Veylor was a labyrinth of iron and shadow. Brass pipes ran along the sides of narrow streets, hissing steam into the air like restless spirits. Lanterns of blue tinted gas flickered against soot stained walls, casting halos that bent and swayed with every gust of wind. Carriages clattered on cobblestone roads, their wheels lined with iron teeth to grip against the uneven surface. Above all, the great clocktower of St. Veil's Cathedral marked the passing hours with mechanical precision, its chimes echoing through the fog choked air.
In the eastern quarter of this city, tucked away between a row of abandoned bookshops, stood the Grand Archive of Obscura. Few ever visited it. To most citizens, it was nothing more than a dusty relic of a forgotten era, a place for moths and mold rather than men. Yet to Elias Dorne, the Archive was home.
Elias was twenty six, thin from years of bending over desks and carrying more parchment than food. His hair, a muted brown, often fell into his eyes as he worked. His hands were calloused not from swords or tools, but from ink stains and the constant flipping of brittle pages. A quiet figure, overlooked in the bustle of Veylor, he belonged more to the company of books than to people.
Rain drummed softly against the glass dome of the Archive. The city outside was muted, its noise softened into a distant murmur. Elias sat alone at a long oak table, surrounded by towers of parchment. A single oil lamp burned at his side, its glow spilling across a parchment he had spent the last three hours deciphering.
Silence grew heavier as the flame flickered. Shadows along the shelves deepened, stretching unnaturally, until Elias felt the air itself tighten around him. His eyes caught movement on a far shelf, where no book had rested for months, a manuscript now lay.
Binding stitched crudely with black thread that gleamed like wet hair, the book carried no title or author. A faint stain on the cover resembled a handprint, faded yet disturbingly human. Elias knew every tome in this hall he had cataloged them himself. This book was foreign, alien, as though it had slipped in from another library, or another world.
Against his better judgment, he reached for it. Each step across the aisle echoed louder than it should have, until his fingers closed around the spine. The leather was cold, almost wet, as if pulled from deep water. Lanterns along the corridor sputtered in unison, shadows bending toward him like worshippers bowing.
Carrying the manuscript back to his desk, Elias placed it carefully on the table. No title. No markings. Only silence. Hands trembling, he opened the cover.
Blank pages greeted him. First one, then another, then dozens. He turned faster, frustration mounting. Halfway through, ink began to bleed across the parchment, curling into letters that did not belong to any alphabet. The script moved.
Alive, serpentine, the words slithered across the page, rearranging themselves into meaning. Elias read despite himself
"He who takes the seat shall take the burden.He who writes without name shall be written by the nameless.Twelve wait in silence. One has arrived."
Weight pressed against his chest. The oil lamp sputtered. Cold swept the hall. Shelves stretched into endless black, until Elias no longer knew if he remained in Veylor or in some deeper place.
Scratching filled the silence quill on parchment, endless, everywhere, though his own hands lay still. Ink bled from the manuscript, spiraling into symbols across the oak table, glowing faintly with pale fire. Elias tried to pull back, but his hand refused to move.
Vision blurred. Light fractured. Suddenly he stood in a vast hall of shadow. At its center stretched a stone table of impossible length, blacker than night, swallowing all light. Twelve empty chairs lined its edges. At the head of the table, one seat gleamed faintly, waiting.
Feet moved without consent. Each step dragged him closer. Invisible pressure forced him down into the central chair. Stone groaned, voices whispered, countless and unified
"Silent Scribe has taken the seat."
Chains of meaning coiled around his mind. A title burned into his soul. Words carved themselves into the stone table, jagged and bleeding like veins
Nameless Gospel
Darkness closed in. Just before he lost consciousness, Elias understood the manuscript had never waited for anyone.
It had waited for him.
Darkness dissolved.
Elias awoke sprawled across the oak table of the Archive, cheek pressed to the cold wood, the manuscript lying open before him. Breath tore from his chest as though he had surfaced from drowning. The oil lamp beside him burned low, nearly extinguished, its flame no larger than a pin.
Ink had spread across the table, black veins crawling outward from the manuscript, spiraling like roots across the grain of the oak. Some lines still glimmered faintly, fading as he watched, until all that remained was the faint scar of words burned into the wood
Silent Scribe.
Elias jerked back, pulse hammering. His right hand throbbed. Looking down, he saw faint lines etched into his palm, like cracks filled with shadow. The mark resembled no letter, no symbol he knew. It writhed when he focused on it, as though it disliked being observed.
The manuscript no longer lay blank. Where empty pages had stretched endlessly before, now dense lines of text filled the parchment. The script was twisted, looping, formed from angles that clawed at his eyes. He tried to read, but the letters slid away from comprehension, rearranging themselves whenever meaning began to form.
Shoving the book closed, Elias pressed his palms against his face. His body trembled, but his mind refused to let go of what he had seen the black table, the empty chairs, the voices that spoke in unison.
"Silent Scribe…" he whispered into the hollow Archive. His voice sounded foreign, thinner than usual.
A sound interrupted him a faint drip. Elias froze. The Archive was not supposed to leak its dome was sealed against the rain. And yet the sound repeated, closer this time, as if water were falling onto stone.
He turned toward the aisle. Shadows pressed against the shelves, stretching unnaturally long. Within that darkness, something glimmered a figure, perhaps, tall and thin, ink dripping from its limbs like water from a brush.
Elias stumbled back, chair screeching. When he blinked, the figure was gone.
Only silence remained.
The young archivist forced himself to breathe, gathering scraps of courage. His gaze returned to the manuscript. Despite terror clawing at his chest, a part of him the same part that had always sought silence between lines of text hungered for more.
He opened it again.
A single line had formed across the first page, sharp and deliberate
Write, and be written.
The lamp extinguished.
Darkness swelled, swallowing the Archive whole. For a heartbeat, Elias thought he had been pulled back into the vast hall. Yet when his vision adjusted, he saw faint blue light streaming through the dome above. Rain had passed. Moonlight touched the city.
Footsteps echoed outside the Archive.
Elias froze. Visitors were rare, especially at night. He moved quickly, sliding the manuscript beneath a stack of parchment, though the cold leather seemed to hum beneath his fingers.
The heavy doors of the Archive groaned open. A man entered, clad in a long coat damp with rain. His boots clicked against the stone floor. He carried no lantern, yet his eyes gleamed pale in the dark.
"Archivist Dorne," the man said softly. His voice was smooth, deliberate. "You've been busy tonight."
Elias swallowed hard. "Who… who are you?"
"A friend. Or perhaps only an observer." The man's gaze lingered on the parchment-strewn table, then flicked briefly to Elias's trembling hand. "Words leave stains, Elias. Some cannot be washed away."
Before Elias could respond, the man turned, coat whispering against the floor. "We will speak again."
With that, he was gone. The Archive door shut without a sound.
Elias sat frozen, breath ragged. The manuscript hummed faintly beneath the papers, as though amused.
When he finally rose, dawn's first light seeped into the Archive. Veylor stirred awake beyond the walls vendors shouting in markets, factory whistles shrieking, steam hissing from a thousand pipes. Life went on, indifferent to the burden now etched into his skin.
Elias pressed his palm against the closed book. The mark on his hand burned in quiet response.
The Nameless Gospel had chosen him.
And it would not let him go.