory.
He wandered the streets in a daze. People bustled around him, but no one saw him. He tried to speak, to shout, but his words dissolved into silence. It was like walking through a dream where he was invisible, condemned to watch without being part of it.
The city was magnificent. Murals stretched across walls in vibrant colors, telling stories of gods and kings. Towers glittered with crystal spires. Bridges arched delicately over waters so clear they mirrored the sky. Elias could not stop staring. This was the heartbeat of a people, alive and proud.
And yet… he saw cracks. Not in stone, but in spirit. The murals depicted endless war and conquest. The people wore fine robes but their eyes darted nervously, glancing over shoulders. Soldiers marched in formations, armor gleaming, but their swords were drawn even in peace.
The city lived, yes—but it lived on the edge of fear.
The voice whispered again, soft but certain:
"The Archivist sees. The Archivist remembers. This is what must not be lost."
Elias clenched his fists. "Why me? Why show me this?"
No answer came.
The vision wavered, colors running like ink in water. Elias staggered as the sky darkened, banners shredding, laughter twisting into screams. The white towers cracked, falling like brittle bones. Smoke rose in black columns.
The Unmaking was here.
Elias backed away as the void spread across the city, devouring stone and flesh alike. People dissolved into silence, their shapes vanishing as though erased by a careless hand. He tried to grab someone, a woman fleeing with her child, but his hands passed through her as if through mist.
He couldn't save them.
He couldn't change it.
The voice whispered one last time, not from behind him, but from within him:
"Remember."
Light flared—and the vision collapsed.
Elias staggered back into the ruined temple, gasping. The book lay in his hands, glowing faintly. The survivors stood in a tense circle, staring. The silver-haired woman's face was pale, her jaw clenched.
"You touched it," she said flatly.
Elias swallowed hard. His voice shook. "I—I saw it. The city. Before. I saw them alive."
The woman's eyes darkened. "Then the library has taken hold of you."
He shook his head. "No, listen! The book— it showed me what happened. Their lives, their city, their fall. Isn't that what you wanted? To be remembered?"
"That is the curse," she snapped. "Archivists see everything, but they cannot change anything. You will carry us in your mind, long after we are gone. And that weight will break you, as it broke the others."
Her words struck deep, but Elias's defiance burned hotter. "Maybe I can't change everything. But I can try. I won't stand here and watch the Unmaking take you. Not if there's a chance—any chance—to fight it."
The woman stared at him, then let out a hollow laugh. "Fight the void? Fool."
Still, a flicker of something—something like hope—passed across the faces of the survivors. They had been resigned. Elias's stubbornness was a spark in the ashes.
The boy tugged at his sleeve again. His voice was small, but steady. "You'll save us. I know you will."
Elias looked down at the boy's wide, unwavering eyes. And in that moment, he made a vow. Not to the library. Not to the Curator, or the Keepers, or the faceless voice that whispered in his blood.
A vow to the child.
"I'll try," he said. "No matter what."
The book pulsed once more in his hands, as if acknowledging the promise.
And somewhere deep within the ruined city, the Unmaking stirred—as if it had heard him, too.