The Archive groaned.
When Kael vanished into the fracture, the shelves shuddered as though a storm had passed through their roots. Dust cascaded from unseen rafters, tomes split open, and ink seeped across the marble like veins. The guardians of the Archive—silent, faceless shadows with parchment masks—turned their heads in unison, acknowledging the disturbance.
Liora stumbled, clutching her own fading form. She could feel the rupture not only in her sketch-bound body but in the Archive's memory itself. "He's crossed the threshold…" she whispered. "The Archive no longer sees him as apprentice. It sees him as author."
Seroth, standing unscathed amid the chaos, smiled with terrible satisfaction. His cloak writhed, each fold dripping ink that evaporated before it touched the floor. "And so the boy writes. One step is all it takes. He will never crawl back to neutrality."
Liora spun toward him, her eyes—nothing but shifting lines of charcoal—narrowed in fury. "You did this. You dangled his grief like bait. You're shaping him into your image."
"Not shaping," Seroth corrected softly, "liberating. Do you not hear the chains in your own voice, Liora? Preserve, preserve, preserve. You whisper it like a prayer, but what is preservation but fear of change? You are an archivist in name, but a jailer in truth."
Her hand trembled as she reached for her staff, the ink-sigil pulsing faintly at its tip. For a heartbeat, she considered striking him, but Seroth tilted his head and added with cruel amusement:
"Strike me down if you wish. But every breath you waste here leaves the boy alone in that fracture. And fractures… they do not forgive hesitation."
Liora's grip slackened. She could feel it—the fracture pulling, unraveling. She saw threads of Kael's spirit tugged deeper into a collapsing tale. A story that had once been whole but was now nothing more than broken glass and black suns.
"Kael," she whispered, almost to herself. "Don't lose yourself in it. Don't let him define you."
Seroth's laughter echoed between the shelves. "Too late, sketch-born. The Archive has given him the quill. All that remains is to see what he dares to write."
And with that, the fracture pulsed one final time—and swallowed Kael whole.
---
Heat. Sand. Chains.
Kael stumbled to his knees, the shock of landing tearing through his bones. He coughed, spitting grit from his mouth, and lifted his head. The wasteland stretched endlessly, dunes shifting under a blackened sky. Two suns hung motionless above like blind eyes, casting light without warmth.
Ahead, the glass tower rose, fractured and groaning under invisible weight. Chains of shadow coiled around it, tightening, creaking with the sound of iron dragged across stone. And from within the tower came a sound—a voice.
Faint. Broken. Singing.
Kael forced himself to stand. His legs wavered, but the indigo book at his chest throbbed with urgency. Each pulse seemed to tug him toward the tower, as though the story itself was guiding his steps.
He clenched his fists. "Alright," he muttered. "If this place is broken, then I'll fix it. I don't care if I'm actor or author… I won't let it die."
The wind howled, and with it, the chains rattled—like an answer.
Kael began walking toward the glass tower.