The temple smelled of old ash and fear.
Morning had not yet broken; instead, a pale glow hung over the ruins, a colorless light that seemed drained of warmth. Elias had not slept. He had sat with the book in his lap, his back against a broken pillar, watching as the survivors tried to rest in uneasy silence. Every creak of stone, every shifting shadow kept them awake.
The boy, Taren, had curled up against Elias's side, breathing shallow but steady. Even in sleep, he clung to Elias's coat, as though afraid he would disappear.
Elias couldn't bring himself to close his eyes. Not after what he had seen. Not after what he had done.
He remembered the Unmaking's retreat, the shriek of silence torn apart, the way the book had burned in his hands. He had spoken words that were not his own, words pulled from the marrow of memory. And for a moment, it had worked. The void had feared him.
But Serenya's warning echoed: You delayed it. Nothing more.
He looked down at the book. Its glow had dimmed to an ember's faint heartbeat, yet even now he could feel its presence inside him, like a second pulse. It whispered, not in words but in sensation, a promise of more. More visions. More memory. More power.
He wasn't sure if it was a gift—or a slow poison.
At dawn, Serenya called the survivors together. The ragged group gathered in the temple's cracked nave, shadows clinging to their faces. Once, they must have been scholars, artisans, merchants. Now they looked like ghosts clinging to flesh, their eyes hollowed by loss.
"We cannot remain here," Serenya said. Her voice carried steel, though fatigue rasped beneath it. "The temple is broken. The Unmaking knows where we are. If it comes again tonight, we will not withstand it."
Murmurs of fear spread through the group. A man shook his head violently. "There's nowhere left. The city is gone. Everywhere we go, it finds us!"
Serenya raised her spear. "There is one place it will not reach—yet. The Inner Vaults."
At that, silence fell. Even the air seemed to hold its breath.
Elias frowned. "What are the Vaults?"
Her eyes slid to him, sharp and unreadable. "The heart of our city. A place sealed when the fall began. It is said to be guarded by… remnants of the old power."
"Safe?" Elias asked.
"No place is safe," she said flatly. "But the Vaults may delay the end. And delay is all we have left."
Elias almost laughed. Delay. That word again. Their world seemed built on the edge of postponement, each day bought by sacrifice.
But Taren tugged his sleeve, whispering, "We have to go. The Vaults are the only place left."
Elias nodded slowly. "Then we'll go."
Serenya's gaze lingered on him, as though weighing his resolve. She gave a curt nod.
The journey through the ruined city was a march through death.
Streets stretched empty, littered with fragments of statues, shattered bridges, collapsed towers. Once-great plazas lay cracked and overgrown with a thin, unnatural moss, spreading like veins of rot.
And always, at the edge of sight, the Unmaking lingered. Shadows pooled in doorways. Corners of buildings dissolved into mist, their edges unfinished. The survivors moved quickly, their torches burning even in daylight, though the flames gave no comfort.
Elias felt the weight of every step. His eyes caught glimpses of the past bleeding into the present: children chasing hoops in the street, vendors hawking their wares, banners bright against blue skies. Ghosts of memory, vivid and alive, overlaying the ruins.
The book pulsed in his hands with each vision.
He stopped once, staring at a collapsed bridge that in his mind still arched proud and unbroken. A woman carrying a basket of fruit passed across it, smiling at a friend. Elias reached toward her—
"Don't," Serenya snapped.
He blinked, the vision dissolving. She was watching him with that same hard gaze.
"The book is opening you too wide," she said. "One day, you won't know what is memory and what is now."
"Maybe that's the point," Elias muttered.
Her expression hardened. "That is the curse."
By midday, they reached the plaza of Kings.
It had once been the jewel of the city—a vast square lined with statues of rulers carved in gleaming stone. Now, most had fallen, their heads shattered, torsos crumbling. Only one statue remained whole: a king with a crown of flame, his gaze unyielding.
The survivors stopped to rest, but Elias felt drawn to the statue. As he approached, the book flared.
The world shifted.
Suddenly, the plaza was alive again. The statues stood proud, banners draped across them. Crowds filled the square, cheering as soldiers marched. The crowned king stood at the balcony above, raising his arm in triumph.
Elias gasped. He could hear them—every cheer, every trumpet. It was deafening.
But beneath it, he heard something else.
Whispers.
He turned, saw the soldiers' faces—hard, fearful. He saw the people cheering too loud, too forced, their smiles stretched thin. He saw chains glittering beneath the robes of slaves at the edges.
And he understood. This city's greatness had been built on fear, on cruelty.
The voice of memory whispered in him: Remember not only the beauty, but the truth.
The vision wavered. He staggered, clutching the book.
Serenya caught his arm. "What did you see?"
He looked up at the statue, now cracked and broken again. "Not what they wanted remembered."
She studied him, then gave a grim nod. "Good. Memory without truth is just a lie carved in stone."
They pressed on.
By nightfall, they reached the gates of the Inner Vaults.
The gates rose from the earth itself—twin slabs of obsidian taller than towers, carved with runes that shimmered faintly even in the dark. The ground before them was littered with bones.
The survivors froze, whispering prayers.
Serenya stepped forward, spear raised, and touched the gate with its tip. The runes flared brighter, a deep, resonant hum filling the air.
The gates shuddered.
Elias felt the book surge, its glow answering the runes. Pages fluttered without wind. Words burned across them, forming not in ink but in fire.
He read them aloud before he realized: "Only the Archivist may pass."
The hum deepened. The gates cracked open, stone grinding like thunder. Beyond lay darkness, vast and endless.
The survivors hesitated, fear holding them still.
Elias swallowed hard, stepped forward with the book pressed to his chest, and crossed the threshold.
The others followed.
The Vaults were a labyrinth of stone.
Corridors stretched into shadow, lit only by faint veins of light running through the walls. The air was thick, heavy, pressing down on them.
But here, the Unmaking did not follow.
The survivors breathed easier, though the silence was suffocating. They spread out, finding alcoves to rest. Some wept quietly, relief and despair tangled together.
Elias sat apart, opening the book. Its pages glowed faintly, words shifting, alive. He traced them with his finger, and visions stirred—fragments of lives, faces, names. Thousands of them.
He realized then: the book was not just memory. It was burden. Every soul it carried was now inside him. Every joy, every terror, every scream swallowed by the void.
The weight was unbearable. He felt himself drowning.
Taren sat beside him, watching. "What's wrong?"
Elias forced a smile. "It's heavy."
The boy tilted his head. "Then I'll carry some too."
Elias's throat tightened. He almost laughed, almost cried. "That's not how it works."
"Then teach me," Taren said stubbornly.
Elias stared at him. For a moment, he wondered—could he? Could another share the burden? Or was this his curse alone?
Before he could answer, Serenya approached.
"Archivist," she said. The word was no longer bitter. It was almost respectful.
He looked up.
"There is something you must know," she said. "The Vaults hold more than memory. They hold choice. If you go deep enough, you will find the Heart. And there, you may decide how we are remembered."
Her eyes bored into him. "Do you understand? Memory is not only seeing. It is shaping. You could remember us as glorious… or as cruel. You could bury the truth—or set it free."
Elias froze. He thought of the plaza, of the king's statue, of the chains.
The weight of the book grew heavier.
That night, Elias lay awake, the words echoing in his mind.
Memory is shaping.Memory is power.
And he realized: the library had not chosen him to watch. It had chosen him to decide.